I’m looking California, and feeling Minnesota. – Soundgarden, “Outshined”
Like so many great ideas in American history, this one started in a bar.
In 1977, a group of runners met over beers in Duluth, Minnesota, and decided it would be fun to start their own marathon. After asking around and being turned down by several local businesses, the group found one business willing to ante up $600 to sponsor their race. That savvy investment earned the Grandma’s Saloon & Deli the title sponsorship of the fledgling marathon, and 48 years later the Grandma’s Marathon has grown into one of the nation’s largest and most popular marathons, one that sells out well ahead of race weekend.
The Grandma’s Marathon boasts a number of attributes that appeal to a 50 Stater like me. The first is its location: nestled in a beautiful setting along the North Shore of Lake Superior, Duluth is one of those places that’s synonymous with “small-town charm.” The second is its course which, thanks to its gently rolling profile and limited number of turns, is a perennial favorite among runners looking to qualify for Boston. The third is its status as the Best Marathon in Minnesota according to our 2023 RaceRaves Runners Choice poll. And the fourth is its scheduling in the middle of June, at a time of the year shunned by most other U.S. marathons due to the potential for hot & humid weather.
The early summer date is a distinct competitive advantage given that the majority of U.S. marathons—and many of my preferred marathons—fall in May and October, which makes scheduling for those two months a challenging game of “How much recovery time do I really need between marathons?” Never say never, but I’d rather not run a marathon that doesn’t excite me simply because it happens to fall at a more convenient time on the calendar.
In any case, Grandma’s would be my pick for Minnesota. I’d signed up in March—as late as possible ahead of a sellout—in the hopes that my previously injured leg would hold up to the demands of training for and running the London Marathon. Ironically, while my leg had made it through my final World Marathon Major with flying colors, the rest of me had not.
I’d flown home from London in late April and spent the next 18 hours in bed battling what I assumed to be COVID-19. Katie (who shared my symptoms) tested positive three days later, whereas I didn’t bother to test since I wasn’t leaving the house. As it turned out, this lingering reminder of London refused to go quietly, and it wasn’t until early June that my training runs started to feel relatively normal compared to the sluggish, labored miles of the previous month.
And so, two weeks later when our plane touched down at the Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport, I brought with me the baggage of decidedly lower expectations than I’d had three months earlier when I’d registered for the race. On the other hand, given the combination of my recent illness and a disheartening race day in London, I was euphoric just to be getting back to my 50 States quest after canceling plans to run the Providence (Rhode Island) Marathon in early May.
Aerial Lift Bridge (left) and Lake Superior at the MN/WI border, seen from Enger Tower
Getting to Know Duluth From the state capital, we rented a car and headed north toward Duluth on I-35 (the same I-35 whose challenge I’d accepted in Kansas City and Des Moines five years earlier). For the next 2½ hours, the lush verdure of early summer filled my passenger-side window until we arrived at our destination on the North Shore of the world’s largest freshwater lake.
That evening serendipity stepped in, and we found ourselves enjoying one of the best meals of our 50 States travels so far at Va Bene, an understated Italian restaurant with fantastic food and an open-air deck boasting awesome views of the lake.
And just like that, our Minnesota adventure was off to a strong start.
Flora of Duluth (clockwise, from top left): Lilacs, white bleeding heart, bleeding heart, lupines
On Friday we drove the West End and made the short climb to the top of Enger Tower, an 80-foot tall stone observation tower that offers panoramic views of Canal Park, the surrounding harbor and the neighboring state of Wisconsin. And we enjoyed lunch in an otherwise nondescript strip mall situated across the street from the immaculately landscaped Duluth Rose Garden and, beyond that, the brilliant blue expanse of Lake Superior. Location, location, location.
Having gotten a sense for the city’s waterfront district, we stopped by the pre-race expo at the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center (DECC) to pick up my bib number. With a purported 100+ vendors, the Grandma’s Marathon expo was—London notwithstanding—the largest I’ve seen in years. It was a throwback to what midsize race expos used to be before the pandemic.
Leisurely we strolled the aisles, pausing to chat with several race directors and our friends from Marathon Tours. Leaving the expo, we passed the colorfully decorated room that hosted the popular Michelina’s All-You-Can-Eat Spaghetti Dinner—admittedly a bargain at $16 for adults, $8 for kids—en route to our own dinner on the pier overlooking the harbor. I’d briefly considered Michelina’s offering, and I’m sure it would have been as good as advertised. To this day, though, I remain once bitten, twice shy thanks to my, um, interactive dining experience in Alabama ten years ago. 😬
You can always count on eating well at Grandma’s house
Two Harbors and One Great Lake Have I mentioned I’m a huge fan of Saturday races? After a relatively hedonistic (by pre-race standards) six hours of sleep, we awoke in the darkness of Saturday morning to clear skies and cool temperatures. If there’s such thing as a good day for a marathon, this was it.
After my usual light breakfast, we made the short walk (five minutes via pedestrian skyway from our room at the Holiday Inn & Suites Duluth-Downtown) to catch our separate modes of transportation outside the DECC. Katie would be riding the 5:30am North Shore Scenic Railroad spectator train to Two Harbors, a unique vantage point from which she’d be able to watch the runners at several stops along the course. She’d reserved her spot several months earlier at a cost of $90, which included breakfast with—for those determined to get their money’s worth—bottomless mimosas and Bloody Marys, plus a pass to the finish-line bleachers and a pair of Grandma’s-branded socks.
For my part, I’d opted against the train to Two Harbors since, due to high demand among runners for limited space, it would have meant getting up even earlier than our already perverse 4:30am wakeup call. Instead, I managed to avoid one of the standard yellow school buses in favor of a comfortable coach shuttle that hummed quietly through the brightening streets, navigating the marathon course in reverse as we caught glimpses out the window of volunteers setting up aid stations along the side of the road.
After a peaceful 35 minutes, the shuttle hissed to a stop and emptied its human cargo on Scenic Hwy 61 in Two Harbors where, standing alongside a Chevrolet dealership, the Grandma’s Marathon start line welcomed us to the party.
A parting wave to Katie aboard the North Shore Scenic Railroad
In retrospect, there looked to be plenty of room here on the highway for the start line to be relocated farther north, a move that would have added enough distance to enable a more direct route through Downtown Duluth to the finish line in Canal Park. Certainly, though, the parking lot of an auto dealership was a convenient space for thousands of marathoners to mill about aimlessly like nervous zombies for an hour.
Stepping off the shuttle, I headed immediately for the porta-potty line on the advice of my friend Krishna, a returning Grandma’s regular whom I’d last seen pre-pandemic at the 2019 Two Oceans Marathon in Cape Town. He’d warned me that the lines would be absurdly long, and he wasn’t kidding—it took me ~35 minutes to get in and get out. During that time I listened to pre-race announcements and the usual start-line favorites (“I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas, “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins, plus the theme from “Rocky”), heard a staff sergeant sing the national anthem, witnessed two F-16 fighter jets fly overhead, and cheered the start of the Wheelchair & Adaptive Athletes race.
Like so many races, one key step Grandma’s could take to improve the event would be more porta-potties. My inordinate wait time left me just over five minutes to strip down, hand my drop bag to a volunteer, and wiggle my way through the crowded start corral to stand alongside the 4-hour pace group.
I paused before entering the start corral to wave at Katie on the viewing deck of the North Shore Scenic Railroad, which sat silently on the tracks set back among the foliage on the opposite side of Hwy 61. Then I squeezed into the corral as the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” filled the crisp morning air, its uplifting overture hearkening me back to the race I’ll always associate with Vangelis’ iconic score—the Comrades Marathon in South Africa, the world’s largest ultramarathon and my personal favorite running event.
Seconds later the tightly packed mass of bodies loosened and surged forward in the direction of Duluth. Excited cheers filled the air, and the 47th annual Grandma’s Marathon (aka state 36 for me) was off and running. Thanks for the memories Two Harbors, it’s been real.
Quickly I fell into a rhythm with the 4-hour pace group. Given my post-London illness and suboptimal recovery, I didn’t expect to maintain a 4-hour pace for the entire 26.2 miles; rather, my goal was to stick with the group until the halfway point and then reassess my comfort level.
As the early miles ticked by, I glanced up occasionally from my 4-hour scrum to soak up the surrounding tranquility. Towering trees and tall grasses lined the road on each side, dual swaths of green as far as the eye could see interrupted by the occasional modest residence or small-but-vociferous gathering of spectators. Such was the scenery for the first ten miles as we chased the horizon, the road seeming to grok that the shortest distance between us and Duluth was a (very) straight line.
Spectators on the North Shore Scenic Railroad had the best seat in the house
I focused on staying relaxed by settling into a rhythmic breathing cadence—inhale for 3 steps, exhale for 2 steps. So far, Minnesota’s North Shore was the perfect remedy for the claustrophobic chaos of London.
The Grandma’s Marathon surprises and delights with thoughtful details that set it apart from other marathons, case in point its mile markers. Rather than ground-level placards that are designed to be seen only in passing, the Grandma’s organizers float large yellow balloons (blue for half marathoners) tied to long ribbons on each side of the road so they’re visible from afar. Along an extended straightaway like Hwy 61, I felt a tiny shot of adrenaline each time I’d see those balloons approach in the distance.
I’m always amazed by how much energy runners are willing to waste during a marathon, an undertaking that requires nearly every ounce of energy you’ve got to succeed. One fellow to my left kept whooping loudly in response to personalized spectator signs—”GO ELLIE!” he’d scream, or “GO JORDAN!” as if he were seated in the finish-line bleachers rather than running the race. Never mind that neither Ellie nor Jordan was within earshot of his enthusiasm; he may as well have been cheering for the trees. Dude, I thought wryly, that’s energy you’re going to wish you had in a couple of hours.
The chatter around me subsided until we were left with only the voices of runners conversing with the 4-hour pacer. One woman in our group asked, “What’s your name, pacer?” “Danny” came the response. She then proceeded to grill Danny on his strategy, which I’d assumed would be something along the lines of “Run at a pace of just under four hours until we all cross the finish line.”
Greenery = scenery for most of the first 23 miles
“What’s your strategy for the hills?” she asked. “There are hills here?” Danny joked. Ignoring his attempt at humor, she reminded him unhelpfully that he had a big group running with him and a lot of folks counting on him. And I felt a pang of sympathy for poor Danny, an unpaid volunteer who was giving back to the running community by helping the rest of us achieve our goals. In the world of the type-A marathoner, no good deed goes unpunished.
The course rolled slightly along its southward trajectory, its scenery as unchanging as any race I’d run—and this was a good thing. In mile 7 we caught our first glimpse of Lake Superior peeking through the trees to our left; it wasn’t until mile 10, though, that the lake emerged in its full glory to wow us with its pristine shoreline and sparkling surface, both of which would remain hidden behind trees for most of the race.
A gentle cooling breeze off the lake helped keep things comfortable as the temperature crept slowly upward toward its projected high of 74°F. This was my kind of race, and I wished again that my post-London regimen had lent itself to training more regularly at a sub-4-hour pace.
To my mind, no endeavor demands a more consistent work ethic than running 26.2 miles. The simple truth is, you cannot fake a marathon. There are no breaks in the action, no teammates to lean on, no timeouts to catch your breath. When the starter’s pistol fires, you’re either ready or you’re not—and even then, race day may not go according to plan with so many variables out of your control. In an age of so much performative BS from politicians and personalities, its brutal and unapologetic authenticity is one of the reasons I love the sport of running.
Feeling Minnesota I continued to run with the 4-hour pace group as we reached an area lined with blue porta-potties, aka the Garry Bjorklund Half Marathon start line. Here Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer”—predictable to be sure, but always welcome—blasted from the sidelines. I told myself the “fluff” miles were over while trying to focus on the silver lining: one half marathon down, one to go. I knew, though, that things would get tougher from here. Unfortunately, this was all part of the process of getting back to where I wanted to be, one step at a time.
Krishna would later share the story of one spectator in this area yelling “ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE!” which prompted Krishna, a speedy Grandma’s Marathon veteran who knows the course well, to yell back reflexively, “A LIE!” Any marathoner who’s had to endure obnoxious spectator cries of “Almost there!” at mile 3 can appreciate Krishna’s candor.
By mile 15 I realized that continuing to push a sub-4 pace would lead to a very rough 11 miles, in part because the day was warming (thank you, cool breeze!) and I needed more frequent aid station stops. And so, pulling back the throttle to a more comfortable position, I watched the 4-hour pace group slowly recede into the distance.
Miles 15 and 16 felt largely uphill, though this was apparently due less to reality and more to perceived effort—looking at my Garmin tracing, the actual hills wouldn’t arrive until later. And in mile 18 I was forced to pause and do a few leg lifts to loosen my tightening quads. Just one more thing, I told myself, that would improve with further training. C’est la vie. There’s nothing quite like being undertrained to make you appreciate the epic challenge of running 26.2 miles.
I was impressed and heartened by the number of boisterous spectators lining Hwy 61 or cheering on the runners from comfortable lawn chairs in their front yards. Their exuberance was a welcome pick-me-up along an otherwise quiet course that was largely devoid of music or other entertainment, though I’d be remiss not to give a shout-out to the solitary tuba player, even if I can’t recall what they were playing or whether a solo tuba did the song justice.
I glanced up at one point to see my companion from the 4-hour pace group, the woman who had been interrogating pacer Danny, now running just ahead of me and well behind the 4-hour group. Bill Rodgers was right, I mused. The marathon will humble you. And we’ve all been there.
As fatigue set in and my lower back tightened a bit, I took time to walk through the aid stations which likewise allowed me to stretch my quads and gather my wits. I forced an energy gel down with water in two installments, my stomach protesting its warm and gooey sweetness. While I’ve typically had better luck at longer distances (like the Denali 100K in Alaska), after 50+ marathons I still struggle to dial in my nutrition on race day. On cooler days I skip it altogether, a strategy that flouts conventional wisdom but which always seems to yield the best results.
On the bright side—and this was the best news of the day—my previously injured leg and the sprained foot that had derailed me in London both felt strong and healthy.
Miles 16–20 were a no-man’s land of discomfort, fatigue rearing its ugly head to the extent that it was impossible to ignore but not overwhelming enough to make me walk. I kept my eyes on the road five feet ahead of me, trying to marshal my reserves one mile at a time, then one step at a time. Where tree cover hung over the road, I ran on the shoulder to avail myself of the shade. Occasionally the road would exit the trees to reveal Superior’s majesty on full display, the light breeze creating delicate ripples across the water’s surface.
Katie stood waiting just short of the mile 19 marker on the Lester River Bridge, where she enjoyed her own sweeping view of the lake. As if riding the spectator train from Duluth to Two Harbors and back hadn’t been enough show of support, here she was out on the course for a second time, having walked to the hotel to collect the car and drive herself to mile 19. And now, as I leaned against her to stretch my quads, she asked in her earnestly supportive way, “Are you enjoying yourself?” I think we both realized the absurdity of the question as soon as it came out.
I admitted that no, I was not in fact enjoying myself. Then I bid her farewell and told her I’d see her at the finish… eventually. This was going to be a long, slow seven miles.
At least Katie had a Superior view of the lake at mile 19
As the miles mounted and we reached the outskirts of Duluth, I passed a surprising number of runners-turned-walkers. Granted I was further back in the pack than usual, but still there were quite a few walkers of all shapes and sizes. Also conspicuous was the number of discarded sponges on the ground. For my part, with temperatures in the 60s I never felt in need of a cold sponge, plus I didn’t want to risk wiping off my sunscreen. As pale as I am, skin cancer and melanoma concern me much more than warm temperatures.
For whatever reason—a second, third or fourth wind perhaps, or maybe I’d entered the eye of the hurricane—life after mile 20 began to look a bit rosier as a brief surge of momentum propelled me forward. I even tried to fall in behind the 4:05 pacer for ¾ of a mile or so before rejecting that idea. During that stretch, we passed one group of young guys on the sideline who saw the 4:05 sign and broke into a raucous chant of “PA-CER! PA-CER! PA-CER!” as he played to the crowd, pumping the sign up and down like a drill team leader wielding a baton.
Modest one- and two-story homes now dotted the landscape with increasing frequency, many of them clad in the protective exterior siding common to colder climates. Approaching the mile 22 marker, my mile times had crept up into the ten-minute range as I struggled to lift my quads, which now felt like solid blocks of granite.
And so, rather than plod along in a bitter haze and with notorious Lemon Drop Hill (named for a now-defunct restaurant that closed in 1988) looming directly ahead I slowed to a walk, took a few deep breaths, and allowed myself to relax. When life gives you Lemon Drop, make lemonade. I didn’t want to let my lack of preparation snowball on me and ruin an otherwise pleasurable run. After taking mile 23 to catch my breath, I’d have only 5K (3.1 miles) or so remaining, and at that point I could focus my remaining energy on pushing through Downtown Duluth to Canal Park. Sure I wanted to finish strong, but realistically I was here to enjoy Minnesota, not to earn an Olympic Trials Qualifying time.
(On that note, two-time Grandma’s winner Dakotah Lindwurm did run an OTQ in Duluth, setting the stage for her third-place finish at last month’s Olympic Marathon Trials which earned her a spot on this summer’s Olympic Marathon Team in Paris 👏)
A sign from above on Lemon Drop Hill
Exiting the highway and transitioning to London Rd, we entered a more commercial stretch where the sudden appearance of hotels, fast-food restaurants and gas stations (Whoa, Minnesota still has enough water for car washes!) welcomed us to Duluth proper. As much as I’d appreciated the blissfully monotonous greenery and stunning lake views of Scenic Hwy 61, I was gratified now to enter more urban surroundings, a clear indicator that the end was near.
Had I not chosen to walk this stretch, I might have missed my favorite spectator sign of the day; “F*CK THIS SHIT” it read in large letters, with “KEEP RUNNING” written inconspicuously along the sides. More than any other sign I’d seen—NO, I wasn’t kicking ass-phalt and NO, all this sweat wasn’t my fat cells crying—this one spoke to me. Despite my exhaustion, I may even have cracked a smile.
Approaching the mile 23 marker I once again broke into a trot, and moments later we made a right turn away from the lake and onto the block where Katie and I had eaten lunch the day before. This first turn of the day produced an unexpected surge of adrenaline that carried me up the hill to an almost immediate left turn on Superior St, which would lead us into the heart of the commercial district and Downtown Duluth.
From there the scenery became more familiar as we passed the Duluth Running Store, Va Bene (site of our best meal in Duluth), and the collection of buildings housing the centerpiece of Superior Street, the state-of-the-art Essentia Health St. Mary’s Medical Center. The latter’s sleekly modern design, with its bold curves and floor-to-ceiling windows, looked distinctly out of place among its more traditional, low-key neighbors. On the opposite side, Lake Superior remained our ever-loyal companion, its shimmering surface guiding us homeward to Canal Park.
Passing the Medical Center, we seemed to travel back in time as we entered the multi-level red-brick storefronts of the city’s aging downtown district. Downtown Duluth more closely resembled the one-horse, one-street downtown of tiny Ottawa, Kansas than it did a modern urban downtown. Despite being listed on the National Register of Historic Places, during our stay I couldn’t put my finger on anything that struck me as particularly special about Downtown Duluth. Aside from the crowds on race day, that is…
“Gopher” Broke As we approached downtown, the crowd support grew in both size and intensity. Spirited cheers welcomed us to Duluth while I continued to focus one block at a time on locating the next yellow balloon/mile marker in the distance. Overhead the occasional glass skywalk—a winter necessity in the Gopher State—connected buildings on opposite sides of the street, offering a convenient vantage point from which to watch the runners below.
Controlled chaos was playing out at the intersection of Superior and Lake Street, where race officials and volunteers worked to prevent spectators (and potentially runners) from cutting across the course on Lake Street as a shortcut directly to the finish line in Canal Park. A shout-out of gratitude to the folks in charge of crowd control, because spectators crossing willy-nilly in front of exhausted marathoners at mile 25 could have been an accident waiting to happen.
View from the glass skywalk overlooking Superior St
Just past the mile 25 marker our third turn of the day led us down a short transition zone of bricks, over I-35 and the train tracks, past AMSOIL Arena (home of the University of Minnesota-Duluth Bulldogs) and the Great Lakes Aquarium, and into Canal Park. “Half a mile to go!” yelled a spectator to my right. Nice, I thought, though if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my 50+ marathons, it’s never to trust the spectators. No offense and I appreciate the support, but bystanders tend to have a more nonchalant sense of what “almost there” means than someone who’s already run 25.5 miles.
Duluth’s signature architectural landmark, its iconic Aerial Lift Bridge, came into view across the water, lifting my spirits momentarily as we curved along Harbor Drive. Come on adrenaline, do your stuff! I dug deep, tapping into what little remained of my energy reserves. “Half a mile to go!” shouted another spectator. Huh?
Winding our way around Canal Park with Downtown Duluth now visible across I-35, we passed the hulking steel façade of the SS William A. Irvin. Once the proud flagship of U.S. Steel’s Great Lakes Fleet of bulk freighters (or as we Angelenos know them, “Lakers”), an enormous banner now hung across its port side encouraging visitors with the promise of “KIDS FREE WITH PAID ADULT.”
A third voice rang out from the sidelines: “Half a mile to go!” People, make up your minds! Fatigue notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but appreciate this well-meaning display of Midwestern hospitality.
Another turn AND… our tour of Canal Park continued. Having failed to study the course map carefully (the first 25 miles was basically a straight line, after all), I didn’t realize we’d saved all our turns for the last mile. Or so it seemed. We’d passed the mile 25 marker, like, forever ago… so where was the damn finish line?
At long last we arrived at Canal Park Dr, where a right turn led onto the final straightaway. Directly ahead the finish line beckoned us home, the imposing steel skeleton of the Aerial Lift Bridge towering in the background. Somehow, I was coherent enough to pick Katie out of the crowd lining the street, her cheers propelling me forward across the finish line and out of my pain cave in a hard-earned time of 4:12:23.
100 yards to freedom
(Lest there be any doubts as to the city’s support for this race, stenciled permanently on the street at the location of the finish arch are the words “GRANDMA’S MARATHON FINISH.”)
Wobbling to a stop, I paused to gather my wits and bask in the moment before continuing through the finish chute where I gratefully accepted my medal, finisher shirt and heat sheet from volunteers. And speaking of volunteers, I can vouch that the lake wasn’t the only thing that was Superior on this day. From start to finish, everyone was incredibly friendly and helpful including Joyce at the med tent who, as I hobbled past in search of a comfy place to collapse, kindly told me how good I looked for having just run a marathon.
The finishers area offered a variety of fueling options including bagels, yogurt, fruit, chips & snacks, pork sticks, and chocolate milk along with beer and non-alcoholic beverages at the post-race celebration. And true to form, my stomach would have none of it. So I grabbed several bottles of water along with my drop bag and reunited with Katie, before claiming a grassy spot alongside (where else?) Grandma’s Saloon & Grill, a stone’s throw from the lake and the Aerial Lift Bridge.
Having started an hour and 45 minutes before us, most of the half marathoners had long since finished and gone home, leaving ample space in Canal Park for marathoners to spread out and relax.
And relax I did, as much as my exhausted body would allow—it took me a while before I was able to move comfortably under my own power. Unfortunately, I had neither the energy nor the desire to make the 15-minute walk to nearby Bayfront Festival Park for the post-race party. I was spent, and aside from my usual post-race bottle of Tailwind Recovery Drink, I knew I had no choice but to wait out my body and let it dictate its nutritional needs on its own timeline.
Luckily for me, as the host hotel for the elite runners, the Holiday Inn & Suites where we stayed offered complimentary sports massage services for race weekend. So that afternoon I took the opportunity to schedule a relaxing post-race massage, a decision which did not suck. Then we showered and met Krishna for dinner at Ursa Minor Brewery, a bustling spot on the north side of town and an easy five-minute drive from Canal Park.
Over dinner and drinks, we compared notes from the day and caught up on each other’s lives since our last in-person meeting at the Two Oceans Marathon in Cape Town in 2019. We also discussed his own burgeoning desire to run a marathon in all 50 states, which is good news for me since it gives us an easy excuse to meet again before another four years pass. The evening was another compelling reminder that beyond the miles, the medals and the memories, this 50 States quest gets its power from the people.
We meet again! Two happy Grandma’s finishers
From a preparation and performance perspective, Grandma’s was hardly ideal—given the option, certainly I’d have chosen not to get sick after London, my first marathon in 16 months. At the same time this was clear progress, a milestone in my mental and physical journey back to marathon fitness. I’d finished stronger (and less injured) than London as my body continues to relearn the art and science of running 26.2 miles. As they say, if it were easy everyone would do it, instead of sitting on the couch warning the rest of us it’s bad for our knees.
So there you have it—state 36 is in the books, and one of the nation’s most charming destinations is off the board. On an epic summer day along Minnesota’s scenic North Shore, small-town hospitality and big-city choreography joined forces with the world’s largest freshwater lake to produce a race day I’d highly recommend.
Because this is one Grandma that just gets better with age.
BOTTOM LINE: Honestly, it’s tough to find fault with the Grandma’s Marathon. Sure, I could complain that true to the law of supply and demand, local hotels and businesses jack up their prices for race weekend—case in point, our room at the Holiday Inn & Suites in Downtown Duluth cost nearly $400/night, more than a room at the world-class Four Seasons Hotel in Sydney, Australia. And maybe I could argue that scheduling a race in mid-June dares Mother Nature to bring the summer heat. But at that point I’d just be looking for reasons to kvetch.
Instead, I’ll say that Grandma’s is where small-town charm & hospitality meet big-city efficiency & logistics, with the world’s largest freshwater lake as its centerpiece. It’s a definite “feel good” race, and in that sense it reminds me of a Fargo (ND) or a Missoula (MT) or a Clarence DeMar (NH), though Grandma’s hosts a significantly larger field than its small(er)-town counterparts. So it’s no surprise that this year’s sellout was the fastest in the race’s 48-year history, because this Grandma keeps getting better with age.
The tranquil, tree-lined course parallels Lake Superior for 23 miles without a single turn before finishing at Duluth Harbor, a stone’s throw from the city’s most iconic architectural landmark, the Aerial Lift Bridge. And the lake’s not the only thing that’s Superior, as every volunteer I met was enthusiastic, supportive and helpful. Grandma’s is a major boon to the local economy, and clearly the city rallies around its race. As well it should— as the tenth-largest marathon in the U.S. in 2023, the pride of Duluth punches well above its weight class and merits strong consideration as the biggest small-town race in America.
Dining Tip: For a memorable meal in Duluth check out Va Bene, an Italian eatery that boasts an enclosed solarium and outdoor deck overlooking Lake Superior.
Aerial Lift Bridge, seen from Canal Park
PRODUCTION: Show me a perennially popular race weekend that hosts nearly 20,000 runners in a town of 86,000 residents, and I’ll show you a level of professional excellence that’s second to none. When it comes to logistics and runner satisfaction, the Grandma’s team does pretty much everything well. In addition to getting the big important things right, the organizers show a thoughtful attention to detail that clearly comes from a legit combination of expertise and caring.
Nothing about race weekend feels half-assed, from the bustling expo (among the best I’ve seen outside a World Marathon Major), to the start-line shuttle buses (comfortable and on time), to the highly visible balloon mile markers along the course, to the strategically positioned aid stations (officially every two miles for the first 20 miles, then every mile to the finish), to the finish-line gathering in Canal Park. I also heard good things about the post-race celebration in Bayfront Festival Park, though I didn’t attend. The race even offered a separate train and viewing experience for spectators (at $90 per person, including a pair of Grandma’s Marathon-branded socks) that Katie would highly recommend.
SWAG: The 2023 Grandma’s Marathon medal is a well-crafted keepsake and an instant favorite. Suspended from a bright orange ribbon, the medal is a hefty handful of silver-plated hardware that depicts a scene of summer in Canal Park starring Duluth Harbor and the Aerial Lift Bridge. Adding a splash of color are the red race name and blue state outline of Minnesota with red dot showing the location of Duluth. Meanwhile, the finisher shirt—which as the name suggests runners received only after crossing the finish line—is the typical short-sleeve tech tee, though its attractive dark blue color makes it more appealing (and more likely to be worn) than the usual black, white or brightly colored alternative.
FINAL STATS: Jun 17, 2023 (start time 7:45 am) 26.38 miles from Two Harbors to Duluth, Minnesota (state 36 of 50) Finish time & pace: 4:12:23 (first time running the Grandma’s Marathon), 9:34/mile Finish place: 3,470 overall, 125/235 in M(50-54) age group Number of finishers: 6,690 (3,933 men, 2,744 women, 10 non-binary) Race weather: cool & clear (57°F) at the start, warm & sunny (70°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 403 ft gain, 520 ft loss Elevation min, max: 604 ft, 736 ft
The biggest temptation on the London Marathon is to run into a pub along the route. – Joe Strummer (The Clash), 1983
Rarely does a marathon go according to plan. It’s a universal truth I learned—and learned to accept—long ago. For every finish line you cross, there’s always something that could have gone better, whether it’s something you can control like your nutritional intake, or something that’s totally out of your hands like the weather. Some race days, you’ll wake up feeling born to run; other times you’ll realize before you can even break a sweat that it’s not your day.
With 50 marathons under my belt as I write this, I’ve experienced all of the above and more. But I’d never experienced anything like London.
By all accounts, my arrival in London should have been cause for personal celebration. Most importantly, it would be the triumphant finale to my decade-long goal of completing all of the Abbott World Marathon Majors, a wildly popular series comprising six of the world’s largest marathons: Berlin, Boston, Chicago, London, New York City and Tokyo. Runners who complete all six marathons—in no particular timespan or chronology—earn the highly coveted Six Star Medal, which to my mind may be the most beautiful medal in the sport. It’s a magnificent piece of hardware, though whether it’s ultimately worth the time, effort and resources required to earn it is a highly personal question each runner has to answer for themselves. So far, for 12,772 motivated marathoners (including 2,866 U.S. finishers) through 2023, the answer has been an unqualified yes.
Not only would London be my sixth World Marathon Major, it would also be my first marathon in more than 16 months after a ruptured Baker cyst behind my knee, followed in short order by a bone bruise in my lower leg, sidelined me for the entire 2022 racing season. Those 16 months were the longest I’d gone without running a marathon since—well, since I’d first run a marathon in 2010.
If the term “bone bruise” sounds to you—as it did to me when I first heard it—like a “rub some dirt on it” type of injury, trust me it’s not. Case in point, pro basketball player Kendrick Nunn missed the entire 2021–22 NBA season with a bone bruise in his knee. Basically, as I understood it, my bone bruise was a result of edema (swelling) within the bone that would subside gradually on its own over the course of several months. In my case, my orthopedic surgeon’s best guess was that my particular injury had resulted from the repetitive stress/overuse of distance running coupled with very tight hamstrings, which attach to the lower leg more or less at the site of the injury.
My only finish line in 2022 was a bru-tifully slow Surf City Half Marathon
The funny (in the non-amusing sense of the word) thing was, most of the doctors I saw on my road to recovery assumed that, regardless of what they told me, as a crazy runner guy I’d be back out running in no time, injured or not. My physical medicine doctor told me the story of one runner who’d come to him in severe pain after injuring her knee, but rather than play it smart and give her body time to heal, she’d requested the doctor do whatever he could (within ethical limits) to enable her to run the upcoming Boston Marathon. I assured him Boston wasn’t on my schedule; at the same time, he didn’t increase his credibility by hypothesizing with conviction—before I ultimately insisted on an MRI—that I’d torn my meniscus and by advising that maybe it was time for me to stop running marathons and limit myself to shorter distances. Had I thought about running 10Ks instead?
And that’s when I stopped listening—he may as well have told me it was time to amputate.
Instead, I split the difference. With my ultimate goal being a return to running marathons, I opted to take a patiently impatient approach to rehab & recovery. I also insisted on having an MRI, because with hard tissue injuries you can’t treat what you can’t see. After finding an orthopod I trusted and receiving an actionable diagnosis, I gave my leg ample time to heal while ramping up my strength training regimen.
Never did I imagine I’d get so much value out of my gym membership. Day after boring day, as I worked diligently to stay in shape and recover from injury, I focused on my strength and flexibility while trying to stay motivated with audiobooks like Rebound: Train Your Mind to Bounce Back Stronger from Sports Injuries. Mentally I recalibrated my expectations and my day-to-day definition of success, even replacing my long-time disdain for the stationary bike with, if not eagerness, then at least appreciative apathy.
Five months after my initial injuries I cautiously returned to running, shuffling along the beach like a tentative toddler between the soft sand near the bike path and the firmer sand at the edge of the water. After a calf strain suffered on the uneven terrain sidelined me for another frustrating few weeks, it wasn’t until November that I started running indoors on a treadmill, extending those painfully tedious sessions to nearly an hour before I finally—and with a heavy dose of hesitation—transitioned back to paved surfaces and my usual running routes. Maybe not the best analogy here, but with that first healthy run on the bike path, I felt like I’d been released from prison and a whole new world had just opened up to me.
And with that, training for the 2023 London Marathon had officially begun.
The good news? Rehab included plenty of miles on the beach
The Comeback is Greater than the Setback As the final piece in a much larger puzzle, London struck me as the perfect comeback marathon because success would mean completing the World Marathon Majors and collecting my Six Star Medal. Nothing like a meaningful win coming off a year-long injury to lift the spirits. The marathon itself mattered very little in the grand scheme of things, which was ideal for another, more ignominious reason: London was the first marathon I’d entered that I didn’t want to run.
I’d chosen each of my first 47 marathons specifically because I’d wanted to run them—after all, isn’t that the point of this silly hobby? Even for the first five World Marathon Majors (Chicago in 2012, Berlin and New York City in 2014, Boston in 2016 and Tokyo in 2019), I’d looked forward to each and every one of them and the opportunity they’d afforded me to visit amazing cities like Berlin and Tokyo. Tokyo (or more accurately, Asia) had even doubled as my fifth continent.
Not so with London, which is ironic given that the race is arguably the most popular marathon on the planet. In 2023, 410,000+ people entered the “ballot” (i.e. random lottery) in the hopes of securing one of approximately 20,000 slots, an acceptance rate of less than 5% which qualifies London as the world’s most sought-after marathon. Like many runners, I’d gotten so accustomed to London Marathon ballot failure year after year that I’d simply started referring to the process as “my annual commiserations” (the word used in their mass rejection email).
Ultimately, I knew that unless I got wildly lucky in the ballot, I’d be traveling to London with our tour operator friends at Marathon Tours & Travel, the same team with whom we’d traveled to Antarctica in 2013, Berlin in 2014, my first Comrades Marathon in 2017, and Tokyo in 2019. Due to high demand, Marathon Tours has its own priority selection process for London; however, given my standing as a long-time member of their Seven Continents Club, I could be confident that my acceptance was all but assured whenever I chose to run London.
Friday city tour w/ Marathon Tours (Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens)
Don’t get me wrong—every time I lace up my running shoes, I am incredibly appreciative for my health and privilege and for the opportunity to do what I love. And that appreciation extends without exception to every race I run, London included. But appreciation is not the same as anticipation, and I simply could not wrap my mind around London, for two big reasons.
First, every World Marathon Major is a ginormous production of epic proportions that requires hours of careful planning and choreography just to reach the start line. Chicago and Tokyo were the easiest to navigate, as I was able to walk from our hotel (or in the case of Chicago, my friend Pete’s house) to the start line. New York was the most elaborate, requiring as it did two segments by land (subway, bus) and one by sea (ferry), followed by a lengthy wait at the start line on Staten Island.
So even before the starter’s pistol fires, each of the World Marathon Majors is to varying extents its own test of endurance. And for a life-long introvert like myself, the process can be equal parts invigorating and exhausting. As I’d learned the hard way in the lead-up to Marathon Monday in Boston, much of the energy I typically conserve for the marathon gets sucked away in the hectic days leading up to the race itself. So then by the time London 2023 rolled around, I’d had my fill of oversized marathon productions in general and the World Marathon Majors in particular.
The second reason I was less than thrilled to be running London, aside from the opportunity cost (I could instead have been running Providence, RI as my 36th state), was that I simply didn’t want to be there. This may not endear me to my British friends, but London is one of the world’s most overrated cities. With notable exceptions, it’s a gloomy (in April in particular), gritty, land-locked combination of old—check that, historic—grandiose architecture and incongruous contemporary design dominated by an anachronistic culture of royal entitlement and outdated traditions. Most of what we’d learn on our pre-race tour of the city would center on the monarchy, a topic I actively endeavor to know nothing about. I couldn’t tell you who came from who’s womb, who married whom, or who’s in line for what title by birthright. I’ve not seen a single episode of “The Crown,” or “Bridgerton,” or “Downton Abbey,” or even “Game of Thrones.” I don’t care for castles. I’m not a fan of palaces. I don’t like tea, or “pigeon sweat” as fellow American Ted Lasso sagely refers to it. I’m not big on bland cuisine. And most of what I know about Harry and Meghan I learned from watching a less-than-flattering South Park episode.
(Fortunately, recent numbers suggest the pomp and circumstance of the monarchy is wearing thin on even the Brits themselves at this point.)
Everything—British monarchy included—is better in LEGOs (seen at Hamleys, the world’s largest toy store)
Even the River Thames—a murky waterway that, like a distended serpent, traces a slow and sinuous path through the heart of the city—is overhyped, though not through any fault of its own since the river is flanked on either side by concrete embankments and urban overkill.
All that said, I understand London is a perennial favorite of travelers worldwide (and Russian oligarchs favor it as well); likewise, its marathon is arguably the world’s most popular. And I respect all the love that London gets, I really do. But I prefer cities that offer some semblance of natural beauty—attractive green spaces, for example, or an active harbor, or maybe even a coastline. As Olde World (i.e. European) cities go, I loved Berlin—the city more than the race—with its world-famous Tiergarten as the dynamic centerpiece of the city. Different strokes for different folks, I reckon.
So then why not wait on London? Because given my extended injury and the nagging uncertainty of how my untested leg would respond to the distance, I wanted to ensure I got the most out of my remaining mileage. That meant completing the World Marathon Majors, stat. And that meant running London now. With 15 U.S. states and two continents still remaining, the sixth World Marathon Major was the lowest-hanging fruit available to me. And honestly, 10+ years after running my first Major in Chicago, it was time to seal the deal.
There would be a silver lining to my London experience—thanks to an off-handed comment on social media, sometime in March I’d discovered that my long-time friend, travel companion and frequent RaceRaves graphics consultant Matt would be in London to support his brother Paul’s own Six Star journey. Paul, a member of New York Road Runners, would be running to capture his 4th star in the series, with only Boston and Tokyo remaining. This heartening nugget of good news raised my spirits and amped up my interest in London considerably.
London Calling 🇬🇧 So it was that by the time we touched down at Heathrow Airport on Thursday, three days before the 43rd London Marathon, for better or worse I was crackling with pent-up marathon energy. Certainly I felt as prepared as possible, having ramped up my training as much as the residual scar tissue in my lower leg would allow and having run two solid half marathons in the past two months, including a comfortable 1:50:02 finish at the Oakland Half in March. But I worried that the sheer adrenaline of race weekend in London coupled with the anticipation of running on such a huge stage after such a long layoff would prove tough to temper.
Our Marathon Tours package included lodging at the swanky InterContinental London Park Lane in the upscale neighborhood of Mayfair and in close proximity to the city’s main attractions including Buckingham Palace, site of the marathon finish line. Dropping our bags at the hotel, we hopped the Tube (i.e. the London Underground or subway) and headed to the pre-race expo in an attempt to avoid the claustrophobic crush of crowds and slim pickings of race merchandise that are Friday and Saturday at the World Marathon Majors.
London is home to an estimated 9.65 million people, more than any U.S. city, and at any given time it feels like most of them are packed into the Tube. Every train seemed to be operating near capacity during our stay, and I’d quickly tire of leaving daylight behind and descending by escalator or stairs deep into the subterranean bowels of the city, only to board another subway car filled with silent faces cast downward to avoid eye contact. (In fairness, I’m typically a fan of public transit but dislike the New York subway for the same reason.)
Located an hour from our hotel and across the city in the ExCeL Centre, the expo (aka the London Marathon Running Show) was as massive as expected. At the same time, the floor plan—which included registration tables, vendor booths and speaker stages—was masterfully laid out to optimize the flow of foot traffic. The only (strategic) bottleneck would come immediately after packet pickup and before the main body of the expo, as all runners were channeled through the New Balance sponsor booth where official race merch could be purchased, much like the familiar gift shop located at the exit to each Disneyland attraction. The ploy admittedly worked on me, as I came away with London Marathon-branded shoes, running tee and light jacket for running in the rain—the latter a must-have for someone who lives in drought-prone Los Angeles. Typically I don’t buy merch for the World Marathon Majors because seemingly every runner owns a Boston Marathon jacket or New York City Marathon tee that they wear every chance they get. And yet, given my appreciation for simply being in position to run again after 16 months of uncertainty, I couldn’t help myself.
On Friday morning, we boarded a charter bus for a guided tour of the city with our Marathon Tours group. Though not usually an aficionado of these types of tours, I’d found the analogous tours in Berlin and Tokyo to be informative and educational outings that provided a compelling overview of each city, much more so than we would have gotten on our own.
The tour featured its share of centuries-old landmarks, red-brick facades and commissioned statues under gray skies and a steady drizzle. Our guide offered frequent references to royalty past, present and especially future, as the Coronation of King Charles III would take place two weeks after the marathon. As such, the grounds of Buckingham Palace—as well as many of its usual photo opportunities—were marred by the rows of temporary seating and fencing already in place for the Coronation. Though we missed the Changing of the Guard ceremony on our tour, Katie and I would see a curious sight the next day as a member of the King’s Guard strolled leisurely away from the palace through Green Park in full uniform.
It was on casual walks like this, overhearing random snippets of other conversations, that I discovered my favorite thing about London: with upwards of 300 languages and dialects spoken, London is one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities. I was fascinated by the sheer number of people in this English-speaking city for whom English was not their native language, and coming from Los Angeles I felt strangely as ease.
After stops in and around Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral and Tower Bridge, the bus dropped us off at the race expo, which as expected was now significantly more crowded than the day before. There we took the opportunity to meet and chat with Wayne Larden, the race director for the Sydney Marathon. Sydney is currently vying to (and likely will) become the 7th member of the World Marathon Majors and the Southern Hemisphere’s first Major, and we (i.e. RaceRaves) would be working with Wayne and his team to raise Sydney’s profile among our largely American audience of runners.
Katie and I then took a more leisurely stroll of the expo than we had the previous day, stopping by vendor booths (including the Cape Town Marathon, another World Marathon Major hopeful) and listening to a couple of insightful talks on the speaker’s stage to help me prepare for Sunday.
St Paul’s Cathedral, the tallest building in London from 1710–1963
Saturday began with a dry cough and sniffle. Dismissing my symptoms, which I attributed to either the joy of pre-race tapering or the reality of being a stranger in a strange land, I headed out for a slow 30-minute shakeout run across the street from our hotel in Green Park. The area around Buckingham Palace was crowded and inaccessible due to in-progress races for the boys, girls and wheelchair / handcycle athletes that signaled the start of London Marathon weekend. After my run we met briefly with my friend Matt, whose brother Paul would be running London as his fourth star, to discuss the next day’s spectating strategy.
Given our shared apathy toward castles, Katie and I chose to skip the day’s group trip to Windsor Castle, home to British royalty for more than 900 years and the final resting place of Queen Elizabeth II. Instead we took a short Tube ride to Covent Garden, a high-end shopping and dining district in the city’s West End. Covent Garden boasts 200+ shops, restaurants and street entertainers—including the Jubilee Market Hall featuring a variety of crafts, antiques and collectibles—all laid out around a pedestrian-friendly piazza (public square). Having satisfied my need for retail therapy at the pre-race expo, we strolled idly along the busting brick and cobblestone streets, killing time and always with one eye on a sky that looked ready to rain on our parade at any moment.
That evening we joined our Marathon Tours group for a pre-race pasta dinner in the hotel ballroom. Not surprisingly it was a large affair, with the Marathon Tours team hosting 450 runners along with 650 guests in London. Sydney Marathon Race Director Wayne Larden, whom we’d met at the expo a day earlier, was the evening’s guest speaker and shared Sydney’s ambitious plan to become the 7th World Marathon Major in the next few years. Right then and there, we resolved to join him in September to support his efforts and to see for ourselves what Sydney was all about while also notching my 6th continent.
Chatting with many fellow runners at the dinner, I was reminded of a truth I’d almost forgotten since my last World Marathon Major in Tokyo in 2019—the folks you meet at World Marathon Majors, the ones vying for Six Star glory, are a different breed than even the usual crazy marathon runner. The series clearly attracts Type-A personalities. Six Star hopefuls tend to be single-minded of purpose and hyper-focused on finishing the Majors as soon as possible. To many of the folks I met, their Six Star journey was all-consuming and their running plans had been—if not derailed, then at least hijacked—by their obsessive pursuit of the Six Star Medal. Until they crossed that 6th and final finish line, nothing else mattered.
Whereas I’d leisurely run the six Majors over the course of more than a decade—in fact, I’d run my first three in Chicago, Berlin and New York even before the introduction of the Six Star Medal—most of the runners I met in London and Tokyo had charted a much more abbreviated and intensive course. At the same time, many bemoaned the difficulty of qualifying for Boston, or the challenge of getting into Tokyo and London via the random lottery, or the overall cost of the Six Star journey. The longer each person’s timeline, it seemed, and the more their expenses and injuries mounted, the more it became about the destination rather than the journey.
Wellington Arch in Green Park, seen on my pre-race shakeout run
As much as I value the opportunity to visit each of the six cities and run each of the six races, for me the hype of the World Marathon Majors has always exceeded their appeal. They are in large part social media monstrosities, and the epiphany for the World Marathon Majors team came with the realization that nothing in the sport of running inspires greater FOMO than the Six Star Medal. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to run all six, but if I’m being honest, I’ve gained more joy from my quest to run in all 50 states and on all seven continents. And my two finishes at the Comrades Marathon in South Africa stand as arguably my proudest achievements.
For this reason, having saved (to my mind) the least for last, London felt like an anticlimactic ending to my World Marathon Majors journey. But an ending nonetheless.
After dinner we headed up to our room, where we truncated our sleep time by roughly 20 minutes after plugging too many electronics into our voltage converter and blowing a fuse, thus plunging our room (and apparently the room next door) into darkness. Fortunately the hotel was able to dispatch electricians quickly to our room, even on a Saturday night, and they resolved the issue in short order. Clearly you get what you pay for at the InterContinental London Park Lane, as that’s certainly not the response we would have expected from a Hampton Inn in the States.
The Six Star Medal is the Holy Grail for many marathon runners
The Calm Before the Storm With the arrival of Sunday morning, I awoke in darkness to an uneasy sense of relief. Race day, at last! I’d slept off and on for maybe four hours; fortunately, the test of the National Emergency Alert System that we’d been told to expect at “3:00” had not interrupted my already fitful sleep.
My dry cough and congestion had worsened slightly overnight, but there was nothing to be done about that now. My real concern was something I’d experienced only once before, on the morning of the Boston Marathon seven years earlier—profuse, uncontrollable sweating. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop perspiring. I don’t sweat much even in the heat, and we’d kept our hotel room on the cooler side, so this was seemingly a case of too much race-day adrenaline. The same situation hadn’t boded well in Boston, and I could only hope this didn’t portend a repeat of that near-disaster. Turns out I was right to worry.
I drank plenty of water, then polished off a quiet breakfast of peanut butter toast, coconut yogurt and granola in a dining hall heavy with groggy, nervous energy, before saying my farewells to Katie and loading onto the 7:30am shuttle bus for the meditative 30-min drive to Greenwich Park. Not being in a talkative mood, I was lucky to find myself seated next to a Polish fellow who scrolled on his phone for the duration of the journey.
Is this Tokyo? Cherry blossoms greeted us in Greenwich Park
Testifying to the sheer magnitude of the London Marathon, the race deploys four designated starting areas. My starting area, the red area located in Greenwich Park, would be the largest of the four with 32,000 starters. Pulling up to the park at 8:00am, we deboarded and I wandered the large, grassy expanse until I found a strategic place to stretch out on the sidewalk close—but not too close—to the Portaloos. (This is one facet of race day where London stuck the landing, with row upon row of clean Portaloos stretching toward the back of the park to prevent painfully long wait times). There I sat conserving my energy, nibbling on an energy gel, and texting Katie until cell phone reception became untenable due to the sheer number of people on their phones in Greenwich Park.
As I sat watching the sky and awaiting my 10:15am-ish start time, I could hear but not see the PA announcer for the BBC who was practically begging folks in the park to join him “on the telly” for the live broadcast. Judging by the urgency in his voice, he didn’t have many takers. Clouds gradually obscured the once-promising blue sky and by 9:15am, as I watched runners of all shapes, sizes and shoe models idle about killing time, a light rain had begun to fall. Because this was London, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
After one last Portaloo visit, I headed straight to the kitbag lorry (i.e. bag drop) where I stuffed my pullover and gloves into my bag, handed the bag to a volunteer, and made my way through the crowd of randomly diffusing bodies toward the sign that welcomed Wave 2 runners for their designated 10:17–10:21am start time. While waiting, I chatted with a couple of runners who (prematurely) congratulated me after seeing the sign pinned to my back that announced London as my 6th and final Star. I’d been given the sign by the folks manning the World Marathon Majors booth at the expo.
The trees provided some protection from the rain as we stood on the wet grass, waited, shuffled forward, waited, shuffled forward again, waited, and finally shuffled forward onto the road where the official start line came into view. This is it. Glancing around I couldn’t see a pace group for 3hrs50min (3:50), my best-case scenario finish time, which meant I was on my own. In retrospect, I wish I’d been more—let’s say generous—on my race registration and had predicted a speedier 3:30 finish time to get myself closer to the front of the pack and avoid the chaos that awaited.
I took a few deep breaths to clear my lungs as the starting airhorn sounded, and we watched on the big screen set up alongside the road as runners in Wave 2 crossed the start line. Moments later we were doing the same as one massive, metronomic organism surged across the start line in Greenwich Park and set its sights on Buckingham Palace.
More than ten years after my first World Marathon Major in Chicago, I’d reached the beginning of the end.
“GO” time in Greenwich Park
A Marathon Like No Other A light but steady rain was falling as we exited Greenwich Park into the residential neighborhoods of Vanbrugh Park, passing tightly packed rows of multi-story brick flats with gabled roofs set close to the narrow street. Even here in the early miles and in the rain, spectators already lined the route. I made a point of high-fiving several kids in the opening couple of miles to help slow me down and ensure I kept my pace in check. Above all else today, I wanted to try to enjoy the moment.
Before the race, I’d struggled with the question of expectations and had ultimately conceded an “A” goal of a sub-4-hour finish, a reasonable time based on my training. This was due in large part to the fact that I’d run each of my previous five World Marathon Majors in less than four hours, with Boston being my slowest at 3:48:36. In reality, I had no idea what to expect from my recently injured leg, this being my longest run since Dallas in Dec 2021. My “B” goal I set at sub-4:15, while my “C” goal would be to finish and finish healthy, since being able to run 26.2 miles on a healthy leg was my biggest goal of all.
Smart, closely spaced flats transitioned to retail establishments transitioned to less attractive residences and more commercial neighborhoods. These early miles struck me as the typical urban/suburban juxtaposition with a pinch of Victorian sensibility. Fast-forward a month or so, and I could imagine this area would come alive in the full bloom of spring; now, however, under leaden skies, the overwhelming impression was a muted palette of grays and browns.
Glancing to my right in mile 3, I saw a sight that caused a momentary surge of angst as runners from the other start lines merged with us to form one steady stream of traffic. I’d already found the slick, narrow roads leading out of Greenwich Park to be a tight fit for so many runners, and our numbers would only increase with these new arrivals. Which meant increased vigilance to avoid stepping on and being stepped on by other runners. I knew from experience (in Houston for example, where I was the final marathon starter by design) the energy required to navigate throngs of runners, and so I knew I had to tread carefully and avoid riding the brakes to try to conserve my quads.
If you don’t have a photo in front of Buckingham Palace, did you really visit London?
But that was easier said than done. More nondescript urban scenery passed, but the scenery was secondary to my immediate surroundings as I focused on my footing in the rain, on avoiding the feet of other runners constantly cutting in and out of my path, and on the boisterous crowds lining each side of the street. In fact, I’d seldom been less focused on the local scenery during a marathon. I frequently found myself having to weave around other runners and run through swinging elbows to keep my pace. It was a claustrophobic feeling and particularly for someone like myself who prefers smaller, less crowded races.
Seeing a familiar sign for a popular American sandwich shop, it crossed my mind: Shouldn’t Subway be renamed “Tube” here? This is the type of profound thinking that goes on during a marathon.
For a while, I did my best to follow the blue line on the road that signaled the shortest distance between the start line in Greenwich Park and the finish line at Buckingham Palace. After the merge with the other runners, though, it became too difficult to follow the line through the wall of bodies and limbs.
As we passed the University of Greenwich in mile 7, I experienced something I’m not sure I’ve seen in any of my nearly 50 road marathons, let alone in a World Marathon Major—without warning, we were forced to slow to a walk for several steps as the road narrowed dramatically owing to high water and the crush of spectators on both sides. I couldn’t believe it.
The Running of the Bulls in Spain? Close, it’s mile 7 of the London Marathon
Just past the university we detoured from our straight-line path to circle Cutty Sark, a 19th century British clipper ship and the fastest of its time. Our arrival at Cutty Sark in all its glory made me realize that this course was not particularly scenic—rather, its nondescript commercial and residential neighborhoods faded into the background as the massive, screaming crowds demanded and got pretty much all of our attention.
After Cutty Sark I tried to refocus my efforts and calm my jittery nerves, telling myself there’d be nothing else to see until Tower Bridge at the midway point. Well, nothing except the natural beauty of Katie and Matt at mile 9 alongside Surrey Quays. I barely broke stride as I passed and pantomimed taking a picture to suggest we take a selfie at our next planned meeting point in mile 15.
At some point the rain stopped, and in mile 10 I knocked back my first energy gel. My stomach wasn’t especially happy with my decision, but then again that wasn’t unusual, and for now it was more important to try to stick to my nutritional plan.
Cutty Sark awaits at mile 7
Running in this chaotic stampede was starting to take its toll, and I recorded my first 9-minute mile in mile 10. Still, I resolved to stay focused and maintain my current pace for as long as possible. Giving up a few seconds per mile wouldn’t be a problem and was, in fact, something I’d expected in the course of the race. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t happen this early.
Three times in London I remember running through a cloud of cigarette smoke, an unpleasant sensation that hearkened me back to Berlin, the only other European city in which I’ve run and, perhaps not coincidentally, the only other race where I’ve run through cigarette smoke. Later in the race the unmistakable stench of grilling meat wafted past my nose, reminding me of the many tailgate-style cheering parties encountered along the 90km route at the Comrades Marathon in South Africa.
In mile 12 I glanced up serendipitously to get my first look at the soaring spire of The Shard, the tallest building in Western Europe, before a hard right turn brought the arches of Tower Bridge into view directly above and ahead of us. As most London Marathoners will acknowledge, despite only spanning 0.15 miles the awesome architectural marvel of Tower Bridge is the hands-down highlight of the entire day—and for me, the entire city.
Tower Bridge, the architectural highlight of London
The spirited spectators lining the bridge were several deep and full throated, propelling us along by sheer force of sound. The decibel levels on Tower Bridge alone would have put Wembley Stadium to shame. And while I tried to enjoy the moment and smile for the photographers I knew would be there, my primary focus was on staying calm and breathing rhythmically, as I had begun to feel like a balloon that was slowly losing air. On the bright side, the wide-open stretch across Tower Bridge was a welcome reprieve from the claustrophobic feel of the first 13 miles.
I clawed back a bit of momentum coming off the bridge as we started the “out” portion of the out-and-back (because this course wasn’t narrow enough?) along The Highway into East London. Here we saw our much faster counterparts (already in their mile 22/23) as they passed us in the opposite direction, which I always enjoy and which prompted a surge of adrenaline.
Running elbow to elbow on Tower Bridge, mile 13
London was consistently the loudest marathon—and the loudest race—I’ve ever run. To be sure, each of the other five Majors boasts its own raucous crowds. London, however, was far and away the most overwhelming of the six, in large part because the spectators felt like they were on top of the course and inches from your head at all times, as I’d imagine being near the track at a NASCAR event must feel. It was like a 26.2-mile pep rally.
There were cowbells and kazoos and music and confetti cannons. And there were drums, LOTS of drums. Steel drums, taiko drums, drum ensembles, even a fellow banging away enthusiastically on his own enormous drum, no doubt much to the chagrin of the eardrums around him. Because what better way to maximize your noise-making potential?
Not only is London arguably the loudest marathon in the world, but it’s also become a proving ground for costumed runners, a significant number of whom come chasing world records. As such, London is now the marathon of choice for incognito runners. I saw runners dressed as Big Ben, as a Fuller’s London Pride Amber Ale, and as a conspicuously tall blue Na’vi from the movie Avatar. I saw a few rhinos (supporting a “Save the Rhino” charity) and a few dinosaurs (unclear if there was a “Save the Dinosaur” charity). I saw lobsters, owls, an unidentified rodent, automobiles, ballerinas, a legion of superheroes, a bone, a tooth, and a host of more intricate group costumes that involved two or more individuals running while connected together. For a while I ran near a two-legged Blackpool Tower that seemed to be running on fumes.
When the dust and accessories settled, 44 costumed runners set Guinness World Records at the 2023 London Marathon. These included fastest marathon dressed as a fairy tale character, fastest marathon dressed as a Christmas cracker, fastest marathon dressed as a body part (do you really want to ask?) and my personal favorite, fastest marathon dressed as a scientist. But the most well-supported runner at London 2023 had to be the woman who broke the world record for most underpants worn during a marathon. Her mum must be beaming with pride.
Beer-lieve it or not, sightings like this are common in London
But if 44 costumed runners set world records, that meant all the other costumed runners on the course did not. And with all due respect to the record-setting lumberjack and the world’s fastest insect, the bloke who shows up at a marathon start line dressed as a lighthouse tends not to be the most, well, focused runner. As if London’s narrow roads weren’t enough of a challenge, many of the costumed runners on the course seemed to give little thought to the personal space of their fellow runners, specifically how their elaborate costumes may impinge on that space.
But wait, there’s more! London runners also get the opportunity to run alongside a sizeable number of first-time marathoners, since the race is incredibly popular with runners looking to check “marathon” off their bucket list. Which is brilliant, since I’m of the mind every able-bodied individual should run at least one marathon in their lifetime—after all, if you can run a marathon, who can say what else you may be able to achieve? And you can’t become a second-time (or 50-time) marathoner without running your first.
With great endurance, however, comes great responsibility. And for first-time marathoners, that means understanding the rules of the road. Unfortunately, the runner etiquette in London—which I’m assuming was due in large part to careless first timers—was as bad as any I’ve seen at a big-city marathon, much less a World Marathon Major. Sure, I recall in New York having to swerve around a runner or two who’d come to a sudden stop right in front of me. But the hijinks in New York were nothing compared to London, which felt a lot like amateur hour at the races.
Big Ben is London’s *other* architectural highlight
A Tragedy of Errors One of the unwritten rules of crowded marathons is that you stay in your own lane. Yes, you’ll need to pass other runners and pull over for aid stations and the like, but for everyone’s safety erratic or unpredictable navigation should be avoided. In London, though, runners bobbed and weaved back and forth across the course like punch-drunk boxers, often not bothering to look while misjudging the speed & trajectory of surrounding runners. People accelerated and decelerated suddenly and without warning, like a child’s remote-control car.
In addition, and unlike every other World Marathon Major, London hands out full plastic water bottles at aid stations rather than drinking cups, a practice that only contributed to the problem (and to the world’s supply of plastic waste). Instead of tossing them off to the side of the course, runners would occasionally discard half-filled bottles by simply dropping them in full stride, the logical result of which was that same bottle ending up under the feet of the runner directly behind them with little warning. Similarly, I saw someone spit a mouthful of water toward the ground, only to have its trajectory interrupted by another runner’s leg. OOPS.
This was like the Keystone Kops in running shoes, a comedy of errors minus the humor. In contrast to my usual marathon, my eyes spent more time scanning the ground ahead for potential hazards than they did taking in their surroundings. In this sense, London felt more like a trail race than a road race. A new experience to be sure, and not what I’d expect from a World Marathon Major.
And despite all I’ve said so far, I certainly didn’t expect what happened next. As we approached Canary Wharf in mile 14 and shortly after I downed my second energy gel, a larger runner to my right waved at friends or family on the left side of the road before making the split-second decision to pull over and see them. Unfortunately, the shortest distance between those two points—him and them—was a straight line passing directly through me. Not the path of least resistance to be sure, but still the path he chose.
City of London financial district, including the distinctive 20 Fenchurch Street building aka the Walkie-Talkie (left)
Clearly he never saw the collision coming as he hip-checked me sideways, his momentum knocking me off my stride. I probably would have hit the ground hard had I not pinballed off another runner—I felt awful for them, but what could I do? Inertia and gravity don’t give a shit. I never heard an apology as I quickly righted the ship and, after offering a few expletives under my breath, continued on my way.
Thanks to that hockey-style hip check, my right foot now ached near the shin bone owing to a reawakened injury that had bothered me off and on during training but which had remained dormant to this point. And my heart was jackhammering thanks to a fresh surge of wasted adrenaline that coursed through my bloodstream and which, in turn, was followed by a wave of fatigue and nausea as my body struggled to recover from being treated like an unwitting bumper car.
On the bright side, my injured leg was none the worse for the collision.
Apparently crowded roads aren’t an issue when you run at near-world record pace
Looking for Katie and Matt in mile 15, I glanced up to see a sign announcing “Narrow St,” though whether this was simply a peculiar warning in a city where seemingly all the streets were narrow or rather a legit street name, I couldn’t be sure. As we circled Canary Wharf, near but not yet within view of the River Thames, I scanned the crowd for familiar faces while trying to gauge the discomfort in my ankle. Running among the soaring glass-and-steel skyscrapers of London’s central business district, it struck me again that during sunnier times, this was probably a very attractive area of a not-so-attractive city.
Apparently, as I’d discover after the race, Katie and Matt’s Tube station near mile 9 had been closed without warning between the time they’d arrived and the time they’d returned. So they’d had to rejigger their spectating plans on the fly, and I wouldn’t see them again until mile 19. Fortunately I knew the two of them were together, so I wasn’t concerned.
Prior to the collision, my pace had slipped above 9+ minute/mile, neither surprising nor alarming given this was my first marathon in 16 months. After the collision, though, the combination of a dodgy ankle and London’s overwhelming chaos began to take its toll. I couldn’t seem to find my groove, and in mile 17 I recorded my first 10-minute mile.
The London Eye (left) and County Hall, the former seat of London government
It would only get worse from there. Sometime in mile 18, I was forced to stop on a dime as, without warning, another runner sidestepped in front of me and slowed to a walk. Slamming on the brakes to narrowly avoid a rear-end collision, I felt a sharp stab of pain in the same ankle I’d aggravated four miles earlier. I let loose a profanity that was drowned out by the surrounding tumult, but the damage was done. And now every step hurt. Gritting my teeth I pressed on, assuming this too would pass and the pain would subside as it always had.
Except it wouldn’t. Every stride was uncomfortable, and though I wasn’t concerned with doing further damage to my foot, I knew I couldn’t run another 9+ miles like this—and especially with no guarantees that the same thing wouldn’t happen again. I was in no shape to navigate other reckless runners. I was reminded of the only other time I’d run a race while injured, 10 years earlier at the ET Full Moon Midnight Marathon in Nevada when I’d twisted my ankle at mile 17 and run 9+ additional miles in the dark with what felt like a sandbag strapped to my ankle. That mishap had been my own fault. Fortunately this was not a sprained ankle, so I didn’t expect the same grotesque swelling as a result. What a fucking optimist I’d suddenly become.
Forty years earlier, Joe Strummer of the English punk rock band The Clash had run London, finishing in 4h13m and famously joking that “The biggest temptation on the London Marathon is to run into a pub along the route.” At that moment, I couldn’t agree more.
“If you’re going through Hell, keep going” –Winston Churchill Both the foot and my exhausted, adrenaline-addled body earned a brief respite when I paused for a selfie with Matt and Katie in mile 19, a much-needed pick-me-up. I managed a weak smile to hide my distress (a learned skill I’ve honed over the years), then limped on as I felt my foot tightening rather than loosening with every step. I was determined to keep pushing, to reach the mile 20 marker before I stopped to walk and give the foot a break. More than anything, my focus now turned to one overarching goal—to finish the race without further injury.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to smile whenever I saw an official race photographer. That snapshot, that moment in time, may not tell the whole story—may not even tell the true story—but for most of us who don’t write painfully long race reports, years down the road as memories fade, it’s all we’ll have to remember the day. And the more races you run, the more adept you get at spotting photographers on race day.
Matt & Katie sighting in Canary Wharf, mile 19
Reaching the mile 20 marker as we exited Canary Wharf, I finally threw in the towel and slowed to a walk, taking a few deep breaths and gratefully accepting a bottle from the water station. I did a few knee raises and shook out my foot as I walked, the din around me now even more pronounced. A confetti cannon erupted near my head, feeling like a sonic boom.
I was so tired of the London Marathon—more than a year of rehab and training to get back to marathon fitness, and this was the marathon I was running? At the same time, I wanted to try to turn these gators into Gatorade by enjoying the remaining miles as much as possible. Otherwise, this last 10K threatened to become an all-out suckfest.
As healthy runners passed me by, several wearing the same “TODAY IS THE DAY! CHEER ME ON” 6th Star sign I wore on my own back, I fought back frustration—being forced to walk during a marathon is miserable, and a mile takes forever at a walking pace. Walking is a leisurely activity, and I was categorically not in the mood for leisure. It didn’t help that I couldn’t escape the noise, which now felt like it was coming from inside my skull. As an introvert I have a huge aversion to random cacophony—the shrieks of an unhappy infant, the roar of an airplane flying directly overhead, or the volume for volume’s sake that was the case here in London. Loud music I embrace, but noise without rhyme or reason makes my brain hurt.
On the bright side, to me the best part of race weekend was the money raised for so many worthwhile charities. London claims to be largest annual fundraising event on the planet, a credible assertion given the number of unsuccessful lottery entrants who secure a spot instead through charitable fundraising. I must have seen dozens of runners sporting the logo of the Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH) Children’s Charity, which was named the London Marathon Charity of the Year and which ended up raising more than £1.8 million ($2.25 million) as a result.
The 3h45m pace group passed me… then 4h… then 4h05m, whom I knew had started in the wave behind me and so in my case was closer to 4h15m. And still I soldiered on.
Reaching the mile 22 marker I broke into a half-hearted run, the pain in my foot—and now the tightness in my quads from all the walking—precluding much more than a feeble jog. But at least this felt like progress, my exhaustion and aching foot notwithstanding.
We ended the out-and-back portion on The Highway and re-entered the City of London. Ahead of us, the distinctive edifices of the London skyline came into view including the gleaming, bullet-shaped Gherkin and The Shard, the tallest building in Western Europe and an architectural eyesore that towers above the city skyline. The splintered glass spikes that form the 1,000ft high spire of The Shard give the impression of a project left unfinished, a deliberate choice on the part of the designer.
Love it or leave it, The Shard dominates the London skyline
Picking up my pace briefly for the cameras, I walked a portion of mile 23 past the Tower of London and the Tower Hill Memorial, the site of ~125 public executions (including 93 beheadings) from 1388–1780 and 11 executions by firing squad in the early 20th century. Neither landmark registered in my mind given that I was in sensory overload and each was obscured by the raucous crowds standing several deep along this stretch.
Again I broke into a jog as the course became even more claustrophobic, with increasingly tall buildings lining either side of the narrow street. Even the occasional darkened tunnel or underpass offered no reprieve from the high-decibel mayhem, as two knuckleheads insisted on filling these quiet interludes by echoing each other’s screams. I was in a waking nightmare.
In mile 25 we followed the Victoria Embankment along the riverfront. On the opposite bank of the Thames, the Ferris Wheel-like profile of the London Eye and the curiously curvaceous glass tower of “The Boomerang” dominated the cityscape, for better or worse.
A fleeting smile for the cameras at Tower of London & Tower Hill, mile 24
With roughly a mile to go, I ignored my barking foot and broke into a jog for the last time. I was determined to run the rest of the way, knowing the most boisterous crowds of the day were sure to be lining this final stretch. Approaching Big Ben, the Palace of Westminster (aka the House of Parliament) and Westminster Abbey, I felt a wave of appreciation wash over me as Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” filled the air, prompting runners and spectators alike to sing along in unison (“SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!”). Finally, I thought as I felt my body relax, motivation not aggravation.
Not realizing they’d be there, I didn’t see or hear Katie or Matt cheering as we turned directly in front of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster. The two iconic facades commanded all attention, towering above us like the body and tail of London’s own Gothic Godzilla. Much like Tower Bridge, this magnificent stretch adjacent to Parliament Square was a course highlight that, together with Neil Diamond’s vocals resonating in my head, provided the decisive burst of energy needed to dig deep and focus on the finish.
Coming around the Big Ben(d) at the Palace of Westminister, mile 26
600m to go. The final countdown began as we cruised along tree-lined Birdcage Walk adjacent to St. James’s Park, where in October 2020 an elites-only edition of the 40th London Marathon had been staged during the pandemic. (It would be the only World Marathon Major held in 2020.)
400m to go. A right turn led us past Buckingham Palace and the rows of fenced-off Coronation seating. From there we wound our way around the Victoria Memorial, where the gilded bronze figure of Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory, watched over the exhausted runners from her perch atop the palace fountain. I couldn’t imagine a better sentry to herald our arrival.
200m to go.OMG, at last. Leaving Buckingham Palace behind, we turned onto The Mall for the final straightaway of my final World Marathon Major. Breathing a sigh of relief, I accelerated down a festive home stretch lined with gently fluttering Union Jack flags. Numb to everything but the finish line directly ahead of me, my pace dropped below 9:00/mile for the first time in hours as I tried to embrace the moment before crossing the line in an official time of… 4:25:22. YIKES.
Ten years later, the final steps of my Six Star journey
The Sweet Smell of Six-cess In the weeks before the race, I’d tried to visualize this crowning moment and anticipate the emotions of that sixth and final finish line. Much like Ralphie Parker dreaming of his Red Ryder BB gun, I’d imagined an epic sense of finality washing over me, the clouds (it was London, of course there’d be clouds) parting and a fanfare of trumpets sounding from on high as a single tear rolled down my cheek and I thrust my fists skyward, before sharing a high five with a jubilant King Charles in the triumphant conclusion to my decade-long quest for Six Star glory.
Turns out I may have seen too many Disney movies in my life. Because finding myself in a sea of sweaty finishers, I wanted nothing more than to collect my medals, hit the shower and get out of there. I felt devoid of any emotion except relief, my adrenal glands long since depleted of their signature hormone. After wrapping myself in a heat sheet (aka space blanket), I was handed a heavy bag of drinks and nutrition including an Oatbake that looked distinctly unappetizing.
Gratefully I accepted my London finisher’s medal before being directed by friendly volunteers to the Abbott tent. There, a good-natured representative with arguably the best assignment of the day hung the long-awaited and hard-earned Six Star Medal around my neck, appropriately covering my London medal in the process. At that moment, as I posed proudly for pictures with my sleek new hardware, I had to admit—the Six Star was a beautiful freaking medal. And the fiasco of the past four hours notwithstanding, it had all been worth it.
The finishers area was even more crowded than the race itself
The two medals clinked together with every step, and I turned my London medal behind me to avoid sounding like a walking wind chime. After retrieving my drop bag, I shuffled through the densely packed throngs of runners and non-runners toward the family meet-and-greet area where Katie, Matt and his brother Paul presumably waited. Along the way I paused and sat for several minutes to rest my aching legs and arms (with two full bottles of liquid, my bag was heavy). And I struck up a brief conversation with a fellow from Thailand for whom this was marathon #50, with the goal of reaching 100.
As I resumed my stroll, everyone’s phones suddenly sounded in unison as the high-pitched siren of the National Emergency Alert System filled the air. So then the warning must have been meant for 3:00pm rather than 3:00am. Just another head-shaking misadventure in a day full of them.
Finding my group at last near the far end of The Mall, I threw my arms around Katie before meeting Paul for the first time. He’d run a great race, and I congratulated him on finishing in a personal best time of 3:29:39. I was happy to hear he’d had a positive experience in his fourth World Marathon Major, and I was reminded of my error in not estimating a faster finish time on my race application, since starting with the speedier runners presumably would have meant thinner crowds to contend with closer to the front and… who could say, really? A lesson for another day.
That evening, after eventually working our way back to the InterContinental London Park Lane via a convoluted route necessitated by all the Coronation infrastructure and road closures, Katie and I attended the Marathon Tours post-race reception in the hotel. During the reception, 14 new finishers were welcomed into the Six Star Hall of Fame—fewer than I’d expected in a group of 450 runners, and especially given that 376 new inductees earned their Six Star Medal in London this year.
Then we met Matt and Paul for an excellent dinner—a culinary and social highlight of our trip—at a Turkish restaurant named Sofra. And I was again reminded of why traveling to races—and particularly races that appeal to as diverse a swath of the population as the World Marathon Majors—is so often its own reward.
Shakespeare’s Globe was demolished in 1644 and rebuilt in 1997
On Monday I awoke to another gray day and the realization that my cough and congestion lingered, worsened no doubt by the previous day’s exertions. Most tourist attractions in London require advanced reservations, which Katie and I hadn’t taken the time to research since we had no interest in time-honored traditions like the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. And so we happily avoided all museums, theatre productions and official ceremonies in favor of more leisurely sightseeing strolls.
Faced with my low energy levels and still-cranky ankle, we decided to follow a recommended One Day in London itinerary and stroll the South Bank of the Thames. Taking our time we visited Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Palace of Westminster, Trafalgar Square, the London Eye, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, Tower Bridge, and the Tower of London, among other sites. The day was pleasant for the most part, and we lucked out with only a modicum of rain and intermittently sunny skies. Unfortunately in London, a spring day without rain is like an NFL game without a concussion, and that night as my symptoms persisted and the heavens opened, we opted to stay in and order room service.
Before saying “Cheerio” to the city on Tuesday we took a walk to Regent Street to visit Hamleys, the world’s oldest and largest toy store. We also discovered the unassuming plaque, located in a narrow alleyway behind one of London’s most revered wine merchants, that commemorates the former home of the Embassy of the Republic of Texas from 1842 to 1845.
The greater part of the day was then spent on a mercifully smooth, 11-hour flight back to Los Angeles. Arriving home we unpacked, ate a light dinner and then headed to bed, where I’d remain for the next 18 hours as my body fought the good fight against whatever it was I’d had percolating in my system the past few days. Because whatever happened in London, definitely didn’t stay in London. (I never tested, but Katie would test positive for COVID-19 three days later—an outcome that felt as inevitable as Cookie Monster demanding dessert, given the tight confines of the London Tube at all times and particularly on race day, when the Underground was so overcrowded she felt as though she may suffocate if she wore a mask.)
Not only did our shared illness impact the end of our London adventure, but it prevented me from running Providence (R.I.) two weekends later, a marathon I’d been hoping to run as my first new U.S. state in 19 months. In fact, the effects of my illness would linger through May and end up impacting my performance at my next scheduled marathon in June. C’est la vie.
On a performance level London had been a stinker, to be sure. In the same race I’d experienced one of the highest peaks (Six Star finisher) and one of the lowest valleys (slowest road marathon) of my running career. What stung the most was that it wasn’t like I’d slacked off in my training—I’d prepared well for the distance and had put myself in position to finish in less than four hours.
Ultimately, though, none of that mattered, because next to finishing the race, the most important measure of success in London was that my previously injured leg had crossed the finish line feeling strong and ready to fight another day. After laboring through an uncertain 2022 that ended before it began, that in itself was a victory worth celebrating. And if you think getting into shape to run a marathon is tough, try getting back into shape once you’ve lost your hard-earned fitness. As a friend astutely pointed out, the mental challenge of getting back into shape is a whole different ballgame than getting there in the first place. So I’m proud to say—at least until my leg or some other fussy body part decides otherwise—that I’m back.
Victoria Memorial at Buckingham Palace
Despite my unenviable finish time in London, still I completed my Six Star journey with an average finish time of 3:42:43 across the six World Marathon Majors. My fastest time—and my first Boston qualifier—had been a 3:24:14 in Berlin, a race in which I’d inadvertently tied my shoes so tightly that I’d cut off all feeling to my toes. I have no interest in running any of the six again, though if the opportunity presented itself to run either Boston or Chicago, I’d have to give that strong consideration.
From an organizational perspective, the numbers in London didn’t add up. In 2014 when I ran Berlin, the city had hosted 29,000 finishers on its own narrow streets, which as I wrote at the time placed it “among the most crowded courses you’ll ever run.” But that was like a local 5K compared to London’s mind-boggling 49,000 finishers, making 2023 the biggest edition in the event’s 43-year history. I don’t claim to understand the mindset or motivation behind that decision, but to this participant the London Marathon felt a lot like the popular “clown car” circus routine, the goal being to pack as many runners as humanly possible onto the course despite the implications to the runner experience and potentially runner safety.
Unfortunately, as long as London remains one of the world’s six most popular marathons, catering to a captive audience by dint of its membership in the World Marathon Majors, it has no reason to change. With that in mind, I’d anticipate its continuing to chase New York City-type finisher numbers unless something happens to make the race organizers rethink their approach.
Until then, I wish each and every Six Star hopeful all the success in the world, because the medal and especially the journey really are worth the price of admission. And now, with my own Six Star medal in hand, I’m excited to focus on bigger and better running goals.
Because baby, I’m LonDONE.
BOTTOM LINE: Though he died more than a century before his hometown marathon was born, long-time Londoner Charles Dickens’ words still ring true: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. On the one hand, I did complete my sixth World Marathon Major and earn my Six Star Medal in London (best of times); on the other, my finish time was easily a personal worst for a road marathon (worst of times, literally) for reasons outside my control and which could have been avoided. To be clear, I have mad respect for any event that raises as much money for charity as London does and which bills itself as the largest annual fundraising event on the planet. Supporting charitable causes has become, in essence, its raison d’être. That said, and despite its global popularity and party atmosphere, London was hands-down my least favorite of the six World Marathon Majors.
If you’re reading this and are not a UK resident, odds are you have no choice but to run London—you’re more than likely somewhere along the path to completing the six Majors (including London) in order to earn what is arguably the sport’s most coveted award, the Six Star Medal. I don’t blame you in the least—it’s an epic journey with an enviable payoff. And if you’ve run any of the other five Majors (Berlin, Boston, Chicago, New York City and Tokyo), you know they’re all crowded races that pack thousands of fast-moving runners into limited space. And yet, I enjoyed them all. But when London posted on its Facebook page after the race that “The TCS London Marathon isn’t about running,” I couldn’t have agreed more. London hosts the world’s most popular 26.2-mile party, and as such it attracts a lot of first-timers and one-timers who are there to celebrate (not a bad thing) but who aren’t well-versed in the rules of the road (not a good thing). What set London apart from its fellow Majors was the appalling runner etiquette—dodging and weaving without looking, or throwing elbows and flapping arms wildly for the cameras or spectators, or stopping suddenly in their tracks without warning, or running in costume with little thought given as to how a bulky, oversized outfit might navigate such tight quarters. (London prides itself on the number of Guinness World Records set annually by costumed runners, so do expect to share the road with all manner of landmarks, superheroes, and extinct or endangered species.) To be sure, the lion’s share of the field was competent and mindful of their fellow runners. But every big-city marathon resembles a congested freeway in its choreographed flow of movement, and it doesn’t take long for careless (or reckless) behavior to cause avoidable accidents.
Case in point, in mile 14 I was side-swiped by a larger runner who didn’t bother to check his blind spot before cutting sharply across traffic to visit his cheering section on the sidelines. And in mile 18, I was forced to jam on the brakes after the runner ahead of me stopped suddenly to walk without warning. Together the two incidents caused an ankle injury that forced me to walk much of the remainder of the race. And walking during a marathon when you had no plans to do so sucks. Aside from a sprained ankle caused by my own carelessness in Nevada years ago, London was the first time I’ve ever injured myself during a race. The whole day felt more like a trail race than a road race in the amount of vigilance required, my eyes constantly scanning the ground ahead of me as I tried to avoid being stepped on or running into someone else. Spread that mental focus across 26.2 miles, and you’d better believe it takes a toll on physical performance.
(On a related note—if you do intend to run a sub-4-hour marathon in London, I’d recommend that on your race application you estimate your projected finish time on the speedy side, because presumably the closer you can get to the faster, more serious runners near the front, the thinner the crowds and the less chaos/fewer costumes you’ll have to contend with.)
For better or worse—and for many runners this is their favorite aspect of the race—London is also the LOUDEST marathon you’ll ever run. Admittedly I’m sensitive to volume, and so I tend to eschew loud, boisterous marathons in favor of smaller, quieter affairs. Even so, as raucous as the previous five World Marathon Majors had been, none of them consistently achieved the decibel level of London, where the cacophony of wildly cheering spectators started almost immediately and never let up. Not to mention that at several places on the course (including one stretch in mile 7 where the course bottlenecked, forcing us to slow to a walk for several seconds), the close-packed throngs felt like they were almost on top of us. I felt like I went to a rave and a marathon broke out. Rambunctious crowd support and bedlam for the sake of bedlam may look great in a 30-second sizzle reel, but the reality for an introvert like me can be unnerving and border on sensory overload. But again, I recognize that for many runners that’s the best part of race day. Different strokes, I reckon.
In the end, I feel like London’s ambition to throw the biggest running party on the planet prioritizes participant numbers over the runner experience. Hopefully this year was an outlier with its record number of finishers (48,791 per the results page), because in its 43rd year the organizers seem to have conflated “greatest marathon” with “biggest spectacle.” As a result, their race day has simply gotten TOO BIG. (For comparison, London totaled nearly 20,000 more finishers than when I ran an overcrowded Berlin Marathon in 2014 on similarly narrow streets.) For many runners and spectators, this amounted to a rollicking good time. And if you want to complete the World Marathon Majors and earn the Six Star Medal, you have no choice but to run London. But if you DO have a choice, and unless you have a specific reason to visit London (a city devoid of natural beauty and still fixated on the monarchy), I’d say do yourself a favor and skip it in favor of one of the many other excellent European marathons in a more interesting city. With so many other brilliant marathons in beautiful and rewarding destinations, London is simply not worth the hassle, the stress, and the hype—not unless you happen to be a UK resident, a raging extrovert (e.g. the runner cupping your hand to your ear and urging the already-deafening crowds to cheer even louder), or a serious Anglophile.
Independent from the marathon itself, I’d be remiss not to give a shout-out to the pros at Marathon Tours & Travel, who did a terrific job of organizing and executing for the 450 runners & 650 guests they hosted in London. MT&T has built and nurtured relationships with events like the London Marathon for 45 years, and it’s one of the reasons they’re the best in the industry. Sure you’ll pay a bit of a premium for their service—this is their business, after all—but if you’re an American who wants to run (and experience) London with minimal hassle, I can’t recommend them highly enough. Tell ’em Mike from RaceRaves sent you!
PRODUCTION: Admittedly it takes an enormous amount of time, resources and careful planning to pull off a race day as big and bombastic as London, and for that the organizers deserve huge credit. Not many races require four separate start lines to host nearly 50,000 runners, and as such it’s tough to fault the organizers for the 2½ hour wait I experienced from the time I stepped off the shuttle bus in Greenwich Park to the time I started running. (On the bright side, I’ve never seen so many Portaloos at a start line.) Despite being held across the city and an hour from our hotel, the pre-race expo too was masterfully laid out with enough packet pick-up kiosks to prevent long wait times plus a host of interesting speakers, vendors and events including the two candidate races vying to become the next World Marathon Majors, Cape Town and Sydney.
As expected, the temporary seating and fencing set up around Buckingham Palace for the Coronation inconvenienced runners and spectators alike. Fortunately, that was a one-time annoyance and not something future runners will have to contend with.
My biggest issue with London, as detailed above, is that the organizers cram their 50,000 runners onto some of the narrowest roads I’ve ever run, roads made narrower in places by the crush of spectators standing several deep on either side. Even as the notoriously crowded World Marathon Majors go, London was excessive in this respect. (See for yourself in the official race photo I’ve uploaded, taken at mile 7.) And my concerns were validated by the fact that I ended up injured due to runner recklessness and had to walk much of the second half of the race as a result—not how I’d hoped to experience my sixth Major. Try as it might, London is not New York City, and more is not necessarily better when it comes to the city’s narrow roads. After celebrating its largest marathon ever in 2023, it feels like now’s the time to pump the brakes and let some of the air out of London’s balloon before it blows up in someone’s face.
SWAG: As with most of the other World Marathon Majors, the swag was minimal but sufficient. This included a blue short-sleeve New Balance tee depicting London landmarks of interest in yellow silhouette, along with a finisher’s medal that displays the year prominently on front with those same urban landmarks subtly embossed on the back. The medal looks suspiciously like the 2022 version, which is perfectly fine if you’re Boston with its iconic blue-and-yellow unicorn, not so much if you’re London and seemingly relying on your status to excuse your lack of creativity. On the plus side, London may be the first medal I’ve earned with braille on the front, which apparently translates to this year’s race slogan, “WE FINISHED TOGETHER.”
One design note for future editions of the London Marathon: the race desperately needs a new logo. Since TCS became the title sponsor in 2022, the logo has been a stylized “LM” that feels apologetic and secondary to the TCS branding. The logo doesn’t stand out on any medium on which it’s used, and nobody who sees my London Marathon tee will recognize it for what it is. So it’s time for London to take a cue from Boston (unicorn), Berlin (Brandenburg Gate) and NYC (Statue of Liberty) and seize on one of its iconic landmarks—I’d suggest Big Ben or the Tower Bridge—as the centerpiece of a new logo for 2024 and beyond.
I also went home with my own Six Star Medal, which was all the swag I needed and the only reason I’d opted to run London in the first place. Mission accomplished!
FINAL STATS: Apr 23, 2023 (start time 10:21 am) 26.73 miles in London, United Kingdom (World Marathon Major 6 of 6) Finish time & pace: 4:25:22 (first time running the London Marathon), 9:56/mile Average AWMM finish time: 3:42:43 Finish place: 25,820 overall, 1,993/3,716 in M(50-54) age group Number of finishers: 48,791 (28,487 men, 20,216 women) Race weather: cool & rainy (50°F) at the start, cool & partly cloudy (50°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 1,506.6 ft gain, 1,613.8 ft loss Elevation min, max: –4.6 ft, 463.9 ft
My Six Star medal collection (clockwise, from top left): Boston 2016, Tokyo 2019, New York City 2014, Chicago 2012, Berlin 2014, London 2023 and (center) the Six Star Medal
‘Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run. – Bruce Springsteen
(This report is for the Oct 2021 edition of the Atlantic City Marathon… and with that, we’re all caught up!)
In American football, it’s called an audible—a last-second change called by the quarterback at the line of scrimmage in response to the opposing defense. And whether it be due to scheduling, injury, or a global pandemic, when your goal is to run a marathon in all 50 states, you’ll probably find yourself calling a few audibles. Whether you like it or not.
After August’s rough go at the New England Green River Marathon in Vermont, all the pieces were falling into place for a more promising October. With many Americans vaccinated and some even boosted, the country was finally starting to move beyond the pandemic. People were beginning to travel again. And for the first time since the Bataan Memorial Death March in 2018, my brother and I were planning to run a marathon together, this time at the highly acclaimed Mount Desert Island Marathon along the coast of Maine.
All the stars were aligned: our reservations were in order, we were both ready to run, and we’d even talked our sister into joining us from Texas for a weekend of sightseeing and hiking in nearby Acadia National Park. It was shaping up to be an awesome trip.
And yet this blog post isn’t titled “The 19th Mount Desert Island Marathon” now, is it?
Sunrise on the Atlantic City Boardwalk
On September 11, an email announced that the Mount Desert Island Marathon (scheduled for Oct 17) was cancelled, citing “the recent surge in local COVID-19 infections due to the Delta variant, coupled with an already strained medical and emergency services community.” Not the race’s fault, of course—in situations like this, community events like marathons are always the first to go and the last to know. But the news was particularly frustrating in light of the fact that both the Maine Marathon on Oct 3 and the Bar Harbor Bank & Trust Half Marathon on Sept 18, the latter of which was sponsored by the local Mount Desert Island YMCA, seemingly went off without a hitch.
And so, once the initial angst and disappointment of a ruined family weekend passed, it was time to quickly call an audible. October is tricky—it’s the busiest marathon month of the year, and in non-pandemic years the month presents a wealth of riches for 26.2ers like me. In 2021, though, my October options were more limited with some races—for example, the Marine Corps Marathon—becoming pandemic casualties and others falling too late to allow a reasonable recovery before my last race of the year, the Dallas Marathon 50K (the event’s 50th anniversary) on Dec 12.
But there was one race weekend that fit the bill nicely. If I’m being honest, I’d normally not fill a coveted October slot with a New Jersey marathon; however, two factors swayed my decision. First, I’d yet to run in the Garden State, and with April’s New Jersey Marathon cancelled indefinitely due to a loss of venue, Atlantic City stood out as the best of a notably weak slate of candidates. (On that note, New Jersey and Connecticut seem to be the only two states that do not host a marathon in any of their three most populous cities; in New Jersey’s case that’s Newark, Jersey City and Paterson). And second, our old friend John Points—last seen on the Vermont/New Hampshire border weeks earlier—would be running Atlantic City as his own New Jersey marathon and his 48th state.
So while Chuck chose to run his hometown Long Beach Marathon (apparently to his mind the Jersey shore ≠ the Maine coast), and despite any misgivings I may have had about an oceanfront Las Vegas, I decided to push all my October chips to the center of the table and roll the dice on Atlantic City.
At the convergence of Boardwalk and Park Place
Along the Boardwalk Fun fact about Atlantic City: it was the real-world inspiration for the board game Monopoly. And yet despite the familiar street names that appear at intervals along the Atlantic City Boardwalk, there’s no overt nod to the most popular board game of all time. Apparently there used to be a life-size Monopoly game board outside the Bally’s Hotel & Casino where Boardwalk and Park Place—the game’s two most expensive properties—converge. Unfortunately, it was destroyed in 2012 by Hurricane Sandy and never rebuilt.
Now I found myself at that same real-world corner of Boardwalk and Park Place, steps from the Atlantic Ocean on a crisp, clear October morning. This wasn’t Acadia National Park to be sure, but on the bright side we’d undeniably turned October lemons into lemonade.
The rising sun cast the Boardwalk, the surrounding buildings and our fellow runners in a warm, peach-tinged light as the start corral filled for the 63rd running of the Atlantic City Marathon. First run in 1958, Atlantic City bills itself as “the third oldest continuing marathon in the United States” behind only Boston (1897) and Pikes Peak (1956). Perhaps not the most likely place for one of the nation’s longest-running marathons, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this 50 states quest, it’s to always expect—and appreciate—the unexpected.
“Corral”ing John into one last photo before he tackles state 48
Spying John in the tightly packed corral, I pulled up alongside and we chatted until the muted sound of the national anthem reached our ears. Wishing him well in state 48, I turned and Scooz me, pardon me’ed my way forward until I reached the 4:05 pace group. I didn’t need to reach the front; I simply didn’t want to start so far back that I ended up wasting valuable energy weaving around other runners on the narrow Boardwalk. Having spent several miles doing just that as part of my “last man starting” fundraising campaign in Houston, I knew all too well the gruesome toll it would take on my legs by mile 18.
The crowded and mostly mask-free corral felt like the unofficial end to both the pandemic and social distancing. A moment later the scantily clad mass of bodies pulsed forward without the fist-pumping, speaker-searing sendoff I’d expected from New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen and his 1975 hit, “Born to Run.” Someone here had clearly dropped the ball.
Crossing the start line, I removed my mask and joined the flow of runners headed east into the rising sun. The Boardwalk beneath our feet remained wet from the previous night’s rain, and together with the blinding sun, the uncertain footing in a tight crowd made for a challenging start.
The start line for the race and the finish line for social distancing
Keeping my head down, I was grateful that no more than a quarter-mile passed before we left the Boardwalk and turned northward, transitioning to asphalt for a 7½ mile circuit of residential neighborhoods and highway off-ramps. I felt unexpectedly good as I cruised along at an 8:30-ish/mile pace, the surrounding high-rises providing sporadic shade from the morning sun.
One memorable stretch in mile 2 took us through the well-lit tunnel on the Atlantic City–Brigantine Connector. The tunnel was a pleasurable distraction as it provided momentary shelter from the sun’s intense rays. Exiting the tunnel, I briefly fell in with the 3:50 pace group before pulling ahead as we navigated the Marina District past the sparkling waters of Absecon Bay. Though the route so far was largely access roads and concrete scenery, these bay views helped to alleviate the boredom of the early miles, and I was appreciating a very pleasant morning run as we circled back the way we’d come toward the casinos.
The Boardwalk offers plenty of room for running
As no fan of casinos, I’d made a fortuitous choice to run the Atlantic City Marathon in pandemic times. In a typical year, the marathon’s pre-race expo and packet pickup are held inside the aforementioned Bally’s Hotel & Casino, one of the city’s nine remaining brick-and-mortar casinos. In the interest of public health and better-safe-than-sorry, however, the 2021 expo was moved outside to the more limited confines of Bally’s Beach Bar overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Even a long queue under threatening skies couldn’t dampen my spirits, as I’d rather wait in line oceanside for 45 minutes than spend five minutes in a stuffy casino.
Thanks to that near miss, and our decision to stay in nearby Absecon rather than along the Boardwalk, I managed to avoid setting foot in a single casino during our two-day stay. 🙌
On that note, the allure of Atlantic City ain’t what it used to be. Once dubbed “The World’s Playground,” this oceanside resort town has seen its fortunes fade in recent years with a decline in casino revenue and the resulting closure of several waterfront casinos. Donald Trump’s eponymous properties once accounted for nearly a third of the city’s total casino revenue, an era of excess that imploded first metaphorically and then literally when, in February 2021, dynamite reduced the derelict building—and yet another failed Trump enterprise—to rubble.
Granted it’s dicey (pun intended) to judge a tourist destination like Atlantic City by its offseason vibe, and especially coming on the heels of a global pandemic, but the Boardwalk felt very much like a ghost town with a number of shops and restaurants closed during our visit.
Crowds on the Atlantic City Boardwalk, Jan 1920 (Bettmann/Getty Images)
Seeing the 3:45 pacers come into view ahead of me, I pulled back on the throttle to stay between them and the 3:50 group. Whereas 3:50 felt like the day’s best-case scenario, 3:45 wasn’t happening. Still smarting from a difficult day in Vermont, my “A” goal for Atlantic City was to run at a comfortable yet restrained pace and to finish before high noon, that is, in less than four hours. I didn’t care if I bonked later in the race; in fact, that would be par for the course. I just didn’t want to go out too fast and end up ruining an otherwise beautiful morning. Besides, this was essentially a training run for my next target race, the Dallas 50K in December.
I stayed a few paces behind the 3:45 group until we returned to the Boardwalk for my first Katie sighting of the day. Flashing her a thumbs-up, I slowed a bit to let the 3:45ers pull away. It was time to find my rhythm and knock out these middle miles.
Cruising along the wide-open Boardwalk, which was sparsely populated at 9:15am, I glanced up to see a spectator sign that read Keep going, you can do this Mike! Either Katie in her non-athleisure jeans and puffer jacket had somehow beaten me to this spot, or here I was the proud beneficiary of secondhand support.
New Jersey Korean War Memorial, located at Boardwalk and Park Place
In mile 10 we passed “GO” aka the start line, though unfortunately there was no sign of Monopoly’s own Rich Uncle Pennybags handing out $200 to every hard-working runner.
Running on the Boardwalk at this early hour was a pleasure. With the Atlantic Ocean as our constant companion we ran past casinos, past the (Ferris) Wheel at Steel Pier, past the Ripley’s Believe It or Not with its giant planet Earth protruding from the faux-damaged façade. We ran past the New Jersey Korean War Memorial, past two Starbucks, and past an enormous screen showing a trailer for the new James Bond movie.
With our western progression came a conspicuous transition from garish glitz to easy opulence. Casinos and tourist shops gave way to cute beachfront condos and increasingly lavish homes. The entire Boardwalk felt more reminiscent of Manhattan Beach back home than of Las Vegas, which to my mind was a good thing. The nice, wide Boardwalk was much less crowded and claustrophobic than the Vegas Strip. And running a stone’s throw from the ocean never sucks.
The early bird gets the beach before the humans (📸 John Points)
Glancing upward, I noticed seagulls bobbing gently on the brisk breeze as though held aloft by an invisible hand. They reminded me of the department store displays I’d seen as a kid with a colorful beach ball seemingly forever suspended in the air above a blowing fan.
Having read reviews and talked to previous finishers, I knew to be vigilant for loose boards on the Boardwalk. To avoid problem spots I tried to run on the screws that fastened each board in place, under the assumption that the farther I strayed from these screws, the more likely I’d be to encounter a loose board. With this in mind I never had an issue with footing, nor did John who was likewise cautious. Sure, once in a while a board would yield slightly underfoot, but there was always a springiness to it that felt bouncy rather than hazardous.
In mile 13 the Boardwalk ended—we’d run all five miles, end to end—and we zagged over to Atlantic Ave just south of Marven Gardens, the inspiration for another iconic Monopoly property. Here it occurred to me that the 13.1-mile mark would have been the perfect opportunity for the organizers to set up speakers and blast some motivational “Livin’ on a Prayer” by New Jersey rock icons Bon Jovi. Whoa, we’re halfway there…
We all take our motivation where we can get it on race day
Atlantic City sightseeing Heading west on Atlantic, I kept my eyes peeled for local celebrity Lucy the Elephant who, according to the course map, lived right around mile 13.8. Built in 1881 to attract prospective real-estate buyers, the six-story architectural spectacle originally named Elephant Bazaar and now known as Lucy the Elephant has become a centerpiece of Atlantic City tourism. Once a real-estate office, then a hotel, and more recently an Airbnb rental, the beloved pachyderm is the nation’s oldest surviving roadside attraction. In 1976 Lucy earned the designation of National Historic Landmark, ensuring its status as a permanent resident of both Atlantic City and the hearts & minds of kitsch-loving Americans.
Seeing Katie just past mile 14, I paused to ask whether she’d seen Lucy—after all, a six-story elephant with an ornate carriage on its back is tough to overlook. She gestured across the street to where the object of my desire stood like a caged animal, its mammoth physique completely enclosed by a six-story lattice of construction scaffolding. Its enormous backside was all I could see through the dense web of scaffolding, which served to dissuade all curious comers. Apparently Lucy—biologically a boy, based on its imposing tusks—had closed a month earlier after an inspection revealed the need for an extensive skin transplant to replace its degraded outer covering. Fifteen months and $2.4 million in renovations later, Atlantic City’s hometown hero would reopen to the public in December 2022.
Welcome to Lucy the (caged) Elephant; the massive head with tusks is to the left
I could practically taste my disappointment. Rather than dwell on the unfortunate timing of Lucy’s makeover, however, I set my sights instead on the mile 16 turnaround. Soon I was passed in the opposite direction by a focused, fleet-footed woman coming back from the turnaround. Despite her easy fluidity of motion, what struck me were her long and glamorous eyelashes. The sight of them momentarily took me aback; seeing false eyelashes on a speedy marathoner felt conspicuously out of place, like seeing a cheetah riding a skateboard. I attributed this to the fact that marathoners tend to be more stereotypical in their appearance and behavior than runners as a whole. If false eyelashes can help me run that fast, I thought with a smile, count me in.
As my tired brain struggled to reconcile this walking (or running) contradiction, Atlantic Ave and Absecon Island approached their shared endpoint with a coastal stretch past quaint seaside homes, one of which featured a concrete dolphin sculpture as its mailbox. Where is that freaking turnaround? I thought as Atlantic Ave curved out of sight, and I fought back the mental lassitude that comes with simply wanting something tedious—in this case the “out” portion of the out-and-back—to end.
Several blocks later and just past the mile 16 marker, we reached the turnaround point at the southern tip of the island, where I paused to appreciate the view of the Ocean City–Longport Bridge across the bay before continuing back the way we’d come.
I was enjoying myself, as I always do on race day. At the same time I felt uncharacteristically workmanlike, and I realized my motivation hadn’t fully rebounded from the cancellation of Mount Desert Island. So I focused on staying strong as I ticked off the miles, gauged my pace and fatigue at regular intervals, and forced myself to stay hydrated with frequent sips of water or Gatorade. And unlike most marathons I paused for only a single picture, this one at the mile 16 turnaround.
Ocean City–Longport Bridge seen from the mile 16 turnaround
I can’t be sure because I never saw them, but I feel like somewhere along this out-and-back stretch the 3:50 pace group must have passed me. Not that it mattered; as long as I kept the slower 3:55 pace group in my rearview mirror, I’d allow myself plenty of buffer to ensure my “A” goal of a sub-4 finish. Because I didn’t want a repeat of Vermont.
After the mile 16 turnaround, I immediately began to look ahead for the next upcoming turn which would take us on a loop of Margate, “a community of beautiful beaches and dramatic bay views” according to its website. Marathon organizers often need to get creative to string together 26.2 miles of runnable roads, a particularly difficult task in smaller towns with fewer roads, and the Margate neighborhood would be a prime example of this creativity.
As we turned north into a troublesome headwind in mile 18, a spectator held a sign that read, “If you can read this, you’re not running fast enough.” I saw her point but had to disagree—despite reading it easily enough as I approached, my body let me know I was running plenty fast.
We cruised past seaside homes and businesses for nearly half a mile before again reaching the water. There, a right turn led us along the bay for another mile before a clockwise loop of a local park—its tennis and basketball courts sparsely populated this morning—sent us back the way we’d come along the bay. Clearly this route was designed to eat up mileage in the service of running a full 26.2.
Along this stretch we were greeted twice (on the out and the back) by the only live on-course entertainment, a guitar-driven rock band named Hightide that actually sounded pretty good and whose music carried well on the wind. Due to unfortunate timing, though, the only lyrics I remember were, “I won’t forget to put flowers on your grave.” Welcome to mile 20, runners!
Touring the Margate neighborhood, mile 22
With the wind gusting and fatigue setting in, the Margate loop was the most tedious section of the day. If I’d had one, I would’ve gladly played my “Get Out of Margate FREE” card here.
Heading south, I paused for a quick Katie pit stop before turning left for one last stretch along Atlantic Ave. Ahead of us, the caravan of orange traffic cones extended to the horizon. Time seemed to slow as I sluggishly retraced my steps past a scaffolded Lucy and past groups of enthusiastic spectators, many of them unexpectedly yelling “Jiayou! Jiayou!” (a Chinese cheer of encouragement literally meaning “Add oil,” which I’d last heard along the course in Tokyo).
Glancing up to see John coming the other way, I held up my hand to high-five him as we passed. “You’re under four hours!” he encouraged me with a smile as we passed. I’d better be, I thought, my brain running low on appreciation in mile 23.
Another fellow followed closely behind John, grunting loudly and barking out guttural sounds like the oversized dude in the gym who wants everyone to appreciate just how much effort he’s putting into his workout. His verbal discharge sounded downright painful as he chugged along. Does he do that for 26.2 miles? I wondered. I’d hate to have to run near him.
Just as I started to feel like we were running on an endless asphalt treadmill (“Jane, stop this crazy thing!”), the route zigzagged off Atlantic and back onto the beach Boardwalk for the final 5K. Focusing inward I almost missed seeing Katie in mile 24, and by the time my brain processed her presence I’d already passed with a weak nod and with no intention of turning around. Not that she expected me to; with three miles left it was time to bear down and get ‘er done.
Back to the Boardwalk, mile 24
Landing on Boardwalk and Park Place Looking up I saw Bally’s—and beyond that, the Hard Rock Hotel—rising above the Boardwalk in the distance. Bally’s was our final destination, and with that as motivation I set my mind to reeling it in, one step at a time. Despite my half-hearted attempts to maintain pace, I could feel my cadence slowing as my legs grew increasingly heavy. In any case, I was determined to enjoy this home stretch.
With pedestrian traffic still relatively light along the Boardwalk, I wasn’t forced to play Frogger with fellow tourists as John would have to do later in the day. Good thing too, because that was energy I didn’t have left to waste.
Aside from the Hightide boys and someone later in the race holding a small speaker that predictably pumped out “Eye of the Tiger,” music had been scarce along the course. No Springsteen, no Bon Jovi, no “I Will Survive” from Gloria Gaynor—no Garden State musicians of note, period. Chalk it up as a lost opportunity.
Never had I been so euphoric to see casinos, the sleeping giants now serving as a long-awaited Welcome home. As we passed under the elevated walkway that connects Caesars Atlantic City with the high-end retail therapy of the Playground Pier, the finish line emerged from the shadows right where we’d left it.
The home stretch: elevated walkway between Caesars and Playground Pier
Like the iconic board game its host town had inspired, and perhaps like a certain race report, the Atlantic City Marathon had felt at times like it would never end. And yet here I was, basking in the cheers of finish-line spectators and pumping a fist toward Katie before stopping the clock in a very reasonable time of 3:53:38, some 40 seconds slower than my brother’s own finish time at the Long Beach Marathon a week earlier. State 35 was in the books. ✅
Hobbling though the finish chute on the former site of the life-size Monopoly board destroyed by Hurricane Sandy, I collapsed on the concrete to gather my wits as Katie joined me. “What a stupid hobby,” I told her, repeating my mantra from past finish lines. I’ll often reach the finish of a half marathon—as I had in Long Beach seven days earlier—feeling strong and with energy left in the tank. Not so for the marathon. As American legend Bill Rodgers aptly put it, “The marathon will humble you.” Every. Single. Time.
Reluctantly pulling myself to my feet, we wandered through the post-race area where I saw a few unappealing post-race snacks laid out on a table. Aside from a race merch tent and an Honest Tea booth handing out samples, the dearth of vendors pointed to another pandemic-related casualty.
All boards lead to the finish line
The finish-line PA announcers did a nice job keeping the energy high as they announced names, greeted incoming runners, and filled the lull between finishers with congratulations, anecdotes, and announcements for upcoming events in their Atlantic City Race Series. I heard them welcome a couple of 50 States finishers across the finish, one of whom had taken more than 20 years to complete his quest. I made sure to congratulate each of them personally.
Katie and I strolled the wide-open Boardwalk, enjoying the sparse crowds and seeing what we’d missed the day before. The post-race party was in full swing as we passed, the sounds of live music drifting well beyond the lively patio of Bally’s Beach Bar. Returning to the scene of the crime, we cheered a still-smiling John across the finish line of his 48thstate. With just Alaska and either Massachusetts or Vermont to go, the ultimate finish line was now in his crosshairs.
(In the intervening 15 months since October 2021, John went on to run the Martha’s Vineyard Marathon in Massachusetts in May 2022 before completing his 50 States quest at the Anchorage RunFest in Alaska in Aug 2022. Congrats to my friend and fellow Rice alum! 👏)
Post-race “pain management” with friends is a key part of the 50 States journey
That evening, the three of us reconvened for dinner at LandShark Bar & Grill, the only year-round restaurant located on the beach side of the Boardwalk. And though darkness kept us from enjoying the ocean views, we were able to quench John’s thirst for post-race “pain management,” as he cheekily refers to his pastime of sampling local brewpubs in every city he visits. The food at LandShark was better than expected, the beer made it that much better, and John’s always entertaining company ensured that another successful marathon weekend went down smoothly.
Certainly it wasn’t Acadia National Park, but the 63rd running of the Atlantic City Marathon easily exceeded my expectations, and I can appreciate why runners nationwide named it the best marathon in New Jersey. The clear consensus seems to be that among Garden State marathons, Atlantic City is The Boss.
And yes, I had to go there… ‘cause tramps like us, baby we were born to pun.
BOTTOM LINE: Life is all about setting and managing expectations, and the Atlantic City Marathon is no exception. If you toe the start line alongside Bally’s Hotel & Casino expecting to run the next World Marathon Major, then you’re likely to be disappointed. But if instead you temper any preconceived notions and open your mind to the beach Boardwalk and quaint seaside neighborhoods, you may just find yourself singing the praises of the nation’s third-oldest marathon. Even if you’re a casinophobe like me.
Atlantic City tends to get a bad rap as a seaside tourist trap with a fading patina of relevance, but for one sunny offseason day in October the town provided an enjoyable and uncharacteristically healthy diversion for its visitors. I appreciated the diversity of the scenery, from urban roads and neighborhoods to seaside stretches along the bay to 8+ miles on the iconic Atlantic City Boardwalk. (I should mention that despite the occasional board yielding slightly underfoot, running on the Boardwalk was an agreeable experience, and neither my friend John nor I encountered any rogue loose boards—a not-uncommon complaint among Atlantic City reviewers). Fans of Monopoly will likewise enjoy seeing many of the real-life streets and properties that inspired the most popular board game of all time. And depending on which way (and how hard) the wind blows on race day, Atlantic City acquits itself well as a fall Boston Qualifier thanks to its scant 45 ft of total ascent. If you like your marathons flat, this is about as flat as it gets.
Preferring to avoid the Boardwalk casino scene as much as possible, we opted to stay in an Airbnb in nearby Absecon, a 15-minute drive from the start line. This decision—together with the organizers’ one-time decision to hold packet pickup outdoors (as opposed to inside the Bally’s Hotel & Casino)—enabled me to avoid setting foot in a single casino during our stay in Atlantic City.
So if you’re a traveling runner searching for an East Coast fall marathon or a 50 Stater looking for an above-average New Jersey option, I’d recommend you roll the dice on Atlantic City 🎲. After all, any town that votes to blow up a Trump property must be doing something right.
PRODUCTION: Production-wise, the Atlantic City Marathon operated like a race that’s been around for 63 years—because it has. Race day featured an abundance of aid stations staffed by friendly volunteers, oversized mile marker flags (many with digital displays showing elapsed time) for most if not all miles, and enough orange road cones to make the most dedicated traffic safety officer jealous. What’s more, despite dropping the ball by not blasting New Jersey icon Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” as our start line sendoff, the announcers did a nice job of keeping the energy high at the finish line by calling out names, congratulating incoming runners, and recognizing 50 Staters who were completing their epic quest in Atlantic City.
On the flip side, as with most races that offer runner tracking, the service worked sporadically at best and proved reliably unreliable. And whereas the post-race email promised “FREE official event photos will be email[ed] and posted on social media on or before Friday,” in the end no photos were emailed, and the official photos from MarathonFoto were decidedly not free. Not that I need more pictures of myself “running” with both feet on the ground, but the bait and switch annoyed me more than the lack of free photos.
SWAG: I can happily report that for bling connoisseurs and apparel aficionados alike, the swag was a highlight of the Atlantic City Marathon experience. The finisher medal, which doubles as a bottle opener, is among my favorites (see photo). Not only does it depict the state’s tallest lighthouse, the Absecon Lighthouse situated at the northern edge of the city just off the marathon course, but the lighthouse lamp—the real-world counterpart of which was extinguished in 1933—blinks with the help of a small battery. Literally and figuratively, a brilliant touch. Similarly, thanks to LA’s mild winters I’ve gotten a lot of wear out of the attractive, lightweight half-zip emblazoned with a colorfully styled print of the Absecon Lighthouse and seagull flyby on the back. Both are thoughtfully designed pieces of race day memorabilia that reflect well on Atlantic City’s hometown race.
FINAL STATS: Oct 17, 2021 (start time 8:00 am) 26.42 miles in Atlantic City, New Jersey (state 35 of 50) Finish time & pace: 3:53:38 (first time running the Atlantic City Marathon), 8:50/mile Finish place: 394 overall, 49/153 in M(50-59) age group Number of finishers: 1335 (831 men, 504 women) Race weather: cool & clear (51°F) at the start, warm & sunny (61°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 45 ft gain, 44 ft loss Elevation min, max: –9.8 ft, 19 ft
Running is a way of standing up to all the stupid shit in your life and saying: I don’t know how to fix you, so I’ll just bend you into workable shapes. – Matthew Inman, aka The Oatmeal
(This report is for the Aug 2021 edition of the New England Green River Marathon, but better late than never. Enjoy!)
As hobbies go, the quest to run a marathon in all 50 states is more demanding than most. Running one marathon in your hometown? That’s tough enough. But to turn around and do that another 49 times in unfamiliar locales while eating unfamiliar food and sleeping in unfamiliar beds? I’d be the first to insist there’s no better way to see the country, and I’m beyond fortunate to be in a position to tackle this challenge. But sometimes running those 26.2 miles is the easy part.
Most marathons are annual events that require a significant upfront investment of both time & money. At the same time, life has a way of derailing the best-laid plans, and race day doesn’t always sync up with our motivation & preparation. Meaning that if you toe enough start lines you’re bound to have a few off days, mentally and physically. That’s par for the course; when 50 states is your goal, you simply can’t run every marathon like it’s Patriots’ Day in Boston.
(On the other hand, if you find yourself dreading every start line, it may be time to reassess your goals—case in point the listless lady we met in Jackson Hole, WY who sounded like she was facing a root canal rather than her chance to run in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.)
I’ve run a marathon in Alabama with a bout of food poisoning. I ran the last nine miles of my nighttime Nevada marathon on a painfully sprained ankle. And my first Comrades Marathon in South Africa left me feeling like a punctured balloon. But last summer’s New England Green River Marathon in Vermont (state 34) may well have been my toughest race yet. Despite a triumphant run at the inaugural Denali 100K in June, the spring and summer months had largely been overshadowed by my mom’s failing health. After a series of health challenges over several months, in July she’d passed away at the age of 86.
Understandably, during this time I’d lacked my usual enthusiasm and focus. I’d logged miles for the purpose of stress relief as much as training, while otherwise doing the bare minimum to stay marathon ready. I’d neglected all speed work since the Windermere Marathon in May, and in all other facets of my training I’d felt as though I were simply going through the motions. So by the time the New England Green River Marathon rolled around in August (after I’d registered in February to avoid an early sellout), you can bet I was marathon ready—as in, ready to take my lumps.
And yet, by the time we rolled into tiny Wilmington, Vermont (population 2,255), I was very much ready for race day. Ready to hit the road again. Ready for some sense of normalcy. And ready to get back to doing what I loved, 26.2 miles at a time, no matter my finish time.
View along Main Street at the busiest intersection in Wilmington
Green Mountain State of Mind The word “quaint” was created to describe places like Wilmington. Located in the southeast corner of the state near the Massachusetts and New Hampshire borders, Wilmington is a rural town with a central historic district listed on the National Register of Historic Places. All notable activity seemed to take place in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stretch of Main Street roughly the length of two football fields. I’d estimate we covered uptown, midtown, and downtown Wilmington in the space of about ten minutes on foot. Our efforts focused primarily on the Vermont House, a rustic 1850s colonial inn where we’d be staying, and the Maple Leaf Tavern, a surprisingly satisfying dining experience belied by its sleepy surroundings. It all felt so charmingly… Vermontian.
Sunday dawned as a quiet, cloudy entry in summer’s journal. Relative to Wilmington, the finish line at Greenfield College was twice the distance from the start line at Marlboro College; however, as the loading location for the race-provided buses, Greenfield was more convenient for the runners who would be riding those same buses to the start line the next morning. So most runners had understandably chosen to stay in Greenfield. With Katie playing the role of my personal start-line shuttle, though, we’d elected to stay closer to the start line in Vermont.
The start and finish line locations represent one unusual aspect of the New England Green River Marathon (NEGRM). The race starts in one state (Vermont) and finishes in another (Massachusetts), meaning 50 States runners like myself can count it for either state. For me this wouldn’t matter—with Boston under my belt, I was focused solely on adding Vermont to my 50 States ledger. But for folks like fellow runner John Points—whom we’d previously joined forces with in North Dakota and New Hampshire, as well as in his hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma—this ability to hedge his bets was a key reason for choosing this race.
John arrived in Vermont with 46 states completed, the four holdouts being Alaska, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Vermont. With Alaska as his planned finale, that meant two of his next three marathons had to happen in Massachusetts and Vermont. So NEGRM would allow him the freedom to finish now and choose later, an opportunity which—in a pursuit where scheduling often feels like a game of 4D Tetris—would allow our friend more options and enable him to finish his three remaining East Coast states in time for Alaska in summer 2022. Otherwise he’d have to wait another year, a decidedly suboptimal situation given his 65 years and how unforgiving/unpredictable life—global pandemics and all—can be.
With the end of his quest in sight, John prepares to tackle state 47
On the quiet 20-minute drive to Marlboro College we passed a cemetery, the sight of which filled me with a momentary melancholy that scattered my thoughts like the milkweed floating on the early-morning breeze. I tried to shake off the mental cobwebs and focus on the miles ahead; clearly, though, try as I might this wouldn’t be my typical carefree race morning.
We arrived at the campus previously known as Marlboro College—the school had closed its doors a year earlier—in time for me to wait out the short porta-potty line, chat with John briefly, and hear none of the pre-race announcements since the microphone seemed not to be working. The cool, cloudy weather seemed ideal for a summer marathon, a first impression I’d rethink as the sun rose on a decidedly humid August day.
Keeping to my start-line tradition, I sipped half of my 5-hr Energy (others have coffee…) and started with John near the back of the small field to avoid flying out of the chute. Turns out this was a good call because the first two miles were a (too) fast descent à la Boston but on a wide, tree-lined gravel road. Much (most?) of my effort focused diligently on applying the brakes to save my legs, which in and of itself was laborious. Folks flew by on the downhill, others chatting comfortably around me. All the while, the voice of experience whispered knowingly in my ear, Ah yes, the early ‘fun’ miles of the marathon—enjoy ‘em while they last!
Hearing my Garmin chime to signal the end of mile 1, I glanced down to see a mile time of 9:01. Not a bad start on a day like this.
Off to a fast downhill start, mile 1
The course transitioned to pavement for four miles along the Green River. I hoped for more pavement and less gravel over the next three hours, since I’d worn my bounciest pair of shoes—my carbon fiber-plated Nikes—in anticipation of the paved surfaces on which the shoes excel. Turns out I’d be sadly disappointed, as the only real sections of paved road would come in three discrete stretches: miles 3–6, the out and back in miles 7–8, and in the last five miles. At the same time, I’d underestimated the physical toll the steady downhill trajectory on gravel roads would exact on my legs and especially given my suboptimal training.
I love trail running, in large part because it’s such a different animal than road running. That said, every step on a gravel (non-paved) surface, no matter how well maintained, carries with it more of a consequence in terms of energy expended. This is particularly true on hills, where with every step the foot shifts forward or backward slightly on a thin layer of dust and rocks. NEGRM is billed as a net downhill Boston Qualifier, and it is; however, given the amount of hard-packed gravel and the humid summer weather, it wouldn’t be my first choice for my next BQ.
Passing a red barn, I noticed an appropriately small and solitary “TRUMP” sign posted on the wall and flanked by equally small American flags. Because nothing says “PATRIOT” quite like stoking a deadly insurrection to overthrow your nation’s newly (and fairly) elected government.
Just before mile 7 we began the only out-and-back section of the day with a gradual climb to the turnaround point at mile 7.5. (I have to assume this out-and-back was included to add the requisite mileage, since the scenery here was forgettable.) Heading back downhill the way we’d come, we passed fellow runners approaching in the opposite direction until a left turn led us back along the race’s namesake river for the next 11-ish miles.
Sporadic potholes kept us vigilant as we followed the unpaved road on its wooded journey, the river flowing peacefully alongside to our left with fleeting exceptions. Fortunately none of the potholes were problematical, and all were easily avoided.
The lone covered bridge on the course, mile 10
I saw only one spectator sign all morning, taped to a tree on two different occasions: “STRONGER & STRONGER with each passing mile.” Neither particularly inspirational nor particularly true, I thought. In fact, it’s been a few race days since I’ve seen a memorable new spectator sign. At the same time, aside from the aid stations there were only three spots on the course—at miles 10, 16.5 and 21— where spectators were even encouraged to gather. So if you need the raucous cheers & cowbells of exuberant crowds to propel you forward, NEGRM may not be your ideal race.
And speaking of spectators, NEGRM may have been the first “road” marathon where I didn’t hear any music along the course. Which was fine by me, since I’ve heard “Crazy Train” and “Eye of the Tiger” enough to last a lifetime.
Mile 10 featured a course highlight in the Green River Covered Bridge, which doubled as my first Katie sighting. This was a cool change of pace because really, what’s more Vermont than maple syrup, Ben & Jerry’s, and covered bridges? With that landmark in our rearview mirror, we soon bid farewell to the rest of the Green Mountain State as a “Welcome to Massachusetts” sign (set up by the race organizers) greeted us near the halfway mark.
Vermont down, Massachusetts to go.
You’re Only Humid Mile after mile of rolling gravel road ticked by beneath a soaring green canopy. I ran more or less by myself for much of the morning, the gentle susurration of the river a welcome companion. Small waterfalls followed gravity to their final destination, feeding the river and fulfilling their destiny. Despite its largely unchanging nature I never tired of the sylvan scenery, the tranquility of my surroundings helping to settle my mind and ease the stress that had dominated the summer. All in all it was, as John described it, a very Zen run.
And yet, as grateful as I was to be running in such a gorgeous setting, something just felt off. I was currently maintaining a sub-4 pace, which was really all I cared about today. But whether owing to my lackluster training or the New England humidity (or likely both), I felt the familiar full-body fatigue that I knew from experience meant I’d have to dig deep to close this one out. Because the marathon don’t care—fail to bring your “A” game to the start line, and you can be sure that over the course of 26.2 miles any chink in your armor, be it mental or physical, will be exploited and used against you. Without passion or prejudice.
That said, any concern for my finish time wasn’t enough to prevent me from taking plenty of pictures along the way. 📸
None of the lightly traveled roads were closed to vehicular traffic during the race, a fact that was never an issue since, well, there was no traffic. Vehicle sightings were few and far between and particularly in the first 21 miles before we reached Greenfield.
Shortly after my second Katie sighting at mile 16.5, and with my pace already slowing, we reached the first of two short-but-brutish climbs that would further test both my legs and my resolve. The NEGRM course may boast a net elevation loss of 1,400 feet, but don’t be fooled—sprinkled within all that downhill is 800 feet of deceptive uphill, much of it in the last ten miles when I’d rather have been soaking my tired legs in the river.
Much of the course ran alongside the Green River
Pausing to take a photo, I first had to defog my lens courtesy of the humidity, a ritual I’d follow several times in the later miles. Zipping my iPhone back into my Spibelt, I realized my clothes were soaked through with sweat. Not good, I thought astutely. I don’t tend to perspire much, and while I battle humidity with some frequency on training runs in Los Angeles, it had been at least five years—at the 2016 Hatfield McCoy Marathon, to be precise— since I’d run in humidity like this. I wondered how long until its impact would really start to be felt.
I’d get my answer soon enough, and I wouldn’t like it when I did.
High humidity prevents your body’s natural cooling system—the evaporation of sweat from the skin’s surface—from doing its job effectively, which in turn causes the heart to pump more blood toward the skin and away from the muscles in a secondary attempt to cool the body. Staying hydrated helps to combat the effects of high humidity, and here my sparse use of aid stations did me no favors. I paused for only a single cup of water at mile 18, which I quickly discarded after three warm, unappealing sips. More than anything this was a trial run to gauge my hydration level, one that returned a verdict of “not thirsty.”
At the same time, I did carry two bottles of Maurten provided by Katie (one at mile 16.5, the other at mile 21), though admittedly I did more carrying than sipping and failed to finish either bottle. For whatever reason I just wasn’t thirsty, and I didn’t care to force the issue.
Despite my mounting fatigue, as we reached mile 21 I quietly psyched myself up for the last and worst climb of the day. Much like its iconic namesake which awaits fading runners at mile 21 of the Boston Marathon course, the New England Green River Marathon’s version of “Heartbreak Hill” was notable more for its placement on the course than for the severity of its grade. The race website here warns of “dangerous drop-offs on the left side of the road”; honestly, though, I didn’t even notice, and it’s tough to understand why anyone would run so far to the left on such a wide, scarcely trafficked road.
By the time I crested Heartbreak Hill and accepted my second bottle of Maurten from Katie, I was running on fumes and ready to call it a day. And I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes, this one from two-time Olympic marathon medalist Frank Shorter: “Why couldn’t Pheidippides have died at 20 miles?” Warning Katie that the last five miles would be slow(er) going, I took a deep breath and shuffled forward, transitioning from gravel to pavement and leaving behind the meandering river for the beckoning suburb of Greenfield.
That sweat-drenched shirt says it all at mile 21
Relentless Forward Motion We emerged from the wooded canopy onto a two-lane road beneath cloudy skies, New England countryside stretching as far as the eye could see. On any other day, I would have happily basked in nature’s beauty; right now, though, I knew these last five miles would be about as miserable as any in recent memory—a truly ironic moment, in the Alanis Morrissette sense of the word.
Talk about an exercise in futility, I thought as I shuffled along the nicely surfaced road. Though my energy reserves weren’t quite depleted, my legs were pretty much shot—I couldn’t lift either leg more than a couple of inches, and by the time I reached mile 23 I had no choice but to pause and do a few knee lifts to try to regain some flexibility. Were these last five miles really the same distance as the first five? This had to be the marathoning equivalent of relativity.
Weathered homes and barns—some better maintained than others—dotted the landscape. Their numbers increased in frequency until mile 24, when we turned into a residential neighborhood where cute, modest homes with fastidiously manicured lawns lined the street. Under more favorable circumstances, I would have enjoyed this section of the course.
Recalling the spectator sign I’d seen twice earlier, I now amended it in my head for accuracy: “HEAVIER & HEAVIER with each passing mile.” Two more sips of Maurten did nothing for me, and that was the end of my nutrition. By this time I cared nothing about my pace, only that I continued to have one. My sole focus was on each and every step, and I distracted myself by envisioning what the long-awaited finish line would eventually look like.
No end in sight, mile 25
You’re in Vermont, I told myself, So feel the Bern! Never mind that by this time we were well into Massachusetts; details mattered not to my addled brain. All that mattered was the next step.
The final 2+ miles would lead us along the right shoulder of a paved two-lane road lined with cornstalks looking robust and ready to harvest. Had I blacked out and done a reverse Dorothy, ending up in Kansas? Sluggishly I pressed onward, willing as much as propelling myself forward, barely able to lift my legs. Amazingly, I even passed a few zombified individuals along this stretch, which was made even less comfortable by the slow-moving surge of vehicular traffic crawling alongside us in the direction of Greenfield Community College.
On the bright side (there’s always a bright side!), we’d been warned that the August sun nearing its zenith could make this exposed stretch the toughest of the day. So I was grateful that despite the humidity and rising temperatures, persistent clouds continued to provide us cover from the sun’s rays.
Race Director Tom Raffensperger would later tell us at the post-race party that, given the combination of high heat & humidity (i.e. the wet-bulb temperature), if the race had been scheduled for three days earlier he would have been forced to cancel. Luckily that didn’t happen, but whereas the heat may have diminished in the intervening three days, the humidity apparently had not… and in the end it played a key role in my unraveling like a cheap sweater.
There’s nothing quite like that mile 26.19 feeling
I did notice that all but a few of the runners who passed me in the second half were women, an observation consistent with a recent finding from RunRepeat that women are 18.61% better than men at pacing themselves during a marathon.
“Welcome.” Entering the Greenfield Community College campus at last, I spied the one-word, billboard-sized sign that signaled my impending freedom from this humid hamster wheel. Following the curve of the orange pylons and the directions of the helpful volunteer, I reached the grassy field where the finish line beckoned 50 yards ahead.
Glancing up quickly to give Katie a thumbs-up, I was careful not to step in a hole and twist my ankle—after all I’d endured, the last thing I wanted was to hop across the finish line with that familiar pained look on my face. Then I crossed under the swaying banner in an official time of 4:02:55, feeling unsteady on my feet as I came to a stop once and for all. Gratefully I accepted my wooden finisher’s medallion (so very Vermont!) under the watchful eye of the medical team, who carefully observed each and every finisher for signs of an impending face plant.
Grabbing a cup of water and looking like I’d just crawled out of the swimming pool, I reunited with Katie, sparing her a soaking wet congratulatory hug. Then I set about regaining my wits with the aid of my Tailwind Rebuild recovery drink and a welcoming spot on the soft green grass. There I lay, sprawled out and unmoving long enough that I half-expected one of the medical staff to draw a chalk outline around me. This is the benefit of a late-summer race, I thought as I gradually regained my sense and sensibility.
The Greenfield CC campus provided plenty of space to relax & recover
The post-race gathering area consisted of three food trucks and a live band performing one catchy song in particular that I could relate to, with its chorus of 🎵”I don’t know anything…”🎶
As I lay gathering my wits, it struck me again as it does at every finish line—what a stupid hobby. Running 26.2 miles is a traumatic experience. Each and every marathon is a physiologically jarring and exhausting effort that requires days or even weeks to recover. And no matter how painstaking your preparation, no matter how careful you are to minimize surprises on race day care, the one detail you can never control is the weather.
In the days following the race, as the soreness in my legs lingered longer than usual, I realized the largely downhill course had also contributed to my undoing, since extended downhill running was something I’d not trained for in many moons, since my successful Comrades Marathon down run in 2018.
As the 6-hour mark neared, I rose and positioned myself at the edge of the grass to watch for John. Soon he appeared, still flashing his familiar smile and cracking dad jokes. “Anyone ahead of me?” he quipped as he strode past, notching state 47 as the day’s penultimate finisher. 👏
Vermont ✅
That evening the three of us dined at Whetstone Station in Brattleboro, VT, a cool taproom and restaurant with an outdoor patio that offers sweeping views of the Connecticut River. Ironically, the border between Vermont and New Hampshire runs quite literally through Whetstone Station, meaning the Vermont/New Hampshire border overlooks the {checks notes} Connecticut River. So we were able to toast our accomplishment in two states and under one roof; never mind the fact we’d already raised a pint with John in New Hampshire at the excellent Clarence DeMar Marathon two years earlier.
And though he wasn’t onsite during our visit, the restaurant’s co-founder David Hiler is a fellow runner who lost his leg to cancer and was fortunate to receive a running blade from the Born 2 Run Foundation. Much respect to David, and if you decide to run the New England Green River Marathon, definitely do yourself a favor and check out Whetstone.
Gazing down on the river below, its placid surface mirroring my own inner calm, I reflected on the ebb and flow of life. It went without saying I owed an incalculable debt—this moment and so many other memorable moments like it included—to my parents. Vermont would be the first race in which I’d not report back or share a finish-line photo with either of them. And yet I’ll always carry Mom and Dad in my heart across every start line and every finish.
Reflexively I smiled, hearing my mom’s bemused response to the day’s debilitating run, just as clearly as though she were sitting beside me and just as I’d heard (and indulged) it for so many years: “That can’t be good for you.” This time though, with daylight fading around us and the river slipping into shadows, I had no snappy comeback, no witty retort. Because at that moment, there was nothing left to say.
34 states down, 16 to go.
BOTTOM LINE: The New England Green River Marathon is clearly a marathon created for runners and by runners, with no other distance offered and with the stunning beauty of the New England countryside in the starring role. The course runs point to point from Marlboro, VT to Greenfield, MA on ~40% paved roads and ~60% unpaved gravel roads, traveling alongside its namesake river for much of the race. Registration opens early in the year (Jan/Feb) and sells out its ~550 slots quickly with no waitlist. So this is very much a “you snooze, you lose” affair.
As road races go, NEGRM is a decidedly low-frills affair with no pre-race expo (bib numbers were mailed several weeks before race day), no pre-race pasta dinner, and a small but sufficient post-race party that included three food trucks plus a beer station, none of which I sampled because my stomach is a post-race buzzkill. If you thrive on spectator support and on-course entertainment, this may not be your ideal marathon. But if you favor low-key, picturesque gems that play to their strengths and let Nature do the talking, then do yourself a favor and check out NEGRM. In comparison to a very similar marathon, the Clarence DeMar Marathon in nearby New Hampshire, I liked Clarence DeMar a bit more for its diverse scenery and compelling pre-race speaker (Dick Beardsley in 2019). That said, either race comes highly recommended, and do keep in mind that 50 Staters can count NEGRM for either Vermont (where it starts) or Massachusetts (where it finishes). Double your pleasure!
Two key factors combine to make NEGRM a deceptively challenging course. The first is its steady downhill trajectory (net elevation loss of ~1,400 ft), which you really don’t appreciate until your overworked quads cry “uncle” late in the race. And the second is the insidious humidity, which wreaks havoc on your body’s ability to cool itself efficiently. In fact, Race Director Tom Raffensperger reported that if the race had been scheduled for three days earlier, given the combination of high heat & humidity he would have been forced to cancel.
So a word of warning to prospective runners: while the New England Green River Marathon is a beautifully memorable run in the woods, it’s definitely not a walk in the park.
Scenes from a post-race visit to nearby Shelburne Falls, MA
PRODUCTION: Race production was streamlined in scope—as noted above there was no pre-race expo or pasta dinner and no on-course entertainment, while the modest post-race festival consisted of three food trucks and a live local band. When it came to the details that mattered most, however, the New England Green River Marathon team did a spot-on job of setting expectations and delivering a seamless experience as far as timing, aid station support, course markings, mile markers, volunteers in all the right places, etc. And I know that fellow 50 Stater John was surprised and delighted to discover UnTapped energy gel for the first time, which apparently infuses pure Vermont maple syrup with real coffee for a sweet surge of energy.
SWAG: Not surprisingly, race swag comprised the basics: bib number, shirt and medal. Given that only the latter of the three matters to me, I appreciate the wooden medallion that’s tastefully rendered and smartly designed to convey a classic Vermont vibe, even if the green ribbon feels like an afterthought. The short-sleeve cotton shirt, on the other hand, fits nicely enough but features dark green & red lettering on a royal blue background for a visually cacophonous ensemble that—unfortunately for the sponsors—renders all but the largest lettering unreadable.
FINAL STATS: Aug 29, 2021 (start time 7:00 am, sunrise 6:12 am) 26.26 miles from Marlboro, VT to Greenfield, MA (state 34 of 50) Finish time & pace: 4:02:55 (first time running the New England Green River Marathon), 9:16/mile Finish place: 135 overall, 15/37 in M(50-59) age group Number of finishers: 278 (156 men, 122 women) Race weather: Cool & cloudy (57°F) at the start, warmer & humid (64°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 790 ft gain, 2,263 ft loss Elevation min, max: 177 ft, 1,654 ft
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. – Maya Angelou
In 1867, then-Secretary of State William H. Seward negotiated the purchase of 375 million acres of underpopulated land from Russia for $7.2 million, a seeming bargain at less than two cents per acre. The controversial deal, which came to be known as “Seward’s Folly,” made Alaska a United States territory, one that would go largely ignored by the American public until the Gold Rush of the 1890s revealed its wealth of natural resources.
Soon after its strategic importance became apparent during World War II, Alaska was granted statehood and admitted as the 49th state (230 days before Hawaii) on January 3, 1959. At one-fifth the size of the rest of the United States and twice the size of Texas, it immediately became the largest state in the Union. Unfortunately for Seward, who correctly predicted that Alaska would become a state, he wouldn’t live long enough to earn vindication for his alleged “mistake.”
The rest of us, though, would be forever in his debt.
Ask any runner, and they can almost certainly rattle off a short list of favorite races they’ve run. For marathoners, Boston is understandably near the top of that list. For travelers like me, races like Antarctica and Comrades spring to mind. How many runners, though, could go a step further and tell you about their dream race, that is, the race they’d love to run if only it existed? For me, that race would take place along the Denali Highway in Alaska.
Opened in 1957 and largely unpaved but for each end, the Denali Highway was until 1971 the only road with access to Denali National Park. The highway and park, of course, share the Athabascan name for the majestic centerpiece of the state. Soaring to 20,310 feet, Denali—known to most Americans as Mount McKinley until 2015, when its native name was officially restored—is the tallest mountain peak in the United States. On a clear day, admittedly a rarity, The Great One’s snow-capped summit is visible from the westernmost end of the highway.
Ever since Katie and I had driven all 135 miles of the Denali Highway on our first visit to Alaska in 2006, spotting two moose and a red fox on its backdrop of breathtaking natural beauty, I’d been itching to come back and do it again—preferably in a vehicle designed for the terrain, since our initial traverse had been made in a rented sedan and despite explicit warnings from the rental car company against driving the dusty, gravel-strewn road. As both my running and ultrarunning résumés grew (I ran my first marathon in 2010 and my first ultra in 2012), the Denali Highway transitioned in my mind from a place I’d like to drive to a race I’d like to run.
Fast forward to late 2019, and as I was updating our RaceRaves database, I happened to come across a brand-new race in July 2020 with a name that immediately intrigued me: the Denali 135. To clarify—the first half of the name intrigued me; the latter half dismayed me, since 135 miles (i.e. the entire length of the Denali Highway) was nearly 80 miles farther than I’d ever run. A bridge too far, even for an impressionable masochist like myself.
Not to be dissuaded so easily, I reached out to Denali 135 organizer Sean Tracy to ask whether he’d consider staging a shorter “fun run” along the Denali Highway (say, 50 miles or 100K) at the same time as the 135-miler. He responded that they had indeed considered the idea, though he wasn’t sure it would happen for the inaugural event. Happen it did, though, and three months later I discovered (thanks to regular refreshing of the Denali 135 website) that a 100K distance had been added to the mix. With a jolt of excitement and without a second thought I resolved to tackle my first-ever 100K, a distance I’d promised myself (and Katie) I’d only run if an extraordinary opportunity presented itself. And the opportunity to be among the first runners to race across the Denali Highway was undeniably that.
The Denali Highway makes other roads green with envy
For a while, though, it seemed as though my dream race may not happen, as a global pandemic brought the running industry to a standstill, forcing Sean to postpone the inaugural event to 2021—one more shitty circumstance in a year filled with shitty circumstances. Fortunately his resolve never wavered, and it wasn’t long before he secured a race date of Sunday June 20, the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. Game on! In fact, I’d already jump-started my training several months earlier with a 50-mile run to celebrate my 50th birthday.
With the gradual rollout of remarkably effective COVID-19 vaccines in the first half of 2021, the running industry slowly emerged from its forced hibernation. Still, though, as I looked to revive my 50 States quest and find a suitable training run for Alaska, most races (with rare exceptions like the Windermere Marathon) continued to either cancel or postpone to the fall. My home state of California, for its part, wouldn’t officially allow “community events” including marathons until mid-June.
Adding to my pre-race challenges, with the arrival of June my training came to a complete standstill as Katie and I flew to Texas to help my mom transition home after a 3-week hospital stay and 3-week rehabilitative stint. Returning to California after ten stressful and sleep-deprived days, and with my head and body knocked off their 100K training track, I debated whether I should pull the plug on the inaugural race and start looking ahead to 2022 instead.
In the end, though, with my mom in good hands at home and her health seemingly stable for the moment, nothing short of a bone sticking through my skin was going to keep me from chasing my most significant running goal since Comrades 2018. Plus, I knew a getaway to my favorite state would clear my mind like nothing else could. And so, one week and several lethargic training runs later, our plane touched down in the Last Frontier.
Just another summer day in downtown Anchorage
Calm Before the Storm With its 291,000 residents, Anchorage is the only city in Alaska with a population of greater than 50,000. It’s a beautiful, Bohemian coastal city boasting fresh air, mountain vistas, terrific brewpubs, and furry four-legged locals who like to make themselves at home in the middle of your marathon course. Like an old friend I’ll never take for granted, a welcome sense of ataraxia washed over me as we drove familiar streets we’d last navigated a decade earlier. And that evening, the summer sun welcomed us like the seasonal insomniac it is, its tireless light refusing to yield even as sunset came and went. Having rested during the winter months as dictated by Mother Nature, and with the summer solstice fast approaching, it would no longer be denied.
The next morning, we made our final preparations for the adventure ahead. We’d reserved a sturdy Jeep for the drive on the gravel Denali Highway, plus an oversize cooler large enough to keep ice frozen and refrigerated provisions cold for the next three days. Cooler in hand, we stopped by Fred Meyer to load up on supplies, since there’d be few if any opportunities to do so once we reached our destination. I planned my nutritional needs carefully, even going so far as to purchase my go-to drink—a Mango Dragonfruit Refresher—from the Starbucks inside Fred Meyer, which I stored on ice as a race day pick-me-up at the midway (50 km) point.
Finally, before leaving Anchorage in our rearview mirror, we secured the satellite phone we’d reserved as required of all crew members to enable communication with Race Director Sean (or anyone else) out in the remote wilderness where cell coverage would be minimal.
The Great One (Denali, right) viewed from the Talkeetna Alaskan Lodge
Driving in Alaska is a singular pleasure, as you’re never quite sure what you’ll see—moose, mountains, or simply miles of open road—when you glance out the window. True to form, our easy four-hour Friday drive from Anchorage to Cantwell (the origin point for the Denali Highway) was punctuated by glorious views of Denali itself, clouds draped around the Great One like a white feather boa, its snow-white summit rising above neighboring peaks to kiss a steel-gray sky.
Reaching Cantwell, we turned onto the Denali Highway and what would be our race course in reverse. Soon enough I noted a feature I’d not recalled from our previous crossing 15 years earlier—the highway rolls a lot. Granted, this would be much better than running 62 flat miles, but I wasn’t sure how much my body would appreciate those hills in the back half of the race. Luckily altitude wouldn’t play a role here, as the course elevation tops out at roughly 3,000 ft.
Located at the midway point of the Denali Highway between Cantwell and Paxson, the Alpine Creek Lodge felt as remote as any place I’ve stayed in my travels. Constructed largely from wooden beams with a sturdy green roof, the two-story lodge itself sits on a short but steep hill overlooking the highway, providing a panoramic view of the surrounding wilderness from the gravel parking area. Behind the lodge, a pile of discarded caribou antlers reminded out-of-state guests they weren’t in Kansas anymore:
Inside, the lodge was as you may expect—quaint but comfortable with small, sparsely furnished rooms just large enough to hold a bed. Several such rooms opened out into the central dining and gathering area, which occupied most of the first floor and whose walls were decorated with maps, photographs, animal pelts and other Alaskan memorabilia. The only TV lived in the communal lounge by the front door, while a shared bathroom sat at each end of the gathering area. Meals, all of which were prepared in house, would be one of the highlights of our visit.
Overall, the Alpine Creek Lodge would be the perfect spot to chill out, step away from the outside world, and force my mind & body to decompress for a day before tackling the challenge of running 100 km. And the fact the race would start 50 yards from our room was an undeniable bonus.
Forced relaxation, of course, doesn’t come easy to someone whose mind is used to being plugged into the grid 24/7, and the day before the race (i.e. the final taper) was as restless as any I can remember. Normally I would have leapt at the chance to get outside and explore on foot, but now I’d come too far to risk twisting an ankle—or worse—on the rugged, uneven terrain. At the same time, Wi-Fi in the lodge was predictably slow and sporadic. And so I spent much of Saturday lost in my own thoughts, discussing the next day’s plan with Katie, and laying out supplies in preparation for race day. Finally, having done all I could do, I shut our window shades against the lingering light of the midnight sun and lay down for one last sleep, my over-rested body feeling like a cocked slingshot ready to fire.
Sweeping view from the Alpine Creek Lodge
Fortunately sleep came easier than expected, and on Sunday morning I awoke to the sounds of voices and bustling activity outside our door. We dressed and ate quickly before joining all the newly arrived runners and their crews gathering in preparation for the mandatory pre-race meeting at 1:00pm. Soon Race Director Sean stepped forward, a balding and energetic middle-aged fellow with an easy smile and appropriately Alaskan stubble. He introduced himself along with his partner/co-RD Holly and 10-year-old daughter Emilia, and then briefed us on rules and regulations for the day, most of which seemed straightforward.
When he’d concluded his intro, I asked a question I assumed was on everyone’s mind: given the race’s advertised distance of 100 km (62.2 miles) and the fact we sat roughly 67 miles east of the highway’s endpoint, how far could we realistically expect to run? We should be prepared to run as much as 68 miles, Sean told us, since he’d measured the course based on the 135-mile route and so couldn’t be sure of the 100 km distance.
His response reawakened the butterflies in my stomach, as I hearkened back to the overwhelming exhaustion I’d felt at the finish line of each of the two Comrades Marathons I’d run. Could I really complete another 12–14 miles? Not only that, but I’d set an “A” goal for myself to finish the 62+ mile journey in 13 hours. After a stressful ten days in Texas coupled with this unsettling news, I no longer knew what to expect. Quickly rejiggering my expectations, I set my sights on a more realistic goal of finishing shortly after sunrise at 3:40am, a total time of just under 14 hours.
As this news sank in and my mind recalibrated on the fly, the 11 runners and their crews diffused out of the lodge and down the hill to the front of the lodge for the 2:00pm start. After photos and farewells, Sean raised his rifle and—in true Alaskan style—fired skyward to signal the start of the inaugural Denali 100K. The 135-mile runners had set off from Paxson only eight hours earlier, and so mind and body willing, we’d be the first runners to cross the finish line at the Cantwell end of the Denali Highway.
Rifle at the ready, Sean gets set to start his inaugural event
Into the Wild (Start to 50 km) Owing to a technical glitch with my SPOT tracker, I was the last runner to cross the start line, and I glanced up to see the backs of my fellow competitors already receding in the distance. The SPOT tracker would be used by Sean to follow our GPS coordinates and for automated timing, while also enabling us to send out an SOS signal with the press of a button if we ever felt we were in danger. For her part, Katie would have the satellite phone we’d rented in Anchorage in case she needed to communicate with Sean or anyone else.
This was all necessary, in part, because the Denali 100K would be a self-supported race, the first I’d ever run. This meant each runner was required to bring their own crew to support them throughout the race. Katie of course would be my crew; we’d arranged to meet every 10km (6.2 miles) for at least the first half of the race and then more frequently after that.
For nutrition, I’d be fueling with a combination of Perfect Snacks peanut butter bars and Tailwind Recovery drink along with baby food pouches, bananas, and my usual Maurten sports drink. And then there was the Mango Dragonfruit Refresher I’d purchased at the Starbucks in Anchorage two days earlier, which was still on ice and which would give me something to look forward to at the 50 km mark.
Don’t let the smile fool you, Katie ran her aid stations with military precision
As well stocked as our Jeep was, however, I knew how ugly my day would become and how quickly I’d crash and burn if I didn’t have the discipline to fuel at regular intervals, regardless of whether I felt I needed the calories. Because I’d learned the hard way that at distances like 100 km, by the time you feel hungry you’ve already put your body in a hole. And as sports nutritionist Sunny Blende likes to say, “Ultras are just eating and drinking contests, with a little exercise and scenery thrown in.”
Race guidelines required us to carry hydration and 500 calories of nutrition on us at all times, but because I planned to meet Katie every 10 km (6.2 miles), I’d chosen to wear a lightweight Ultimate Direction hydration vest I’d won at the 2017 Run Rabbit Run 50 Miler. I’d be carrying one liter of water which, given the cool weather and Katie’s additional aid, I hoped would last me the duration of the race. I also carried several GUs (which I hoped I wouldn’t need) as well as toilet paper, just in case nature called out in the Alaska wilderness. We’d been instructed to dig a “cat hole” to cover up any bathroom activity, and besides, I knew the most sure-fire way to guarantee I’d need toilet paper would be to not carry any.
With my SPOT tracker now functioning properly, I set off down the dusty highway in the footsteps of my fellow runners, having given the rest of the pack a two-minute head start. Not that I cared—I was in no hurry, and we all had many miles to go before we’d sleep. Under billowy gray clouds that hung low in the sky, I tried to grasp the magnitude of my surroundings and of the task ahead. And at that moment, I could think of nowhere else I’d rather be.
The lucky 11 starters of the inaugural Denali 100K
My plan was to maintain a comfortable 10:00/mile pace for as long as possible, then recalibrate and go from there. I recalled from our drive two days earlier the many rolling hills between here and Cantwell, and though I knew the second half of the race would be more down than up, the precise contours escaped my memory.
Within half a mile I pulled alongside Jen, a nurse from Anchorage who told me she was trying to run a marathon in every state and that she used RaceRaves frequently to learn more about races (Sean had mentioned my affiliation at the pre-race meeting). Unlike me, she was not including ultramarathons among her totals, and so today—which would be state #33 for me who counts anything equal to or longer than a marathon—would be more of a fun run for her. We chatted for a couple of minutes, a nice way to start a long day, and then wished each other well as my own pace carried me ahead of her.
With every step I cleansed my lungs and my soul, inhaling Alaska and exhaling Los Angeles. Infinite shades of pristine green sculpted by time into woodlands, meadows and taiga stretched as far as the eye could see, interrupted here and there by darkened, glassy lakes and sinuous streams. Green-bearded hills sporting seams of residual snow rose sporadically on both sides of the highway and in the distance, an immutable feature of the subalpine landscape seemingly stretching to the horizon.
As instructed, I’d worn a Buff around my neck for warmth and in case of dust clouds or swarming bugs. Fortunately, and somewhat surprisingly on this the longest day of the year, very few vehicles aside from crew members passed us on the highway, and so dust was never an issue. Bugs, on the other hand…
Wryly referred to by locals as the state bird, mosquitos are the one notable downside to summers in Alaska and particularly in mid-June when they’re most active. So you can imagine we runners were like slow-moving buffets for these aggressive bloodsuckers, one of which would occasionally fly into my ear or alight on my eyelid while I was running. Really, though, my only notable mosquito encounters took place at aid station stops when the critters would swarm. Katie, on the other hand, bore the brunt of their ire, as she apparently spent much of her spare time chasing down any that got trapped inside the Jeep with her. Luckily we’d both slathered ourselves in a highly effective picaridin-based lotion, which I credit for the fact that despite spending more than 12 hours out in the Alaskan wilderness, even a juicy pink treat like myself didn’t suffer a single bloodletting. So suck it, skeeters! (Or don’t, as it turns out…)
Mother Nature apparently had taken Sean’s rifle blast as her cue, and soon after we started a light drizzle began to fall off and on, keeping things cool but not uncomfortable. That comforting coolness lasted until mile 12, when a strong crosswind greeted us as we approached the Susitna River. Crossing the exposed bridge over the wide, calm river, I held my hat in place as angry gusts blew the cold rain sideways, transforming a moment I’d eagerly anticipated into a bitter “get me out of here” scenario.
Crossing the Susitna River, mile 12 (not seen: gusting rain)
Miles 10–25 were the most extended uphill section of the race, and by the time I reached Katie at the 30 km (18 miles) mark, it was clear no amount of stunning scenery would get me to the finish line if I didn’t slow down and rethink my strategy. If I kept pushing at this pace, I’d either implode by the midway point or slog miserably through the next 70 km, eyes on the ground and mind unable to appreciate one of the most beautiful settings on the planet. Which would obviously defeat the purpose of running this race in the first place.
Contributing to my discomfort, my right glute muscle had been barking at me for the past couple of hours. Luckily planning pays off, and I used the blue Orb (a bumpy, softball-sized sphere of hard plastic) we’d packed to try to roll out and relax my knotted muscle, with predictably painful results. Talk about a pain in the butt.
As I rested and regrouped, our intrepid race director drove by with Holly and Emilia. They were on their way to the finish line, and Sean leaned out the driver’s window to ask how we were doing. Despite feeling like I’d blown a tire and silently trying to summon a second wind, I managed a smile and lied about feeling great. I couldn’t imagine running another 50-ish miles in my current condition.
I appreciated the highway markers every 10 miles or so
But I certainly wasn’t about to claim a DNF (Did Not Finish) here in one of my favorite places on Earth—at least not yet. So I refueled appropriately with a peanut butter bar and sipped at a 5-hour Energy, the caffeine working its magic in short order. Then I did something I’d never done in a race before—I donned my headphones, hoping the distraction of an audiobook would help take my mind off my physical issues.
Unfortunately, The Sixth Extinction isn’t exactly escapism (though it is an important cautionary tale I’d recommend), and soon the voice in my ears lost its short-lived appeal. This, together with a renewed drizzle, prompted me to pocket my headphones. And at the 40 km (25 miles) mark, with the rain falling once again and a chill on my skin, I traded Katie the headphones for a pair of gloves whose warmth instantly brought me comfort.
I took turns leapfrogging fellow runners John from Anchorage, a fighter pilot who’d apparently run the Anchorage Mayor’s Marathon the previous day (!), and Steven from Oregon, the most experienced runner in the field at age 62, until finally I passed each of them for good sometime before the 40 km mark, cheering them on as I did so. I didn’t envy John the rough patch(es) that inevitably lay ahead once the previous day’s marathon caught up to him, assuming it hadn’t already.
Taking the road less traveled, mile 25
After 40 km, I resolved to run the level stretches and downhills while hiking the uphills. This new game plan would enable me to run well while still taking the time to actually enjoy the day and maybe even finish this thing on two feet. This strategy shift, along with continued fueling, paid almost immediate dividends as I started to feel better both mentally and physically. The tightness in my glute calmed, my left ankle (which had recovered slowly from a nasty sprain months earlier) chirped only briefly, and my sore left Achilles quieted down. My body settled into a familiar groove, and I was able to fall back on my training and do what I’d come here to do—just run.
Psychologically this was a tough stretch—not far enough to see an end in sight, yet far enough to feel the mounting fatigue—and quietly I celebrated reaching the marathon distance before turning my focus to the midway point at 50 km, one serene step at a time.
Remembering my tendency to breathe more shallowly when I wear a pack, I reminded myself at regular intervals (and especially on the climbs) to breathe deeply and enjoying the ever-changing scenery, the hills with their veins of unmelted snow always visible in the distance.
The rain petered out, and despite the chill in the air I wouldn’t need my gloves again. My body temperature held steady in the comfortable range, a fact I attributed to the Buff around my neck and to the extra day of rest at the Alpine Creek Lodge. Because a well-rested body is a body that’s better able to thermoregulate in stressful situations.
Dark-ish Before the Dawn (51 km to the finish) Passing the 50km mark with a fist pump, I joined Katie by the side of the road and rewarded myself with a sip from my stored Starbucks drink. This nicely complemented the peanut butter bars, which were getting tougher and tougher to chew. At future stops I’d opt to fuel as though I were a contestant in the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest, partnering each bite with copious amounts of water to dissolve the food quickly and save myself the energy of chewing. Bloodthirsty mosquitos dive-bombed my head as I stood at rest, a reminder to reapply the repellent which so far had worked like a charm.
Miles 30–33 were more mental than physical as my mind set its sights on the 55 km mark. Assuming a total distance of 110 km (66–67 miles), I considered 55 km the de facto midway point of the race. And when I finally did pass 55 km, it was as if a switch suddenly flipped in my brain. Sure, I’d been running for more than six hours, and an even longer slog still lay ahead. But from now on I would be counting down the miles, and psychologically for me that was a huge lift—especially since my nutritional strategy was paying off, and I was feeling good.
Colorful flowers were in shorter supply than expected, though sunflowers (arnica), lupin and blue bells made occasional appearances, their eye-catching yellows and purples conspicuous against the seemingly endless expanse of browns and greens. Other than the infrequent comings and goings of slow-moving motorized vehicles, the road was largely quiet but for a small white bird (snow bunting, maybe?) that issued a loud and persistent tweep, tweep, tweep, which I chose to translate as bird speak for Go, Mike, go!
Though the course followed the Denali Highway on its westward trajectory, squint as I might I could not see Russia.
One of several creek crossings (over, not through), mile 37
Emerging from our 60km pitstop, my body greeted me with a new and unexpected ache—in my forearms of all places, presumably caused by their continuous swinging motion as I ran. This unusual heaviness would return after every subsequent aid station stop, and I imagined myself explaining to my non-running friends and family that I’d just run 100 km and boy, were my arms tired. Turns out ultrarunning is more of a full-body workout than you may think.
The steepest down/uphill combinations on the course were typically found at rivers and creeks where we’d run down to the water, cross a bridge, and then head back up the other side. Here I established a rhythm of running the downs and bridges before walking the ups, a routine that allowed me to maintain a surprisingly respectable running pace while giving my body time to recharge between running intervals.
Lost in my thoughts, I spent a lot of time—and I’d soon learn I wasn’t alone—imagining what the finish line would be like. Where was it located exactly? At the end of the highway? Maybe in the parking lot of the gas station & convenience store? What would finishing feel like? Would there be any pomp and circumstance?
More than anything, though, I wondered how far away the finish line actually was. I knew the distance from the start line at the Alpine Creek Lodge to the end of the highway was just over 66 miles, so that was the distance I’d settled on. Any more and I could presumably hang on, but 66 was the number I had engrained in my head. To be sure, Sean’s ambiguity as to the distance had been disconcerting, but I couldn’t let that affect my mindset now.
At the 70 km (43 miles) mark, I sipped again at the 5-hr Energy and asked Katie to start meeting me every 5 km (3.1 miles). And so, giving me a 20–30 minute head start out of each pitstop, she would follow and pass me on her way to our next meeting place. This worked well, not because I ever needed anything between stops but because, in my fatigue, simply knowing she was never far away was heartening. Or maybe that was simply the caffeine from the 5-hr Energy?
At 75 km, I did something else I’d never done during a race—on Katie’s recommendation, I downed a salt tablet just in case my body was lacking. I don’t sweat profusely, and as far as I could tell the tablet had no effect, but that placebo effect in itself was reassuring.
I first glimpsed Heidi ahead of me at around 70 km, though it took me another 15 km to catch up to her as we each joined our crews at the 85 km mark. She was all smiles but admitted, “I can’t stop thinking about this not being 100 km.”
A promising sign at mile 46
“I totally get it,” I responded. I’d been mulling this over myself and had reached a conclusion, which I hoped would raise her spirits. “But we can’t do anything about that. The finish line is the finish line, and you can’t change that. All you can do is control what you can control.” (Yes, this is the type of white-hot eloquence you can expect after I’ve run for 10½ hours.) Katie said that Heidi, despite always smiling, had mentioned earlier that she was angry about the distance discrepancy. And though “angry” may have been hyperbole (she was an ultrarunner after all, and used to this type of self-inflicted punishment), I could certainly appreciate her frustration.
By this time (12:30 am) the sun had set, and so with Katie’s help—always with Katie’s help—I donned my reflective vest, a mandatory piece of gear with blinking white lights on front and blinking red lights on back. Not that there would be much traffic along the Denali Highway and especially at this time, but safety first. Fortunately, the sun seemed to linger just out of view below the horizon, and so I wouldn’t need my headlamp in the inextinguishable glow of the Alaskan night. Darkness, it seemed, had found its kryptonite in this wild corner of the world.
Running on the Denali Highway presented a dichotomy now accentuated by the dusky light—of serene solitude on one hand and unnerving vulnerability on the other. Being alone and subject to the whims of nature will do that. I was acutely aware that a bear in particular could burst through the trees and startle me at any moment, leaving a soft and slow-footed human little recourse but to play dead or die trying. My big brain would be no match for a grizzly’s bigger claws. On I ran, that same big brain offering unsolicited reminders that one of the larger locals could pass within a few yards of me, effortlessly camouflaged by the tall brush and dim lighting, and I’d never know the difference. And I was grateful for the lingering glow of the midnight sun.
Caribou, a common sight in Denali National Park
Unlikely though a bear sighting was along the Denali Highway, it wouldn’t be unprecedented; in fact, Jen had reported seeing a grizzly in the middle of the highway on her previous day’s drive. But despite one close call (as reported by a passing motorist) when I just missed seeing a moose cow and her calf, on this day I’d come face to face with none of Alaska’s famed megafauna. No bears, no moose, no wolves, no foxes. Nonetheless, other runners and their crews would report sightings of two grizzly sows and a cub, six moose cows and two calves, four foxes, and three porcupines including a baby. All in a day’s work in The Last Frontier.
(Thanks to the cold, there are no snakes or lizards in Alaska. In fact, the state’s only reptiles are sea turtles.)
Approaching the 90 km mark, I was startled to hear distant voices off to my right, and it suddenly dawned on me why the dearth of large mammal sightings along this highway. Hunters. Sean would later confirm that animal sightings along the Denali Highway are relatively rare because it’s hunting territory, unlike Denali National Park where the animals seem to know they’re safe. Fortunately, I wore bright colors and calmed my mind with the feeble reminder that hunters weren’t supposed to fire across the road. Turns out Heidi, running behind me now, heard them fire a rifle as she passed, no doubt a nerve-wracking experience and especially for a woman running alone in near darkness.
Benefiting from the summer solstice, mile 56 (1:08am AKDT)
Sometime after mile 57 (92 km), I glanced at my wrist to check on distance and saw the “LOW BATTERY” message displayed on the face of my Garmin watch. Fantastic. I didn’t know when the message had appeared or how much longer I had, but this being my longest run ever, running out of battery had always been a concern. In fact, it was the reason I’d turned off all unnecessary sounds, lights, and alarms before the race. Now I just had to hope my Garmin (as well as my legs) could hold out for another 10-ish miles. At the very least, in the absence of knowing how much farther to the finish line, I wanted to reach the 100 km (mile 62.2) mark before my Garmin died to ensure I’d have an unofficial 100 km finish time to my credit.
In mile 59 I glanced to my left and stopped in my tracks, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten as I stood mesmerized by a beautifully clear lake, the snow-laced hills beyond reflected in its placid surface. This being the longest day of the year in Alaska meant that even at 1:45am, I could still see enough to appreciate (and photograph) the scene. In a day filled with memorable moments, this may have been my favorite:
“Only 10K left,” I assured myself somewhere around the 60-mile (97 km) mark, a best guesstimate given the lack of official mile markers on the course. Onward I ran, bolstered by my caloric intake and by my determination to earn an unofficial 100 km finish time before my Garmin died.
Cresting a hill, my brain scarcely registered the RV’s parked on either side of the road ahead of me. Approaching them in the dusky light, I was startled by a chorus of cheers coming from the RV to my right. Then I noticed Katie standing in the middle of the road. What the…? Annoyed, I signaled weakly to her, then to the Jeep parked in a pullout to my left. I was hoping my gesture communicated my urgency: Need to refuel quickly here, I’ve still got like 5 miles left. And I certainly didn’t need to be wasting time while Katie chatted with her fellow crew members.
That was when I glanced from Katie to the fellow with whom she was smiling and laughing, and recognition dawned on me as I heard Sean say “Congratulations!” I glanced again at Katie in bewilderment. “You’re done!” she responded to my obvious confusion. Done? As in, like, DONE done?
That’s some serious mile 58 energy (1:26am AKDT)
Turns out this wasn’t a summer solstice prank after all—I’d just crossed the least conspicuous finish line of my racing career. And I won’t even try to describe here my overwhelming sense of relief and euphoria in that moment; suffice it to say, if I could bottle and sell that feeling I’d make Elon Musk look like a pauper. Because the truth is, no amount of flowery verbiage could do it justice, and it’s a feeling best experienced for yourself.
The time was ~2:30am Alaska Daylight Time, some 12½ hours since we’d crossed the start line. I’d run a distance of 100.8 km or 62.5 miles, a remarkably precise course measurement on Sean’s part and especially considering all the uncertainty of the day. And where else, I thought, can you run 100 km without making a single turn?
Life is a Highway Still trying to process the reality of having finished my first 100 km race so suddenly, I didn’t immediately think to throw my arms around Katie. Instead I glanced again at Sean, a wide smile on his tired face. His outstretched hand offered congratulations, and happily I reached out to shake it. Moments later, he ducked into his RV and reappeared with a platter of attractive keepsakes. These were the finisher awards, ivory-colored belt buckles made from shed moose antlers that he’d apparently sanded himself. Glancing at the platter, I was instantly in love. “You’ve earned one of these, take your pick,” he offered. And so I did.
Moments later, as a slight chill gripped my exhausted body, I turned and shuffled back down the road to greet Heidi. Recalling her clear frustration with the cryptic course distance, I wanted to give her a heads-up and to afford her the opportunity I’d not had—to appreciate and enjoy this home stretch knowing she’d reached the finish line.
Like my own response on hearing the news, her reaction to my words was one of stunned disbelief. Overcome by a maelstrom of emotions, she may have shed a few tears as she covered the final 100 yards of dusty highway to where Sean and her crew stood waiting to welcome her home. There I joined her for a heartfelt exchange of hugs and congratulations.
When the going got tough, Heidi got going
In the end, 10 of the 11 starters ended up finishing the inaugural Denali 100K, along with three runners who earned a 100K finish despite falling short at the 135-mile distance. The winning 100K time was a fleet-footed 9 hours, 26 minutes, with my own finish time of 12 hours, 33 minutes earning me a 6th place finish, 16 minutes ahead of Heidi and 100 minutes behind Jan, a Denali local who let out a joyful “YAY!” each time Katie cheered her on the course. Ours was that kind of group—appreciative of the opportunity and determined to enjoy every step.
More importantly than my middle-of-the-pack finish, I’d stopped the clock a comfortable 27 minutes ahead of my “A” goal of 13 hours.
Granted, this is the case in just about any 100K race, but the rolling nature of the Denali Highway in particular ensures that most runners—and especially first-time 100Kers—will need a run/hike strategy to finish comfortably and meet their time goals. At the same time, one of the more psychologically challenging aspects of any ultramarathon is striking the right balance between running just enough to maximize your training without crashing & burning, and hiking just enough to let yourself regroup without wasting time. Because the Greek poet Archilochus said it best, and it’s a lesson most of us learn the hard way: We don’t rise to the level of our expectations; we fall to the level of our training.
We exchanged farewells and, as the morning sun reawakened from its brief slumber, made the quiet drive 30 minutes north to the McKinley Creek Cabins, a rustic lodge located just up the road from the Cantwell end of the Denali Highway. Lying on the bed in our room trying to get comfortable after running for more than half the day, my aggrieved muscles reminded me that just because I was done with them didn’t mean they were done with me. As I drifted off to sleep, thoughts of the 135-mile runners still out on the course danced in my head, the tension in my legs ebbing and flowing as if to say, Don’t even think about it.
A lightly rested Sean dishes out props and accolades at the post-race awards dinner
That was Monday. On Tuesday we joined Sean, Holly, Emilia and fellow finishers at the outdoor gathering area of the McKinley Creek Cabins for the post-race awards dinner. There we compared notes while enjoying a buffet spread of grilled salmon, chili-lime tofu, coconut rice, salads, dessert and drinks. Sean said a few concluding words and presented a donation check to a very appreciative representative from the Denali Education Center. Even the sun emerged from the clouds to cast a bright, warm glow on the evening’s celebration as I basked in the afterglow of my own successful solstice.
Travel Alaska describes the 49th state as “a place of magnificence… it’s amazingly different, with more mountains than buildings, more wildlife than people and more glaciers than stop lights.” I couldn’t agree more. And for any runner seeking a destination race that promises an unfiltered and unforgettable experience in The Last Frontier, the Denali 100K is a Great One.
More so than anywhere else I’ve been, Alaska is a place you go to lose yourself, and it’s a place you go to find yourself. It’s my favorite state. And with a tip of the cap to former Secretary of State William H. Seward, it’s my favorite mistake.
Them’s the wild eyes of a 100 km finisher and the sleepless eyes of his conscientious crew
Mosquito Survival Tips: Summer in Alaska is essentially perfect, with one mighty exception in June and July: mosquitos. With that in mind, Katie and I used a highly effective picaridin-based lotion from Sawyer (purchased at REI) to repel the tiny vampires, which nevertheless would occasionally fly into my ear or alight on my eyelid. Most of my encounters took place during aid station stops when the critters would swarm. At any rate, thanks to our sage choice of repellent I didn’t suffer a single bloodletting during my nearly 13 hours of running in the wilderness. Katie reported similar results despite acting as unwitting Uber driver for many a mosquito along the Denali Highway. All in all, a glowing endorsement.
Gear Check: I wore Altra Superior trail shoes with gaiters, which worked well to grip loose spots on the crushed gravel of the Denali Highway while keeping stray pebbles out of my shoes. Likewise, my Injinji socks kept my feet comfortable while preventing blisters, though I was disappointed to find a hole in the left big toe after just 62 miles. My nutritional strategy included peanut butter Perfect Bars with honey (soft but not as gooey as standard peanut butter, so easier to eat), baby food pouches, and Tailwind Nutrition Recovery drink, a handy additional source of liquid protein throughout the day. And we stored it all in a vacuum-sealed Vibe Element 45 cooler that we rented from Alaska Outdoor Gear Rental in Anchorage.
Cow moose foraging roadside, spotted on the drive to Talkeetna
BOTTOM LINE: You never forget your first, and especially when your first happens to be 100 km (62.2 miles) in one of the most beautiful destinations on the planet. Held along the Denali Highway, a wild and mostly unpaved stretch of 135 miles I’d immediately fallen in love with during my first visit to Alaska 15 years earlier, the Denali 100K is a bucket-list, back-to-nature adventure created for the intrepid ultrarunner. Though theoretically speaking I’d long been intrigued by the 100K as a “triple digit” challenge, it would take a special opportunity to make me commit to the distance—and the inaugural Denali 100K was just what this doctor ordered. The day I first learned of the event, it was as though someone had read my mind.
Run on the summer solstice (meaning I finished at 2:30am AKDT under relatively bright skies), the race starts at the Alpine Creek Lodge near the midpoint of the iconic Denali Highway and finishes, without a single turn, near the highway’s endpoint in Cantwell. The largely unpaved highway opened in 1957 as the lone road leading to Denali National Park. (For true masochists, the race also offers a 135-mile distance that runs the full length of the highway.) The terrain is highly consistent crushed gravel that’s ideal for running. And though the Denali Highway wouldn’t be considered “hilly” per se by trail running standards (and the route is, in fact, a net downhill), it definitely rolls from start to finish. As my fatigue mounted, I was able to establish a time-efficient rhythm of speed-hiking the ups while running the downs and flats, a strategy that minimized my exhaustion in the second half.
The Denali 100K is an untamed dichotomy of tranquil solitude on the one hand and unnerving vulnerability on the other. Because when you say “Alaska,” most people envision vast wilderness and the megafauna that call it home. Though I didn’t see any large mammals myself on race day (not such a bad thing when you’re alone for 12+ hours on foot without bear spray), other runners and their crews reported sightings of two grizzly sows and a cub, six moose cows and two calves, four foxes, and three porcupines including a baby. And on the topic of safety: given the remote nature of the course and the lack of cell service along the Denali Highway, each runner carried a SPOT tracker equipped with an SOS button throughout the race, which was used to track our GPS coordinates. Likewise, every runner’s crew carried a satellite phone which enabled them, if needed, to contact Race Director Sean or anyone else during the race.
A note regarding the race name: on a clear day the stately snow-covered peak of Denali itself, the tallest mountain in the United States at 20,310 ft, is visible as you approach the Cantwell end of the Denali Highway. Clear days in Cantwell, however, are hit or miss to say the least, so if it’s a Denali sighting you crave (and what Alaskan visitor doesn’t?), I’d recommend you make the short-but-scenic detour to the village of Talkeetna on the drive to or from Anchorage. There, your best bet for seeing The Great One is from the viewing deck of the Talkeetna Alaskan Lodge (see photo).
In essence, I can say without hyperbole that the Denali 100K is the reason I run, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. To call this a “race” almost doesn’t do the day justice—this is a soul-cleansing experience not only for veteran ultrarunners but for any lover of the outdoors who’s looking for the perfect inspiration to challenge themselves and tackle their first 100K. And it’s the ultimate destination race for an increasingly stressed-out world.
Resting & recuperating at the McKinley Creek Cabins
PRODUCTION: Race Director Sean Tracy, his partner and co-RD Holly, and their daughter Emilia (in whose young brain the idea for the Denali 100K originated) are amazing people who make an amazing team. Sean is a “big ideas” guy with the perfect temperament for a race director, while Holly is his detail-oriented right-hand woman who makes things happen. As with every event these past two years, the inaugural race (which was originally scheduled for July 2020) rode the emotional roller coaster of “yes, it will” and “no, it won’t,” and Sean did a terrific job of setting expectations and keeping us updated. For more background on the race and the man himself, I’d recommend you read “The Road to Denali” in the May/June 2021 issue of Ultrarunning Magazine. It lays out Sean’s story—including his becoming the first and only person to travel ~3,700 miles from Badwater to Denali Base Camp under his own power—and what compelled him to stage a 135-mile/100K foot race in the heart of wild Alaska. Most of all, I’d suggest you register to run the Denali 100K and discover for yourself why Sean and his family are exactly the type of thoughtful, caring and creative individuals you’ll be proud to call friends long after you cross his understated finish line.
Sean’s pre-race communication—which actually spanned 15 months from March 2020 when I first registered, to June 2021 when the race finally happened—was personable yet professional (much like Sean himself) and a treasure trove of useful information re: what to expect on race day and how to plan the rest of your Alaskan vacation. His enthusiastic yet comforting words reassured me that I wasn’t making an egregious error in judgment by jumping feet first into this inaugural event in one of the wildest places on earth. And he went out of his way to give credit to his runners and call out their accomplishments, including a heartfelt “get well” shout-out to one long-time ultrarunner who couldn’t join us this year after recent open-heart surgery. Sean’s was the rare pre-race communication I look forward to seeing in my Inbox.
Race weekend culminated in a beautiful evening and an excellent post-race buffet at the McKinley Creekside Cabins, our post-race accommodations located 15 minutes from the finish-line end of the Denali Highway. There we enjoyed grilled salmon, chili-lime tofu, coconut rice, plus salads, desserts and drinks while chatting and comparing notes with fellow finishers, and Sean presented a check to an appreciative representative from this year’s race beneficiary, the Denali Education Center. It was a fitting conclusion to an epic weekend.
Sean and Holly expended an enormous amount of effort to maximize their runners’ chances of success on race day. This included Sean running the entire 135-mile course himself during the initial planning stages because, as Holly told us, he won’t ask others to run a course unless he’s first run it himself. The end result is a testament to their dedication and their desire to give the ultrarunning community a special event. And it’s tough to say they didn’t succeed with flying colors—the Denali 100K is an event you won’t soon forget.
One important detail to note ahead of time: the Denali 100K is a self-supported, BYOC (Bring Your Own Crew) event. There are neither official aid stations nor so much as a convenience store along the remote route, and very few vehicles—aside from Sean or the other runners’ crews—drive the highway. So you’ll want to come prepared with your own crew and everything you need on race day. For this reason, Katie and I reserved a Jeep and an oversized cooler in Anchorage, then stopped for supplies before making the drive to Cantwell and the Alpine Creek Lodge where we stayed before the race. On that note, sports nutritionist Sunny Blende was spot-on when she said, “Ultras are just eating and drinking contests, with a little exercise and scenery thrown in.” Nailing my nutritional strategy was the single most important factor in keeping my performance consistent and reaching the finish line faster than I’d thought possible. If you’re going to run this or any other 100K, and assuming you’re trained up for the challenge, race-day nutrition is your key to success.
SWAG: Truth is, I doubt that anyone running 100K in wild Alaska does so for the swag. That said, I wear my Denali 100K finisher tee proudly, while the real keepsake is the finisher buckle made from shed moose antlers (i.e. bone) and hand-sanded by Sean himself. Adorned with the race’s namesake peak, the ivory beauty easily earns a spot in my top five favorite finisher awards and now hangs in my home from an Alaska lanyard purchased at a roadside souvenir store.
FINAL STATS: June 20, 2021 (start time 2:00 pm; sunset 12:21am, sunrise 3:40 am) 62.49 miles in Matanuska-Susitna, Alaska (state 33 of 50) Finish time & pace: 12:33:00 (first time running the Denali 100K), 12:01/mile Avg Moving Pace: 11:27/mile Finish place: 6 overall, 1/2 in M(50-59) age group Number of finishers: 13 (9 men, 4 women), limited to 50 runners Race weather: cool & cloudy (61°F) at the start, cooler & cloudy at the finish; light rain Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 2,918.6 ft gain, 3,599.1 ft loss Elevation min, max: 2,180.0 ft, 3,127.2 ft
It is the general rule, that all superior men inherit the elements of superiority from their mothers. – Jules Michelet
In the spirit of making every effort to prevent this blog from losing all momentum and falling hopelessly behind (chronological order? Pshaw!), I wanted to share briefly—and mostly in pictures—a happy ending to an otherwise challenging 2021. Though I didn’t notch a new state to end the year (leaving me at 35 states to start 2022), I’d argue I did even better by posting a personal best in the state I called home for 13 of the first 18 years of my life. So while I didn’t mess with Texas, I did do my best in Texas.
Though I was born and now live in California, Dallas is where I grew up. Even if “America’s Team” should somehow manage another 25 hapless years of Super Bowl futility, the city will always hold a special place in my psyche. And yet despite a 20-year running career, I’d never run a marathon or farther there. So when 2020 rolled around, it seemed like ideal timing to tackle the 50th running of my former hometown race less than a month after my own 50th birthday.
Cue a global pandemic, and like nearly every other running event on the planet, the golden anniversary of the Dallas Marathon Festival was postponed—first to May 2021, and then to its usual date one year later in Dec 2021. Despite all the uncertainty and shifting expectations over the course of an excruciating year, in the end the celebration would be very much worth the wait.
Without (too much) bias, I can happily say the Dallas Marathon Festival did not disappoint. And my fellow runners clearly sensed as much—while other races have struggled to attract runners in the midst of the pandemic, Dallas outdid itself with an all-time high 26,000+ runners across ten events, up from 15,000 in 2019. The field included runners from all 50 states and 25 countries. It was an electric event.
Performance-wise, Dallas for me was one of those rare days when everything fell into place. And I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to an emotional roller coaster of a year that included four new states and a 100K personal best. After missing the five-hour mark by 68 seconds on an unpaved trail in Kansas last year, paved Texas roads seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally break five hours at the 50K distance. And at the end of a chilly morning under stunning blue skies, I crossed the finish line alongside Dallas City Hall with a 16-minute personal best while achieving not only my stated goal as printed on my bib number (a sub-5 hour 50K), but likewise my unspoken “A” goal of a sub-4:45:00 as I finished in 4:44:40. Calculating before the race that I’d need to average ~9:04/mile to break 4:45:00, I’d run 31.4 miles (according to my GPS) in… 9:04/mile. [Cue Success Kid fist-pump meme.]
Everything may be bigger in Texas, but this race report isn’t. Below I’ve condensed my main points into a (hopefully helpful) RaceRaves review while letting my photos do most of the talking.
And to Mom, who lived her final 46 years in North Texas as a proud non-runner… this one was for you. ❤️
(Thanks to Katie, who shot all the on-course pictures as I ran sans iPhone for a change.)
Luckily, race day would look a lot like Wednesday
That tail at the bottom of White Rock Lake is the 50K out-and-back on the Santa Fe Trail
Start line at City Hall with jumbotron and Reunion Tower (right) In the background
Dealey Plaza, with the former Texas School Book Depository (now the Dallas County Administration Building) in the background, mile 1
Old Red Museum, aka the once-and-future Dallas County Courthouse, across the street from Dealey Plaza
Stampede down Greenville Avenue, mile 8
Their lack of endurance may have been a key reason for the dinosaurs’ extinction
Circling White Rock Lake, mile 14
A few of the feathered spectators around White Rock Lake
Dallas skyline view from the east side of White Rock Lake (📸 runDallas Facebook page)
Leaving the lake and approaching the 50K out-and-back, mile 20
Every finish line deserves two thumbs up
SUB-5 50K mission accomplished ✅
BOTTOM LINE: If it’s possible for a big-city race with 25,000+ participants to be “underrated,” then I reckon Dallas fits the bill. Running in the shadow of more prestigious urban marathons like Chicago, New York City and even (arguably) Houston, Big D more than holds its own and deservedly stakes its claim to the title of best race weekend in Texas.
Dallas is a terrific running city, and the marathon/50K course—which starts and finishes at City Hall—does the city justice by showcasing some of its most iconic landmarks and beautiful neighborhoods including Reunion Tower, Highland Park and Lakewood, plus 8½ miles around the event’s long-time centerpiece, White Rock Lake. Here on the far (eastern) side of the lake, several geese sightings and a glimpse of the distinctive Dallas skyline peeking above the trees helped to distract from the mounting fatigue in mile 18.
Notably, the first mile of the race passes discreetly through Dealey Plaza, site of JFK’s assassination and where the former Texas School Book Depository—now the Dallas County Administration Building—overlooks the course. Though the race organizers avoid publicizing Dealey Plaza for obvious reasons, its inclusion feels like a respectful nod to its historical significance and widespread interest.
Later in the race, I wasn’t looking forward to the out-and-back extension on the Santa Fe Trail (miles 20–25) that was exclusive to the 50K runners. And yet even that stretch was a relatively pleasant experience, a quiet reprieve from the otherwise bustling streets and an opportunity to applaud my fellow ultrarunners while acknowledging each other as kindred spirits. (Our orange bib numbers also helped to distinguish 50K runners from the blue-numbered marathoners and black-numbered half marathoners.)
Though the course—with the exception of the lakefront path—is more rolling than flat, the most conspicuous uphill arrives as the route turns away from White Rock Lake and back toward downtown (mile 21 for marathoners, 26 for 50K runners). Essentially the Dallas equivalent of Heartbreak Hill, this ½ mile stretch encompassing the latter portion of Winsted Dr plus Tokalon Dr served as a nice gut check that slowed many runners to a walk. (Here I see an opportunity for an inflatable sponsor arch at the top of Tokalon to encourage runners as they crest the hill.) Once you turn left from Tokalon onto Lakewood Blvd, though, breathe deep and feel good knowing your last five miles are a smooth, gentle downhill to an epic finish that’s publicly broadcast on the jumbotron.
Apart from obvious exceptions like Boston and NYC, as a traveling runner you’re never sure what level of spectator support to expect from residents during an urban marathon. So I’m proud to report that Dallas came to play; all along the course with the understandable exception of the lake itself, civic pride and festive holiday energy were on display as vocal locals showed up to support the runners. Among the spectators lining the residential route on Richmond Ave was a 20-foot-tall inflatable Santa that towered above us like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from “Ghostbusters”—HO, HO, HO, MY TINY SUBJECTS.
With Dallas (mid-December) and The Cowtown in neighboring Fort Worth (late February), North Texas boasts two of the best race weekends in the U.S. in close proximity. Throw in Houston in mid-January, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a better three months of road racing anywhere in the nation than what you’ll find in Texas. Personal best and formative years aside, the Dallas Marathon Festival is a Big D-elight and a family-friendly Sunday long run I can easily recommend to first-timers, traveling runners & 50 Staters alike.
PRODUCTION: As you may have guessed from the above description, this was clearly not the Dallas team’s first rodeo. Reminiscent of Houston (I’ve yet to run The Cowtown so I have no comparison there), Dallas is a well-oiled machine with near-flawless production. Even with high expectations thanks to positive feedback from previous finishers, still I was pleasantly surprised. Everything ran smoothly, from the pre-race expo in the spacious convention center near the start line (which included an impressive fleet of vehicles from title sponsor BMW), to the high-energy start corrals with jumbotron accompaniment, to the scenic & well-supported course populated by spirited spectators & virtuoso volunteers, to the post-race festival in Akard Plaza where pizza, chocolate milk & Sam Adams beer (not necessarily all at once) awaited. Around the plaza, exhausted finishers stretched out on the grass and around the fountain to quietly celebrate a triumphant end to the racing season. Well done Dallas, my Stetson is off to you. 🤠
SWAG: Dallas rose to the occasion with its 50th anniversary swag. The hefty finisher medal is an attractive blue & gold(en) keepsake with the race logo engraved inside the number 50. Both the medal and its ribbon include the year & distance. In addition, runners received a comfy, ocean blue short-sleeve participant tee at packet pickup as well as a handsome distance-specific, navy blue long-sleeve finisher tee (a Dallas tradition) in the finish chute. Best of all, this isn’t swag per se but every registration fee included a donation to the primary race beneficiary, Scottish Rite for Children.
FINAL STATS: Dec 12, 2021 (start time 8:40 am) 31.38 miles in Dallas, Texas Finish time & pace: 4:44:40 (first time running the Dallas Marathon Festival 50K), 9:04/mile Finish place: 40 overall, 6/28 in M(50-59) age group Number of finishers: 191 (124 men, 67 women) Race weather: cold & sunny (39°F) at the start, cool & sunny (56°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 632 ft gain, 627 ft loss Elevation min, max: 404 ft, 593 ft
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be. – Douglas Adams (Author, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)
(NOTE: Much of what I discuss here is exclusive to the 2020/2021 pandemic-altered Windermere Marathon course and will not necessarily apply to the “normal” point-to-point course scheduled to return in 2022. With that in mind, read on!)
Beggars, we’re told, can’t be choosers. And sometimes that’s a good thing.
Fourteen months into a global pandemic and two weeks after my second dose of the Moderna SARS-CoV-2 vaccine, I awoke to an oddly welcome and comforting sensation: a body tingling with nervous energy. Not the nervous energy of Covid-induced anxiety so ubiquitous since March 2020, but the fluttering of butterflies that usher in race day. Once reliable companions on marathon mornings, their frequency and intensity had diminished in recent years as my experience and comfort with the distance had grown.
Today, however, was different.
Crossing the street from our hotel in Spokane Valley to the cluster of low-rise office buildings where the start line awaited, I felt almost like a rookie again. After all, running 26.2 miles is an intimidating prospect in the best of circumstances, and not since I’d first covered the distance at Long Beach in 2010 had I gone so long between marathons. My most recent effort had come at the 2020 Little Rock Marathon just a week before races across the U.S. began to cancel en masse, as a novel coronavirus responsible for a severe acute respiratory syndrome in humans single-handedly (or is that single-strandedly?) knocked the world off its axis.
“The Joy of Running Together” pays tribute to Spokane’s annual Lilac Bloomsday Run
Sure, I’d since run a 50K ultramarathon (and a personal best time) in Kansas seven months earlier, but the marathon is its own beast, one that demands its own mindset and its own approach. So that had been the focus of my training these past several months, as I’d worked my way back into respectable marathon shape. At the same time, today’s Windermere Marathon would itself double as a training run, a much-needed tune-up for my first goal race of the year, the Denali 100K in Alaska five weeks later.
Intermittent cloud cover and the promise of an unseasonably warm day in Spokane greeted Katie and me as we approached the inflatable black-and-blue start arch set up in the parking lot adjacent to the Windermere Real Estate agency. Judging by the sparse crowd, I’d be one of the last marathon starters; with runners starting in socially distanced, self-selected waves every ten minutes, I’d chosen one of the later time slots (7:20–7:30am).
Most of my fellow runners had clearly opted to start earlier, presumably to avoid the worst of the heat; however, as a night owl I knew myself well enough to know I wouldn’t sleep well if I started too early. Besides, it wasn’t like I was out here trying to qualify for Boston. So after a good night’s sleep, I fully intended to keep a cool head and enjoy the morning. Because even before a highly contagious, potentially fatal virus took the civilized world hostage, I’d long since resolved never to take race day for granted.
Bidding Katie farewell, I crossed the start line in a scene eerily reminiscent of Kansas seven months prior—by myself, peeling off my blue surgical mask and stashing it in my pocket for the next several hours. State 32 was underway, in the midst of a global pandemic.
I hadn’t had a start line entirely to myself since… well, my last race
A River Runs Through It Immediately the course exited the parking lot behind the office complex and headed east on the paved, multi-use Centennial Trail. Leading up to race day I’d targeted a 3hr 45min finish time (8:35/mile), an ambitious yet achievable goal under favorable conditions—the key word being favorable. With the forecast predicting temperatures in the high 70s by noon and the wispy clouds overhead already dispersing, I’d called an audible and dialed back my expectations. While there certainly are days when I’d rather push the pace early and risk flaming out spectacularly, this wasn’t one of them.
To be honest, were this a “normal” year I probably wouldn’t have been running Windermere at all. Eventually, to be sure—Spokane is a beautiful city, and as Pacific Northwest marathons go, Windermere is among the most highly rated on RaceRaves. But with 15 of my remaining 19 states in the Central or Eastern Time Zones, I’d been “saving” Washington (and Idaho, and Utah) for later in my quest to help break up my East Coast travels. Unfortunately, with vaccination in its early stages and SARS-CoV-2 still running roughshod over America, many winter/spring events had opted to either cancel or postpone to later in the year. Meaning my marathon choices for early 2021—and particularly in states where I’d yet to run—were slim pickings.
Negative Split, organizers of the Windermere Marathon as well as the nearby Coeur d’Alene Marathon in Idaho, had been one of the few companies to successfully produce running events in the second half of 2020, with painstaking Covid mitigation protocols in place to protect public health & safety. These mitigation protocols included a redesign of the Windermere Marathon course from its original point-to-point route—highlighted by Gonzaga University and ending near Riverfront Park—to a more pandemic-friendly (though still USATF-certified) double out-and-back starting and finishing at the same parking lot in Spokane Valley. Though suboptimal, this double out-and-back design eliminated the need to shuttle runners to the start, a key benefit in the age of social distancing.
McCarthey Athletic Center aka The Kennel, Gonzaga University
But while I’d have preferred to run the former course, I was wildly grateful to be able to run the latter—and with the opportunity to move ahead with my 50 States quest, I wasn’t about to let perfect be the enemy of great. Besides, we’d still be able to visit the Gonzaga campus, one of Spokane’s main attractions and home to one of the most remarkably successful college basketball programs of the past 25 years.
And true to plan, the Jesuit university had been the focus of our leisurely Saturday afternoon. Gonzaga is a charming, easily walkable campus abutting the Spokane River. This being the offseason and summer semester we couldn’t access the locked McCarthey Athletic Center aka “The Kennel” where the basketball teams play, but we were able to stroll the outer concourse of the arena. Here, tributes to past Bulldogs teams and players lined the walls, including NBA Hall of Famer John Stockton and the 2017 team that lost to North Carolina in the national championship game, just 22 years after the school’s first-ever appearance in the 64-team NCAA tournament—a stunning achievement for a university with only 5,300 undergraduates. (Returning to the NCAA tournament in 2021 as the #1 ranked team in the nation, Gonzaga would suffer its only loss of the season to Baylor in the national championship game to finish 31–1).
Leaving the air-conditioned athletic center and shaded walkways of Gonzaga, we’d driven to sun-drenched Riverfront Park, the recently renovated centerpiece of Spokane and a larger, more sprawling version of The Gathering Place in Tulsa. The legacy of the 1974 World’s Fair, Riverfront Park is dominated by Upper and Lower Spokane Falls, the beating heart of the park whose awesome power has been harnessed to generate electricity for well over a century. Further along the riverbank graceful Canadian geese floated, strutted, and honked, comporting themselves like local lords overseeing their fiefdoms. And a short walk from the falls we visited the perennially popular Garbage Goat, an inanimate metal mammal which, thanks to an internal vacuum, ingests scraps of trash that are “fed” to it, thereby doing its part to keep the park clean. Quirky, creative, and just the sort of thing I hope to find when exploring a new city.
Scenes from Spokane (Clockwise, from upper left): Oversized children’s blocks with Spokane Clock Tower in the background, Riverfront Park; Garbage Goat, keeping Spokane clean since 1974; “The Childhood Express,” world’s largest Radio Flyer wagon; Monroe Street Bridge, Downtown Spokane and the Spokane River; the unofficial city slogan?
Now, running some 13 miles east of Riverfront Park, I followed the Spokane River on its eastward journey while enjoying the peaceful, tree-lined trail that suddenly felt far removed from office buildings and other signs of civilization. A hallmark of many Washington marathons is their proximity to a body of water, and Windermere is no exception; the fast-flowing river would remain a constant and soothing source of companionship throughout the morning.
“LET’S GO OUT WITH A BANG!” read a message chalked onto the trail in the opening miles, followed by an even less understated “BANG! BANG!” in chalk a few steps later. As if on cue, I glanced up to see two quails dart across the path between runners, their rapid gliding movements making me smile.
Flanked by trees on our right and the river on our left, the first five miles (aka miles 11–16 on the return trip) were the most scenic and shaded of the day, with towering evergreens bending in the breeze as though welcoming us to the Pacific Northwest. Distant homes set back from the trail came into view as we approached the Liberty Lake neighborhood, in normal years the start area for the marathon.
Often at races I’ll find myself inadvertently eavesdropping on other runners’ conversations. Such was the case at Windermere, and it occurred to me that while some of these conversations can be encouraging, many of them instead follow a different progression—one person explaining to their running mate a conversation that makes the speaker sound cool, calm and collected while depicting the other side as clueless, unreasonable and/or just plain unhinged. The brief snippets I hear from passing cyclists on my training runs tend to be even more angsty, though maybe it just sounds that way since they speak louder to be heard. At any rate, small wonder Americans have so much trouble communicating these days when the other person is always in the wrong.
Centennial Trail alongside the Spokane River, mile 2
Running east into the sun, a slight headwind kept things cool as we passed the half marathoners’ turnaround. Suddenly the pack thinned significantly and the marathon became a lonely prospect, as I found myself alone with only two other runners visible in the distance. Certainly I’d expected that most of the runners here would be half marathoners, though not quite this many. It didn’t help that most of my fellow marathoners had chosen earlier start times.
To my right, the zoom of high-speed traffic on I-90 offered a transient distraction. Too transient as it turned out, because soon my stomach began to fuss, and by the time I reached the mile 8 turnaround, I had little choice but to accede to its demands, shameless bioterrorist that it is. Passing my first Katie sighting without slowing, I headed straight into the porta-potty standing just beyond the aid station table, a stone’s throw from the Idaho border.
Exiting a minute later, I grabbed a bottle of water from the table, took a few sips and—with a “hi” and “bye” to Katie—headed back the way I’d come. Instantly I felt better with my stomach settled and the sun at my back, and my stride relaxed as I once again passed the half marathoners’ turnaround and rejoined the flow of human traffic. A stretch of roughly 12 miles on the Centennial Trail lay between me and the next turnaround, and I focused on settling back into a rhythm while staying mentally sharp.
Approaching my own private Idaho, mile 8 turnaround
Turnaround is Fair Play Bemoaning the minute or so I’d lost to my pitstop at the mile 8 turnaround, it occurred to me that maybe my stomach wouldn’t hold me hostage on race day if I were to train it more appropriately, for example by doing my longer training runs at the same time of day I run my races, i.e. in the early morning. In this vein, many runners while training for the Boston Marathon schedule their longer training runs for Mondays rather than weekends to prepare their bodies to run on Patriots’ Day, aka Marathon Monday. Thing is, as a night owl the evening hours are my most productive, and many of my runs—including my longer weekend runs—happen in the afternoon. So while I’m unlikely to greet the sunrise on a training run anytime soon, I do need to give serious consideration to shifting my schedule so as to make it a bit more morning friendly. Easier said than done, though, since I treasure my evening quiet time free of the usual 9-to-5 distractions.
I passed a female runner wearing a shirt that read “Thanks science! I’m vaccinated.” Yes and yes, I thought, mentally fist-bumping her as we headed in opposite directions.
Not surprisingly, spectators along the course were few and far between; those who did show, however, were boisterous in their support. This was especially true on our second visit to Liberty Lake, where I appreciated the spirited cheers coming as they did immediately after one of the few uphill jags of the day. One fellow even complimented me on my bright orange Nikes. And enviously I overheard a mother tell her sign-wielding kids, “Ok, let’s go get donuts!” Can I come?
The day had warmed perceptibly as we returned to the shade in mile 14. As a silver lining in the near-cloudless sky, the low humidity in Spokane meant we wouldn’t be battling the twin terrors of heat and humidity, as I had for example at the 2016 Hatfield McCoy Marathon in Kentucky. Heat may be uncomfortable, but high humidity’s a stone cold killa.
Reluctantly passing the turn-in to the finish line, mile 16
Focusing on my stride, I passed a number of runners before reaching the turn-in to the finish line—the finish line for the half marathoners that is, and mile 16 for the rest of us. This was another design quirk unique to this year’s reimagined course, but still it felt like a punch to the gut to be running right by the finish line where the voice of the PA announcer sounded so close, you could easily imagine hearing your own name waft by on the breeze. Unfortunately, I still had ten miles to go before I’d earn that opportunity—which, on the bright side, was better than at Marshall where we’d run another 11 miles after passing the finish line the first time.
With the half marathoners out of the picture, the caravan of runners thinned considerably and I was rewarded for my efforts with my second Katie sighting. Quickly I took a few swigs of water from the bottle in her outstretched hand, then traded her for my first bottle of Maurten and pushed ahead. Every second spent not moving forward was another second the sun continued to climb higher in the sky.
Mile after mile, the Spokane River flowed serenely alongside, now on my right side as I set my sights on the second turnaround. This course reminded me of another Pacific Northwest race I’d run back in 2017, the Eugene Marathon in Oregon where we’d run several miles along the Willamette River on a similarly pleasant, tree-lined trail.
The only spectator sign I recall—because it was the only one that grabbed my attention—greeted us ominously in mile 17:
“DON’T LET THE MIND QUIT—THE BODY WON’T UNTIL IT DIES.”
Oh my, I thought, is this really what passes for inspiration in Spokane? While I got the gist of the message (I think), this sounded more like either the lyrics to an Alice in Chains song or the kind of muddled high school coach-speak I’d heard growing up in Texas athletics, the type of “motivation” often followed by an out-of-shape teammate projectile vomiting during offseason conditioning drills. In that moment, I’d have settled for more traditional encouragement like “This is an awful lot of work for a green banana” or “You’re running better than the government!”
Mile 20 offered a change of pace as the Centennial Trail crossed over the Spokane River, positioning the river to our left for the final mile leading to the mile 21 turnaround. As we continued to run away from the finish line, I fought back physical and mental fatigue while trying to will the turnaround into view. Surely we should have reached it by now?
Just when I was starting to lose patience, we reached the trail’s end and turned onto a narrow residential road where Katie greeted me at the top of a brief but nasty hill: “Nice job, the turnaround is just up ahead.” Arrgh. Shuffling ahead a few more yards, I reached the turnaround alongside the mile 21 marker, reversing direction before making one last stop to hydrate and gather my wits.
Feeling unsteady on my feet—that’ll happen after running 21 miles—I took a few more swallows of water and mumbled orders hurriedly at poor Katie as she juggled bottles and tried to anticipate my needs. Hold this!Open that!No, that! Lucky for me, she’s always a good sport and the best crew on race day. I took one quick sip of 5-hour Energy, being careful not to elevate my pulse rate too much more in the rising heat. Then, trading for a second bottle of Maurten, I thanked her and retraced my steps, knowing that in these last five miles a struggle awaited.
Waiting for my 7th wind to kick in at the mile 21 turnaround
Hot on the Trail By the time I reached mile 23, I needed all my focus just to keep pushing forward, and I scarcely glanced up to notice the sparkling view of the Spokane River as the trail again crossed to the other side. With limited shade along this stretch and the late morning sun approaching its zenith, the same headwind I’d begrudged earlier now became a key ally in my fight to stay cool.
Somehow—whether by sheer willpower, diligent training, super-springy Nikes or (more likely) a combination of the three—I was able to maintain forward momentum despite the intensifying sun and a couple of wicked uphill jags. In fact, my 9+ minute-per-mile pace felt downright Kenyan compared to many of my fellow marathoners who were now walking. Ignoring my own fatigue, I continued to pick off runners as we headed toward home. And I was delighted to discover that, leaden quads notwithstanding, here in my first race of 2021 and my first marathon in 14+ months, everything actually felt pretty damn good. And that in itself was a victory.
“QUIT” was the only word I saw as I glanced over at the now-familiar, unmanned spectator sign in mile 25. A cyclist approached and as he did, I realized it was Race Director Ryan. “You need anything? Water? Gatorade?” he asked. Shaking my head I muttered, “Thanks, Ryan” in a low voice I’m quite sure he didn’t hear. Then I forged ahead, feeling the gravitational pull of the finish line, which I resisted just long enough to snap one last picture of a curious, covered bridge-type structure in mile 26. I couldn’t recall ever stopping for a photo this late in a race, since usually I’m laser-focused on finishing and too exhausted to care about anything else.
My Garmin chimed for the 26th time and suddenly my legs felt very heavy, as though forgetting we still had 0.2 miles to go. Lifting my eyes from the trail, I saw the final turn ahead as the cheers of several volunteers and Katie welcomed me back. Making the turn I’d so envied ten miles earlier, I climbed the last few yards back to the parking lot outside the Windermere Real Estate offices and jubilantly crossed under the bright blue finish arch, stopping the clock in a time of 3:51:25. And for the first time in memory, Katie would be the person to hang the finisher’s medal around my neck, after I’d received the medal at packet pickup (another pandemic workaround) but waited superstitiously until this moment to unveil it.
Covered bridge-like structure under the train bridge, mile 26
Though not the 3:45:00 I’d been hoping to chase in cooler weather, given the unseasonal heat I was satisfied with a respectable sub-4 hour showing. And I credit my carbon fiber-plated Nikes with providing a (literal) spring in my step that kept my legs fresher for longer on race day. I run enough marathons—and am just enough of a shoe nerd—that carbon fiber-plated technology is worth the investment. And I’m for any healthy, legal advantage I can get on race day—after all, my biggest competitor will always be myself.
Normally staged at the festive finish line near Riverfront Park, the post-race gathering this year was held in the start/finish parking lot and was understandably scaled back to avoid crowds and limit high-contact areas. Big thanks to Meltz and Cosmic Cowboy Grill for providing post-race food options, which as usual my disinterested stomach refused to consider.
I compared notes with a group of running friends who were using Windermere to train for an upcoming 50-miler in Montana. And I made a point to congratulate 64-year-old Carolann from Florida who, according to the PA announcer, had just finished her 50 States quest here in Spokane. Admittedly, I felt a pang of sympathy for her at having to conclude such a long and arduous journey in Covid-contorted conditions. Even so, the global context in no way diminished her remarkable achievement, and I’m glad I could be there to acknowledge it.
Sunset over the Spokane River
Then Katie and I slowly made our way back across the street to the Hampton Inn & Suites for a shower before dining on our way to the airport at the Yards Bruncheon in Kendall Yards near Riverfront Park. Unfortunately, there are no nonstop flights from Spokane to Los Angeles on Southwest Airlines, and so that night was a long one as we endured a layover in one of my (least) favorite cities, Las Vegas. On the second leg of the trip my usual post-marathon congestion-with-cough kicked in, and though I tried to clear my throat quietly behind my mask, I’d imagine I earned a few sidelong glances from my fellow passengers. No worries, I’m vaccinated!
(Have I mentioned vaccines may be the single greatest scientific discovery in the history of mankind? Thanks, science!)
This (and last) year’s Windermere Marathon was unfortunately constrained by a global pandemic not of its making and out of its control. That said, Windermere was one of the few races to actually take place during the pandemic, and the fact it happened at all is a testament to the team at Negative Split, who bent over backwards to implement one of the nation’s first Covid mitigation protocols to protect the health and safety of their runners. Although Windermere’s downhill, point-to-point marathon course and post-race party in Downtown Spokane were necessary casualties of the pandemic, still I’d rate the weekend an unqualified success. And I’ve no doubt that in a “normal” year, Windermere would make a terrific choice for 50 Staters and anyone seeking a Pacific Northwest marathon.
So while the pandemic may have derailed everyone’s best-laid plans and prompted me to pull the trigger on Washington ahead of schedule, it all worked out in the end as I added another puzzle piece (and state 32) to the four-dimensional game of real-world Tetris that is my 50 States quest. Just as in so many other aspects of life, adaptability is key to 50 States success, and so sometimes beggars can’t be choosers—though most people say that like it’s a bad thing.
But I beg to differ.
BOTTOM LINE: Named for a local real estate agency and its eponymous foundation dedicated to helping low-income and homeless families, Windermere is a relaxed, picturesque marathon that will be even better in the post- (as it was in the pre-)Covid era. This is largely because 2022 is expected to welcome the return of the original point-to-point course, which includes 11-ish miles of this year’s route plus Gonzaga University and a festive finish near Riverfront Park (in contrast to this year’s necessarily low-key start & finish in the parking lot of the Windermere offices in Spokane Valley). That said, this year the Negative Split team did a terrific job turning gators into Gatorade with a pleasant, well-supported event that consisted of two out-and-backs on the paved Centennial Trail along the Spokane River. I’m typically no fan of out-and-backs, and especially in the later miles when you can clearly see the fatigue on the faces and in the body language of your fellow runners who are several miles ahead of you. Unfortunately, a global pandemic tends to limit your options as a runner or race director. And the river is a beautiful centerpiece for the race, even if the non-river side of the course doesn’t always live up to the same scenic standard.
Spokane itself is a charming city with two main highlights for the weekend tourist: Gonzaga University, a small Jesuit university that’s paradoxically home to one of the premier men’s college basketball programs of the past 25 years, and Riverfront Park, which is the legacy of the 1974 World’s Fair and the focal point of downtown Spokane. Riverfront Park feels like a more sprawling version of Tulsa’s Gathering Place but with a nicer river frequented by gaggles of elegant Canada geese. And while the park is the emerald jewel of the city, its beating heart is mighty Spokane Falls, whose power has been harnessed to generate electricity for well over a century. One of the joys of racing in Washington is that many (if not most) of the state’s marathons & half marathons run within view of an impressive body of water, and Windermere’s course alongside the fast-flowing Spokane River is no exception.
PRODUCTION: Windermere (along with Negative Split’s other marathon in nearby Coeur d’Alene) was one of the few marathons held in the U.S. in 2020, albeit with significant changes, and it was clear from this year’s production that this was not the team’s first pandemic rodeo. From the quick & easy outdoor packet pickup at the local Fleet Feet store (finisher medal included) to the rolling start line to the scaled-back post-race gathering, race weekend was seamless if subdued. The entire process gave me a renewed appreciation—and frustration—for the fact that given the chance to implement similar Covid mitigation strategies based on the science of viral transmission, more events could have safely and responsibly moved forward with reduced field sizes last year.
Out-and-back courses typically aren’t my jam, but this year it couldn’t be helped, and more than anything I think most of us were grateful for the chance to be healthy and racing again. The DIY aid stations were an afterthought for me since I only paused at the mile 8 turnaround to grab a bottle of water, but Race Director Ryan did pass me on a bike in the later (warmer) miles asking if I needed water, Gatorade or anything else, so a shout-out of gratitude to him. More than anything, I appreciated that mile markers were taped to the trail throughout the race, and especially in the closing miles when mentally I celebrate every mile marker as a mini-finish line. Plus, race photos were free, though for whatever reason no photos of me were available—not a big deal since Katie captured plenty along the course.
Spokane Lower Falls seen from the Monroe Street Bridge
SWAG: The multi-blue finisher medal is brightly colored and nice enough, though as one-third of a three-piece interlocking medal for runners of Negative Split’s Run the PNW Series (comprising Windermere, The Split Half Marathon and Coeur d’Alene), it’s wedge-shaped and visually less satisfying than a comparable standalone medal. That said, I can imagine the three-piece medal in its entirety would be a lovely keepsake. Fortunately, the long-sleeve black tech shirt is a keeper—I know some folks aren’t fans of black and especially during the summer months, but having grown up an unabashed fan of heavy metal music, for better or worse I still have a soft spot for black clothing, even as my closet steadily fills with race apparel.
FINAL STATS: May 16, 2021 (start time 7:29 am, sunrise 5:09 am) 26.33 miles in Spokane, Washington (state 32 of 50) Finish time & pace: 3:51:35 (first time running the Windermere Marathon), 8:48/mile Finish place: 42 overall, 4/12 in M(50-54) age group Number of finishers: 200 (105 men, 95 women) Race weather: cool & sunny (57°F) at the start, warm & sunny (75°F) at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 371 ft gain, 404 ft loss Elevation min, max: 1,909 ft, 2,047 ft
We do not rise to the level of our expectations. We fall to the level of our training. – Archilochus
Extravaganza may be overstating things a bit, I thought as we pulled up in front of Celebration Hall on a cold, gray October Friday. Or maybe an extravaganzum is in the eye of the beholder. I stared out the windshield at the low-slung building with beige siding that looked more like an oversized utility shed than a venue for revelry, as its name would suggest. Having spent much of my childhood on military bases in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex, those long-dormant memories sprang to mind as I laid eyes on austere Celebration Hall, the apparent centerpiece of the Franklin County Fairgrounds.
Clearly we weren’t in Los Angeles anymore. We weren’t even in Omaha. As it turns out, the oddly serene town of Ottawa, Kansas—population 12,260 as of 2019—would be among the smallest we’d visited to date on our running tour de America. Ottawa’s eerily quiet downtown district and largely empty streets belied its status as “Playful City USA,” a designation trumpeted by a sign across the street from the local cemetery near the edge of town.
Then again, we’d arrived on a Friday afternoon in the midst of a global pandemic, so I had to assume a perfect storm of quitting time and COVID-induced closures had sapped much of the town’s usual energy. On the bright side, I’m happy to report that if you’re tired of sitting in Friday rush hour traffic and need a change of pace, Ottawa may be just the place for you.
The sign on the building says it all
Unfortunately we couldn’t just click our ruby red slippers together to get here… though the actual journey hadn’t been that much more demanding. A three-hour flight to Kansas City on a socially distanced Southwest flight, followed by a 1½-hour drive with a brief stop at the Olathe Whole Foods, had brought us into Ottawa in plenty of time for our current errand—pre-race packet pickup at Celebration Hall, which not surprisingly was a quick and easy affair. Though not exactly the bustling McCormick Place on the eve of the Chicago Marathon, it felt amazingly good to be around a handful of other runners who likewise seemed excited to run the next day.
Here I should back up a step and say that in a perfect world, Ottawa wouldn’t have been my first choice for a Kansas race. That would have been Abilene which, despite being a Toto-size town with half the population of Ottawa, is home to the Eisenhower Marathon and the Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library & Museum. I do appreciate presidential libraries (we’d visited the Clinton Presidential Library & Museum during our first visit to Little Rock three years earlier), and I’d been hoping to visit Ike’s boyhood home for my first Kansas marathon.
But if we’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s that the world is far from perfect (why do you think its two wealthiest individuals are trying so hard to get off the planet?). With the pandemic effectively putting the kibosh on racing season across the U.S., including April’s Eisenhower Marathon, the tiny Kansas Rails-to-Trails Extravaganza (KRTE) in October emerged as one of the few legitimate options that would allow me to check off at least one new state in 2020. I still like Ike and have my eye on Abilene, but aside from Idaho, Washington and Utah (which I’m “saving” to balance out the fact nearly all my remaining states fall east of the Mississippi River), Kansas was the westernmost state remaining on my 50 States Map. Which meant it was also among the shortest flights, a key consideration in the time of COVID.
Traveling during a pandemic can be… challenging
That said, I never run a race simply to check off a state, and I wouldn’t have chosen KRTE if I’d sensed it would be the red-headed stepchild of my 50 States quest. Rather, KRTE appealed to me as a small, low-key event with a quintessential Kansas aesthetic. As a bonus, its fast and flat course along the remote, unpaved Prairie Spirit Trail offered a golden opportunity to improve my 50K personal best time of 5:35:39, set 3½ years earlier at Way Too Cool. Plus, the spring version of the race, the Prairie Spirit Trail Ultra, gets solid reviews on RaceRaves. So KRTE struck me as the right race at the right time and a much-needed opportunity to escape a locked-down California, if only for the weekend.
My confidence to chase a personal best was due more to the nature of the course than my own preparations. My previous four 50K races had been rugged, challenging affairs, three of which had taken well-nigh everything I had just to finish. And while I wouldn’t be in tiptop shape for Kansas after a high ankle sprain in April had sidelined me for two months and sabotaged my summer training regimen, I felt I was in good enough shape to challenge my personal best on the non-technical, runner-friendly Prairie Spirit Trail.
The more tantalizing question would be, could I break five hours? Because that’s my “A” goal at the 50K distance.
I’d only committed to racing earlier in the month when I’d added my name to the waitlist, at which time Race Director Carolyn had assured me she’d be able to fit me in for the sold-out event. True to her word I’d been plucked from the waitlist the next day, and now here we were two weeks later in a setting that could hardly have been more different than the one we’d left.
The Franklin County Courthouse is the most impressive building in Ottawa
Whereas I’d been training in the extended SoCal summer, a parallel weather universe awaited us in Kansas where the forecast called for 85°F heat on Thursday, rain on Friday (our arrival day), cold & partly sunny conditions on Saturday (race day), then more rain on Sunday transitioning to snow on Monday. Apparently, we’d hit the sweet spot between the end of summer on Thursday and the start of winter on Monday—all of autumn in one weekend, as it were. And honestly, the cold (sans precipitation) would be a nice change of pace.
Along with the weather, the most dramatic change of pace was Ottawa itself, which felt very much like the ghost town that time forgot. Strolling its sparse, quiet Main Street, we passed old-school retail establishments like Sears Hometown (a small hardware & appliance store) and several antique shops, most if not all of which appeared to be closed on this Friday evening. The closest we’d come to seeing a crowd all weekend would be the line of cars queuing up outside Daylight Donuts on race morning.
Plaza 1907, the world’s oldest continuously operating cinema
Just as there’s a fine line between antique and old, so too is the relationship between quaint and obsolete. Ottawa walked that line like a skilled trapeze artist. Time and again I’ve discovered that given the chance, every place will reveal its charms sooner or later, and Ottawa was no exception. In the single block that comprised the town’s Downtown Historic District we visited Plaza 1907, believed to be the world’s oldest continuously operating cinema (est. 1907) and certainly not a landmark I’d expect to find in the middle of the country. Due to the pandemic we couldn’t go inside, but just allowing myself to appreciate its unassuming façade and rust-colored marquee through nostalgic eyes was gratifying for someone more accustomed to the glamour, glitz and grit of modern-day Hollywood.
One block south of the Plaza on Main Street, the stately Franklin County Courthouse drew our attention with its soaring red brick exterior and white sandstone trim accented by a series of arches and gables. Sharing the Courthouse grounds were the Franklin County Veterans Memorial and a chainsaw-carved statue of the Courthouse architect, George Washburn.
Our tour of Downtown Ottawa complete, we stepped back into yet another era as we checked into our Airbnb, aka the “Sherbet Suite,” a groovy midcentury modern retreat featuring orange-and-green decor, Star Wars memorabilia and a movie poster from the 1968 Jane Fonda cult classic Barbarella: Queen of the Galaxy. There we settled in comfortably to prepare a pre-race carbo-feast while watching our hometown Dodgers seize control of the World Series with a Game 3 victory over the Tampa Bay Rays. Seeking any edge I could get in my pursuit of a personal best, I internalized the win and treated it as a promising sign for the day ahead.
Classic movie memorabilia courtesy of the Sherbet Suite, Daddy-O
Sunflower State of mind Taking one last deep breath I donned my blue surgical mask, pushed open the car door and stepped out into a bitterly cold Saturday morning. The temperature hovered just above freezing with minimal wind as I braced myself mentally & physically for the 31 miles to come. Normally Celebration Hall would have been open to all participants to await the start of the race indoors, but not today—not in the age of COVID.
Stepping up to the blue start arch, I marveled at the anticlimactic feel of the moment. That’ll happen when you’re the only runner on the start line. Each participant had been assigned a 10-minute window in which to start their race, and I’d been one of 13 runners assigned to the 8:15–8:25am time slot, the last of the morning. So whether there’d be other runners starting behind me or everyone else had gone ahead, I had no idea. Not that it mattered—this wasn’t a 100-yard dash, after all. So I waved sheepishly to Katie one last time before setting out under the blue arch alone for my 5-hour tour of Ottawa and beyond.
Rather than my usual RaceRaves gear, today I’d be sporting my 2017 Missoula Marathon shirt in remembrance of our friend and Missoula Race Director Tony Banovich, who’d died suddenly in his sleep ten days earlier (and one day after we’d exchanged emails) from progressive viral cardiomyopathy. Tony’s condition had worsened over time (thus the “progressive” aspect) to the point he’d been awaiting a heart transplant when he died. My shirt would elicit a few Missoula shout-outs from volunteers and fellow runners alike, which brought a smile to my face.
Exiting the Franklin County Fairgrounds, we immediately headed north for a 3½ mile out-and-back on the paved, northernmost portion of the Prairie Spirit Trail. Feeling grateful to be back in my element, I greeted runners coming in the opposite direction with a “G’ morning!” as I tried to keep my mile pace between 9:00 and 9:30, a task made easier by my suboptimal training.
Nice start to the day, I thought as we ran through residential neighborhoods past modest, unpretentious homes and colorful playground equipment made more vibrant by a backdrop of steely gray sky. A sign in front of one building announced the disappointing news that “do to” the pandemic and orders from the state health department, there’d be no Halloween celebration this year. And I was pleasantly surprised by the number of lawn signs proclaiming support for the Biden/Harris ticket and for Democratic Senate candidate Barbara Bollier.
(Unfortunately Bollier would lose her bid, and her newly elected opponent Roger Marshall’s first order of business would be to flaunt his street cred with fellow Republicans by signing on to the Big Lie and voting to throw out the certified results of the 2020 presidential election.)
Some of the best fall scenery in Kansas
Ironically, the turnaround for this short out-and-back was located on the street just outside our Airbnb, and when I arrived Katie was cheering from the sidewalk while chatting with the race director’s parents. Retracing my steps, I headed back toward Celebration Hall… and while I did pass a few runners along this stretch, I didn’t see anyone coming in the opposite direction from the start, meaning I may very well have been the last runner across the start line.
The Prairie Spirit Trail actually starts in Ottawa roughly ¼ mile south of the race turnaround point. From there it runs almost due south for 51 miles before ending in Iola, where it transitions to become the Southwind Rail Trail. The Kansas Rails-to-Trails Extravaganza features a variety of distances (hence its name) ranging from a half marathon to 100 miles; intrepid 100 milers cover the trail in its entirety with a turnaround point in Iola at the southern terminus.
Sensing movement to my left, I glanced over to see a squirrel running parallel to me through the trees lining the trail. Kansas wildlife, I thought with a smile.
Passing the Fairgrounds, we continued south until the trail dead-ended at a sidewalk that led us beneath the I-35 overpass. Crossing under the highway, we immediately rejoined the trail as the surface transitioned to crushed limestone and dirt. Happily I cruised along while maintaining that same comfortable 9:00–9:30/mile pace. As I did so, I passed one runner after another spread out along the trail, which added to my confidence—this was one clear benefit to starting last. And I’d definitely picked the right race for social distancing purposes.
Prairie Spirit Trail, mile 5 (and 6, and 7, and 8…)
The scenery was unchanging for the most part, and I was fine with that. Trees and bushes in the midst of their autumn transformations lined the double-wide trail on both sides. Beyond those, wide swaths of prairie filled the horizon interspersed with farmland and amber waves of grain as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the occasional low-slung structure (home? ranch? storage shed?) could be seen just off the main highway that shadowed us to the east. Every mile or so, the trail would cross a one- or two-lane road—some gravel, others paved—and though I did see the occasional car kicking up dust, I never had to pause for one.
And that, more or less, was the Prairie Spirit Trail I experienced in all its secluded glory. Having only briefly set foot in the Sunflower State once before, this was exactly what I think about when I think about Kansas. But whereas a state like Utah consists of 70+% public land (owned by the federal or state government), more than 97% of the land base in Kansas is private property, making publicly accessible, recreational trails like the Prairie Spirit Trail particularly important to the health and well-being of the state’s residents.
I approached two women, one of whom wore a sign on her back announcing this as her first 50K while her companion had her own sign proclaiming this to be her 100th marathon/ultra. I congratulated them both, assuring the former (in case she didn’t know) that she’d picked a great course for her first.
Welcome to Princeton, mile 11
Due in part to the cold and my lack of thirst, I hardly registered the unmanned aid station at mile 7 (nor at mile 28 on the way back), a DIY setup that consisted of a storage bin filled with plastic water bottles and left on a bench. Did I mention this was a low-key event?
Per race guidelines, aside from the first turnaround in Ottawa my only Katie sightings would be at the three manned aid stations which doubled as crew access points—one in the tiny town of Princeton at miles 11 (out) and 24 (back), the other in Richmond at the mile 17.5 turnaround where the towering Beachner Grain elevator reminded us that we were in the heartland of America.
Thanks in part to the wintry weather and my controlled tempo, my nutritional needs for the day were minimal. I took two sips of Maurten at the first Princeton stop, followed by a semi-frozen GU at the Richmond turnaround where I also grabbed the bottle of Maurten and finished off that morning’s 5-hour Energy to kick-start my return journey. And at my final stop in Princeton I was able to down half a pouch of baby food, a much-needed alternative to GU and one which helped to settle my stomach for the remaining 14 miles.
Given the sparsity of people, most of whom were volunteers or crew for other runners, social distancing was no problem at these stations. Katie, for her part, resembled a purple Jawa (minus the scavenging behavior) with only her eyes visible behind a puffy Columbia down jacket, hood and mask.
Beachner Grain elevator in Richmond, mile 17.5
With an {ouch ouch} here, and an {ouch ouch} there Retracing our steps back toward Ottawa, it wasn’t long before I was ready to be done. My attention drifted, and I kept reminding myself that every step brought me one step closer to the finish line, to reuniting with Katie and to notching another state—very likely my only new state of 2020. I could easily imagine this heavily wooded trail in the summer, verdant and alive with ripe, tasty berries, assorted wildlife and flying, biting, stinging insects. As a runner, I much preferred the status quo.
(Side note to trail runners: If you’re in the market for a great trail shoe, I’ve often thought the Altra Superior—which I first purchased for the Ice Age 50 Miler in 2016 and still wear to this day—may be the most comfortable running shoe I’ve ever owned, road or trail. For 50 miles at Ice Age and 31 miles at KRTE my feet felt great with zero complaints, a victory in itself and especially on trails where footing can be notoriously uneven and unpredictable.)
Most of the spectators along the course had four legs, while most of the two-legged spectators had wings. Around mile 25, a few disinterested cows on one side of the trail and several chickens on the other watched as I shuffled by, as if to say Hey human, we’re udder-ly exhausted just watching you, and Hey human, who’s the bird brain now? By this time runners had stopped coming in the opposite direction, meaning I’d be alone with my thoughts—talking farm animals and all—for most of the final 10K (6.2 miles).
If I’m being honest, chickens don’t make the most supportive spectators (mile 21)
Which turned out not to be the best idea. As my mileage mounted and my fatigue followed, it became increasingly difficult to maintain momentum on the flat, unchanging terrain. At miles 25, 26 and 28, I slowed briefly to a walk while trying to loosen up my uncooperative hip flexors and quads with a few quick knee raises. Each time, despite persistent protests from my lower body, I’d force myself to speed up again to a pace that felt more like running than walking.
With less than 10K to go, it would have been oh so easy to extend my walk breaks, to pat myself on the back for an impending personal best, and to listen to the nagging voice in my head telling me I had nothing left to prove here today. But it would have been a lie, because there’s always something left to prove, even if that means pushing myself into an unpleasant place I’d rather not go. More than anything, I didn’t want to look back at my time on the Prairie Spirit Trail as an opportunity squandered.
The truth is, running is a much more nuanced sport than it may seem to the casual observer, and every runner experiences race day in a different way. The gazelles who start at the front and run with the leaders experience a much different race than those at the back of the pack. But no matter where you start or finish, until you’ve been there yourself it’s impossible to describe the willpower needed to persevere in the face of growing exhaustion. One minute of walking can quickly turn into two can turn into four can turn into an easily justifiable excuse for why this just wasn’t my day, I’ll get ‘em next time.
I can’t speak for winter, spring or summer, but Ottawa brings the charm in autumn
Counterintuitive as it may sound, that exhaustion is my most satisfying and personal reward. Sure, as a collector I love the artistry of the finisher medals, and they make a great Zoom background—but in the end it’s that empowering, full-body fatigue I carry with me across the finish line that I wish I could bottle and share with every non-runner.
Having no idea if a five-hour finish was still in my sights, I resolved to keep pushing, to dig deeper… and in the end that would be enough, no matter the outcome. All of which was easier said than done, as my quads grew heavier with every step. Here, with nothing but fauna and flora to keep me company, I could have used some on-course distraction from someone other than Old MacDonald. Instead I motivated myself with the comforting thought that our friend Tony was running alongside me and kicking my butt to the finish, just as he’d done three years earlier in the home stretch of his own Missoula Marathon.
At last, in mile 30, I emerged from the trees and bid an unsentimental farewell to the Prairie Spirit Trail. Passing a few more runners, including one fellow who was clearly nursing cramps (and so close to the finish!), I focused on making each step as efficient as possible as I shuffled toward home on the unforgiving asphalt alongside US-59. The trail briefly transitioned to gravel and then back to asphalt, not that it mattered—my legs were pretty much toast, and only dialing down the gravity would have made this home stretch less arduous.
Luckily there were no frozen flag poles to worry about (Princeton, mile 24)
The last mile was a painfully straight shot and I kept glancing ahead, wanting nothing more than the reassurance of seeing the final turn into the Fairgrounds that signaled the end. Where was that f*#@ing turn? In the distance I could see tiny orange dots, and as I continued to push, push, push as hard as I could while going nowhere fast, the dots gradually became pylons blocking the trail where the turn would be. As slowly as I was moving, still I caught a fellow runner who’d been far ahead of me but who now was alternating a few steps of jogging with a few more steps of walking. As I passed, I tried to draw any residual energy I could from this final conquest.
My Garmin chimed to signal mile 31 (or maybe to ask, are we there yet?). As if on cue, I’d reached the orange pylons. One thing was certain: this course measurement was spot on. Relief greeted me as I turned onto the dirt for the best part of the race, the last 100 or so yards. Pumping my fists weakly I crossed under the red finish arch, gratefully accepted my medal handed to me by a masked volunteer, and leaned over with hands on knees as a wave of nausea washed over me. Luckily the sensation passed quickly and I threw my arms around Katie, basking in my happy place and the triumphant afterglow of my best-ever 50K. And for just a few heartbeats in the midst of a global pandemic, the world felt almost normal.
State #31 ✅ | 50K personal best ✅ | Utter exhaustion ✅
Mission (semi-)accomplished Silently and with immense gratitude I paid my last respects to our buddy Tony, who’d once been known as the fastest man in Montana and whose spirit had sustained me out on the Prairie Spirit Trail when the going got tough.
I’d finished in 5:01:07 to set a personal best by 34 minutes, despite falling 68 seconds shy of my ultimate goal. And I was 100% satisfied with the result—I’d gotten in and out of the aid stations quickly and couldn’t point to a single second (much less 69) of wasted time. What’s more, not a single runner had passed me all day. I’d run as well as my intermittent training allowed, and as I write this now I look forward to my next shot at a sub-5 50K, hopefully at the Dallas Marathon’s 50th anniversary weekend (already twice delayed due to the pandemic) in December.
One year, one new state… at this rate I’ll finish my 50 States quest when I’m a spry 69 years young. Here’s hoping COVID-19 is the last global pandemic of the 21st century.
A moment with Dr. James Naismith, inventor of basketball, on the University of Kansas campus
The next day would confirm I’d given everything I had as I hobbled around the University of Kansas campus in nearby Lawrence on stiff, sore and semi-useless legs. And it was only with great effort (and little help from my quads) that I was able to stand up once our flight touched down in Los Angeles on Sunday evening.
Speaking of flights: if not for the Dodgers losing Game 4 in walk-off fashion on Saturday, which delayed their World Series-clinching win to Tuesday, we would have flown out of the home of the NBA champs (Los Angeles) on Friday morning, into the home of the NFL Super Bowl champs (Kansas City) on Friday afternoon, and then back into the home of the MLB World Series champs (LA) on Sunday. Clearly I owe my personal best, at least in part, to karma in the jet stream.
Back at the finish line, I visited the massage table for some much-needed work on my quads and left Achilles, which didn’t last long once my body temperature dropped and I began to shiver uncontrollably. As I lay on the table an older runner charged across the finish, yelled “FUCK YEAH!” and spiked his water bottle like he’d just caught the game-winning touchdown from Tom Brady. Then he kept on running, leaving the bottle on the ground for someone else to discard. Um, congrats?
I thanked Race Director Carolyn for a terrific event; she and her team had been very conscientious about COVID protocols. I also bought an attractive charcoal-and-green race sweatshirt to commemorate my new personal record, because at age 50 I don’t have too many more of those in me. I look forward to the end of this pandemic and being able to escape SoCal for cold climes now and then so I can wear it.
Kansas highlighted one of the many things I appreciate about this 50 States quest. I’ve crossed more than 50 marathon/ultramarathon finish lines, and yet KRTE was unlike any race I’ve run—a fast, flat, easy-on-the-legs trail ultra in small-town America. Aside from Way Too Cool my four previous 50Ks nearly killed me, so it was a (literal) breath of fresh air to be able to get out in nature and simply enjoy running the distance for a change. KRTE was the perfect race for pandemic times. And it’s not every day you can run for five hours and go home with a personal record—though in this case, it just made sense.
After all, you can’t spell “Prairie” without a PR.
BOTTOM LINE: The Kansas Rails-to-Trails Extravaganza was the perfect race to help maintain my health, sanity and motivation in the midst of a global pandemic, as for five (near-freezing) hours I was able to forget the virus heard round the world. And if you’re a fan of low-key, small-town events that feature grain elevators as highlights, then this may be the perfect race for you in any year. With a population of around 12,000 residents, Ottawa is one of the smaller towns I’ve visited in my 100+ races—a bit ironic, given that my original choice for the Sunflower State was the Eisenhower Marathon in Abilene, a town half the size of Ottawa.
The bulk (24.6 miles) of the 50K course runs north/south on the comfortable crushed limestone of the Prairie Spirit Trail, book-ended by 5 miles at the start and 1.5 miles at the end on paved terrain. (The 100 Mile course covers the entirety of the PST.) It’s tough to imagine a much flatter or straighter course than this one. And though the rural route lets you decompress and breathe, the flip side is that you better enjoy time alone with your own thoughts, because there’s little in the way of distraction—no energetic spectators or musical bands, only amber waves of grain as far as the eye can see. Aside from aid station volunteers and a few folks crewing for other runners, most of the spectators had four legs, and most of the two-legged spectators had wings. With the trail stretching out ahead of you for miles at a time, you’ll swear you can see Nebraska to the north and Oklahoma to the south. At the same time, the unchanging scenery makes it challenging to gauge progress, which in turn makes it easier to surrender to fatigue and give yourself permission to walk. Kansas Rails-to-Trails is a “dig deep, find your inner bad-ass, and keep going” type of race.
I’m not typically a fan of out-and-backs, but in such a relaxed, laid-back setting I appreciated being able to see and lend support to my fellow runners. In that sense, KRTE provides the opportunity to be both competitive and sociable at the same time. How many races can say that?
For anyone who likes the sound but not the timing of the Kansas Rails-to-Trails Extravaganza, the Prairie Spirit Trail Ultra held each March is the spring edition of essentially the same race, minus October’s fall colors and the marathon/half marathon distances.
PRODUCTION: Race production was minimal and even more so during a pandemic. Everything about race weekend was easy peasy, from the start and finish lines separated by just a few yards alongside incongruously named Celebration Hall, to the outdoor packet pickup, to the staggered start times with each runner being assigned a starting window of ten minutes. (I was among the last runners to start at 8:15am and did so alone.) Three well-stocked (though widely spaced) aid stations awaited runners at miles 11 (out)/24 (back) and at the turnaround at mile 17.5, along with a couple of other unmanned “stations” which basically consisted of a stash of bottled water. With crew access limited to the three manned stations, carrying your own nutrition may not be a bad idea. And to help you prepare for race day, the organizers provide a detailed booklet which answers most of the questions you’re likely to ask.
According to TripAdvisor, the Old Depot Museum is the #1 Thing to Do in Ottawa
SWAG: Definitely a highlight of this low-frills event. Aside from the potential to set a personal record on its flat & speedy course, one reason I chose to run the 50K rather than the marathon was the promise of a belt buckle rather than the usual finisher’s medal—a minor detail to be sure, but nonetheless a silver lining on the dark cloud of a brutal pandemic/election year. And with Race Director Carolyn being kind enough to provide its own ribbon, the buckle now hangs proudly alongside the other medals on my 50 States Wall o’ Fame. With temperatures in the 30s and my brain awash in post-PR endorphins, I also had no qualms about buying a charcoal-and-green KRTE hoodie to match the standard short sleeve race tee. Both have turned out to be very comfy, even if I do live in Los Angeles where a heavy sweatshirt isn’t the savviest consumer purchase.
FINAL STATS: Oct 24, 2020 (start time 8:15 am) 31.12 miles in Ottawa, Kansas (state 31 of 50) Finish time & pace: 5:01:07 (first time running the Kansas Rails-to-Trails Extravaganza), 9:41/mile Finish place: 19 overall, 6/15 in M 40-49 age group Number of finishers: 104 (54 men, 50 women) Race weather: cloudy & cold (37°F) at the start and finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 320 ft gain, 325 ft loss Elevation min, max: 899 ft, 1,027 ft
And I ran, I ran so far away. – Flock of Seagulls (1982)
Saying good morning, good afternoon and good night to the Broadway Bridge
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, whose medal is the largest of them all?
This wasn’t quite my approach to choosing my first and (as it turns out) only marathon of 2020… but then again, if I could earn just one marathon medal for the year, why not make it the largest?
But let me take a step back…
As February 2020 drew to a close, life teetered on the brink of normalcy. News of a global outbreak caused by a novel coronavirus originating in Wuhan, China spread almost as rapidly as the pathogen itself. As Katie and I touched down at Bill and Hillary Clinton National Airport in Little Rock on Thursday, February 27, some 60 coronavirus cases had been reported in the United States. One day earlier, the Vice President had been appointed to lead the Coronavirus Task Force, nearly two months after the administration had first learned of the virus and one day after the CDC had reported that coronavirus disease 2019, or COVID-19, was approaching pandemic status. Given the administration’s own lethargic response to this new public health threat, clearly the rest of us had nothing to fear but fear itself… right?
As we had in Tulsa, Katie and I arrived well in advance of marathon weekend for good reason. After working with them to promote their 2020 event to our enthusiastic RaceRaves audience, the Chicks in Charge (CICs) of the Little Rock Marathon, co-directors Geneva Lamm and Gina Pharis, had graciously invited us to join them for their pre-race health & fitness expo Friday and Saturday. Having enjoyed our previous visit to Arkansas’ capital city for the Jacob Wells 3 Bridges Marathon, and having not yet had the chance to run one of the nation’s most popular marathons, we were quick to Jump at the chance to immerse ourselves in race weekend and share our passion with as many fellow runners as possible.
The Chicks In Charge get their Saturday party started (photo: Little Rock Marathon)
And so it was that on Friday morning we found ourselves in a happily familiar place, manning our RaceRaves booth at the two-day expo in the Statehouse Convention Center. There we were surrounded by nostalgic reminders, musical and otherwise, of the weekend’s “Totally Awesome” ‘80s theme. (A key part of Little Rock race weekend is the theme, which changes annually and which the CICs clearly enjoy bringing to life, starting with zany “theme reveal” videos such as this one for the 2020 event. A year earlier, the theme of “A Race Odyssey” had been downright prescient as hardy runners endured icy rain & snow on race day.) As you may sense from this recap, as a child of the ’80s I was happy to embrace the theme and Roll With It.
Although we’d be joined by fewer familiar faces than in Tulsa, we’d still meet plenty of cool new running friends in Little Rock, among them our next-door expo neighbor Amy, owner of Gypsy Runner. As the name of her company suggests, Amy and her husband travel the country running marathons and working a ton of race expos where they sell colorful, smartly designed women’s running apparel. And we met Tatum, who crackled with a frenetic energy as she spoke of wanting to run seemingly every race on the planet, her apparent Obsession counterbalanced by her stoic, military husband.
Katie all dressed up and 3 miles to go
Saturday began with a role reversal, as I enjoyed playing the noisy spectator cheering Katie in the home stretch of the Little Rock 5K, its hilly loop course leading runners past the nearby William J. Clinton Presidential Library and Museum. That left me ample time for my own short shakeout run through nearby neighborhoods before we headed back to our booth for day two of the expo.
As on Friday, we spent the day on our feet talking to runners and washing/sanitizing our hands regularly to minimize the chance of contracting a virus we all still knew very little about. What we did know was that one of the world’s most prestigious marathons, scheduled for that same weekend in Tokyo, had already canceled its open (that is, non-elite) race, which annually hosts upwards of 35,000 runners.
Though the novel coronavirus was just starting to make its presence felt here in the U.S., Tokyo was the canary in the coal mine and an ominous sign of things to come. While the collective mindset inside the Statehouse Convention Center could best be described as pre-emptively cautious (no runner wants to get sick before a race, after all) with heavy-duty water coolers set up in lieu of the communal water fountains, this American life rolled on. Later that morning, in fact, expo-goers gathered round to watch the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials live from Atlanta, where Galen Rupp and Aliphine Tuliamuk won the top spots on the men’s and women’s teams, respectively.
That evening, after an excellent pre-race carbo-loading session at Raduno Brick Oven & Barroom, we learned that the first U.S. death attributed to COVID-19 had been reported in Washington State. (The date of the first COVID-19 casualty would later be revised to February 6.) And less than a month later, the International Olympic Committee would announce that the 2020 Summer Olympic Games—also scheduled to be held in Tokyo—had been postponed for the first time since World War II.
Here I Go Again Sunday morning arrived with partly cloudy skies, temperatures in the high 50s, and rain in the forecast for late afternoon. In other words, ideal running weather. We’d lucked out, no doubt about it. I couldn’t help but feel this was Mother Nature saying “my bad” for the previous year’s ice storm.
Arkansas wouldn’t count as a new state for me, since I’d already run the Jacob Wells 3 Bridges Marathon in late 2018. Little Rock was simply a golden opportunity to run a race that had intrigued me for The Longest Time, even if I’d not been immediately sold on The Promise of its oversized medals.
At any rate, I had low expectations for my own performance in my first marathon of the year. I’d taken three weeks off in January to rest an injured heel and had run only one tune-up race at the Surf City Half Marathon a month earlier. There I’d maintained a leisurely pace alongside my brother Chuck, who was himself recovering from meniscus surgery. Add to that the 18 hours over two days I’d just spent on my feet at the expo, and my chances of Runnin’ Down a Dream on this Sunday were admittedly low. Even a four-hour finish felt like a stretch, but What You Need on race day is a realistic goal to chase and four hours seemed like my best bet.
Toward that end, I lined up in the not-too-crowded, not-too-sparse start corral alongside the four-hour pace group to give myself at least a fighting chance at my goal. I’d rather Push It a bit too hard and run out of steam early than start too slow and find myself desperately trying to make up time late in the race. Neither is a good look of course, but every marathon is a beast, and an awful lot can happen over the course of 26.2 miles.
Little Rock’s 26.2 miles started with an immediate ascent on a one-mile loop of the neighborhood, followed by a brief downhill respite as we approached the Broadway Bridge. Ironically, Broadway hadn’t been one of the three bridges I’d crossed during my previous marathon in the city, so already I felt like I was expanding my horizons and enjoying the full Little Rock experience.
Across the Broadway Bridge into North Little Rock, mile 2
Across the Arkansas River we ran, the bridge’s twin-arch superstructure soaring overhead against an unbroken ceiling of dense gray cloud cover. Reaching the quaint town of North Little Rock, we circled its attractive neighborhoods, passing cute homes and cute shops and plenty of red brick. As we cruised past the Diamond Bear Brewing Company—or as the bright blue letters on the side of the building announced it, “BEER OF ARKANSAS”—I thought, This would have made a great aid station for the home stretch. Clearly more than three months later, I still had Route 66 on the brain.
Looping back south and then west along Riverfront Drive, we enjoyed a ground-level view of the Broadway Bridge’s brilliant white arches above us. My lasting memory of North Little Rock would be our final right turn past nostalgic Dickey–Stephens Park, home of baseball’s Arkansas Travelers, Double-A affiliate of the Seattle Mariners. With its red-brick gable entrance and green awnings, the park—visible from our hotel room across the river—is a charming throwback that looks like it belongs in The Natural or A League of Their Own.
I was feeling decidedly ok as we retraced our steps across the Broadway Bridge. This certainly wasn’t the worst I’d ever felt on race day, and at this point that was good enough for me. Because for the first six miles my focus lay primarily with my convalescing right heel, which along with my right glute was a bit sore here to start. Normally this would have been enough to occupy my mind, but compounding the problem was my lack of marathon-specific training due to that same gimpy heel. And that, in turn, had me wondering if or (more likely) when in the next 3+ hours my body would suddenly betray me and {SPLAT} right into that physiological wall that marathoners know all too well.
For now, though, all I could do was run.
I felt about five drops of rain hit my skin. Uh oh, I thought, Here Comes the Rain Again. And then—nothing. Unlike the freezing rain and snow that left an indelible mark on 2019, those five drops would be the extent of our precipitation for the day.
Back in Little Rock, we passed an outdoor Soul Cycle class on stationary bikes—a cool touch I thought, despite one of the female cyclists holding up an ill-conceived sign that read, “Who said long and hard was such a bad thing?” Immediately the Michael Scott voice in my head wanted to blurt out, “That’s what she said!” Luckily my last name isn’t Scott, and so in my head it stayed.
Aside from two out-and-back stretches, most of the marathon course would consist of pleasant neighborhoods with frequent cheer support. While I don’t recall seeing (or hearing) a ton of spectators à la Boston or Tokyo, I did notice decent-sized crowds throughout the morning. And a few dedicated spectators showed up at several spots along the course, including one fellow who was recognizable at a glance by his prosthetic leg.
Soon after passing the Clinton Presidential Library & Museum we embarked on the first of those out-and-backs, a sparse and less than scenic two-mile stretch that started industrial but soon transitioned to wide-open, fenced-off fields as we approached Bill and Hillary Clinton National Airport. This was East Little Rock, but no matter the neighborhood there was no mistaking—this was Bubba’s town.
Turnaround time at Bill & Hillary Clinton National Airport, mile 7
Reaching the airport, we U-turned past a small-scale replica of a jet in flight and headed back the way we’d come. Here I surprised myself by inadvertently catching the 3:55 (projected finish time 3 hours, 55 minutes) pace group. Figuring what the heck, I decided to hang with them for as long as the pace felt comfortable.
Glancing across at the steady stream of oncoming runners headed toward the airport, I called out to fellow traveling runner Jim Diego, who’s not only completed a marathon in all 50 states but who has sung the national anthem in all 50 states as well. This was the first of two occasions I’d see Jim, both on out-and-backs, as his pastel ‘80s jazzercise outfit with curly black wig made him easy to spot even in a crowd of colorfully clad runners, many of them sporting ‘80s apparel of their own.
Leading the 3:55 pace group was a sinewy, tough-looking woman who seemed to know all her fellow pacers and half the spectators. She’d Shout out to someone coming in the other direction, then excitedly wave at a bystander and weave over to the side of the road for a high-five. Wow, I thought, this must be an awfully comfortable pace for her, otherwise that’s a lot of energy to waste over 26.2 miles. But she was the one holding the pace sign, and so naturally I assumed she knew what she was doing.
Turns out that was wishful thinking, as time would tell.
Cruising past MacArthur Park, mile 10
Nothin’ but a Good Time As the miles mounted my heel pain faded, my Legs loosened up, and I started to feel almost… good. Then again, what reasonably trained runner doesn’t feel good in the first half of a marathon? It wasn’t until the second half that I expected my legs to turn to stone like victims of Medusa’s gaze.
Someone after the race said there’d been folks offering communion along the course. And while that may be true, being a California heathen it’s possible I mistook the moment for a high-end aid station. (I’m guessing more than a few takers were tempted by the wine.)
What the context was I have no idea, but somewhere in the first half I glanced my favorite sign of the day hanging from a gate:
What do you do when you’re attacked by a gang of carnies? Go for the juggler!
Governor Asa Hutchinson greets runners with a smile and a fist bump, mile 11
In mile 11 we passed the Arkansas Governor’s Mansion, where Governor Asa Hutchinson himself stood outside the front gates fist-bumping runners as we passed. Regardless of your political views—and I’m sure the governor and I would disagree on plenty—this was a uniquely cool and memorable moment. And I’m confident Little Rock will be the first and only time I ever fist-bump a governor on a marathon course. I’ve run the California International Marathon twice now, a race that finishes at the State Capitol in Sacramento, and I’ve yet to see the governor rubbing elbows with the (literally) unwashed masses. So props to Governor Hutchinson for taking the time to say Hello and celebrate a bunch of sweaty, appreciative runners.
As usual, Katie was everywhere on race day. At times I almost felt as though I were running on an outdoor treadmill (minus the unchanging scenery) because every time I looked up, there she was. Eventually I’d lose track of how many times I’d seen her, since counting past three or four can be a challenge in the later miles of a marathon. (Note to potential spectators: she found the marathon course easy to navigate.)
Diverging briefly from the half marathoners in mile 12, we passed historic Central High School, where in 1957 nine black students—known collectively as the Little Rock Nine—were denied access to the school by the Arkansas National Guard and faced an angry mob of over 1,000 white protestors. Notably, this took place three years after the Supreme Court ruling in Brown v. Board of Education that segregation in public school was unconstitutional. And though the battle for racial justice clearly continues to this day, this particular standoff would end when President Eisenhower federalized the Arkansas National Guard and ordered the US Army’s 101st Airborne Division to escort the students into the school.
Historic Little Rock Central High School, mile 12
I reached the midway point in just under one hour 55 minutes; assuming a target finish time of less than four hours, this left me a nice cushion of nearly ten minutes for the second half. And I sensed I’d need all the cushion I could get.
We rejoined the half marathoners briefly on S Chester St before turning west again en route to the State Capitol. This was the only place along the course where I’d see a “Photographer ahead” sign, and sure enough the result was a great shot (as shots of me running go) with the Capitol dome framed in the background. Shout-out to the Chicks in Charge, whose route does a terrific job of hitting the city highlights.
Leaving the Capitol behind we started a steady 1.5-mile climb, the longest of the day. When asked whether their course is hilly, the CICs typically respond matter-of-factly: “What hills? It depends on your perspective. There are some bumps in the road, but life is full of bumps in the road.”
Running Up That Hill led us past one of my course highlights. Glancing to my right as we huffed and puffed our way up mile 16, I glimpsed the scoreboard that announced the “Arkansas School for the Deaf Leopards,” with matching sharp-toothed leopard heads facing off on either side of the scoreboard. You read that right—the mascot for the Arkansas School for the Deaf is… the leopard. What could be more perfect for an ‘80s-themed marathon??
But before anyone starts slinging accusations of trademark infringement, I should say the school adopted the leopard mascot well before the world was introduced to the British rock band that’s now enshrined in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. And in a fantastically meta moment that won the Interwebz, several members of the school got to meet Def Leppard in person and take a Photograph when the band performed in Little Rock in May 2016. How’s that for a happy ending?
The school sits adjacent to the Arkansas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired, and so together the two campuses provided much-needed inspiration for the toughest section of the course.
After mile 16, the course leveled out a bit before peaking near mile 17.5. What followed was a fast downhill alongside Allsopp Park that—nonintuitive as it may sound—quickly made me appreciate the gradual ascent that preceded it. Because nothing wakes up the quads quite like a steep downhill grade late in a marathon.
With that hammering of the quads, I could feel my legs growing heavier as we reached the most mentally punishing stretch of the day, the 5-mile out-and-back on Riverfront Drive (out) and the Arkansas River Trail (back). Struggling to maintain pace, I envisioned my body as an hourglass emptying over the course of 26.2 miles, gradually filling my legs with sand—not exactly the winning imagery I needed to keep me moving forward.
All smiles in Allsopp Park, mile 18
Eye of the Tiger Normally, I imagined, this would have been a verdant stretch of tree-lined road; now, though, in late winter it resembled more the setting for The Blair Witch Project, a seemingly endless stretch of largely leafless trees to our left and browned-out Rebsamen Park Golf Course to our right. No water was visible, though I knew the Arkansas River lay just beyond the golf course. So instead I focused on the task at hand and putting one foot in front of the other, knowing I’d need whatever fortitude I had left to avoid surrendering to fatigue.
Nearing mile 20, I heard someone Call Me from behind and glanced over my shoulder to see (who else?) Katie running toward me from about 30 yards away on the intersecting road, the last available drop-off point before I entered the park. My first impulse was to wave her off—selfish as it sounds, did I really have a Desire to stop and wait for her to catch up, knowing any further slowdown might mean I could Kiss four hours goodbye? My brain responded with a resounding YES—I wanted my bottle of Maurten sports drink for fuel and, more importantly, the rest of my 5-hour Energy from earlier in the morning. And a brief pause would do me good.
Having raced to catch me in street clothes and jacket, poor Katie struggled to catch her breath as I downed the 5-hour Energy, took possession of the bottle of Maurten, and rejoined the flow of foot traffic on Riverfront Drive.
Heading home along the Arkansas River Trail, mile 24
As I’d hoped it would, the 5-hour Energy had an immediate impact; I could feel both mind and body perk up, and each stride became a bit less labored. Meanwhile I sipped on the Maurten, at least until I dropped the top of the bottle a mile later and ended up sloshing most of the viscous liquid on myself, practically lacquering my Garmin in the process.
Luckily I could tell my body didn’t need the nutrition for the home stretch, and so I tossed the bottle at the mile 22 turnaround and focused instead on staying strong as we headed toward Home Sweet Home. It would be close, no doubt about it, but now that I’d worked so diligently to put myself in position for a surprising sub-4 finish, I needed to prove to myself I could seal the deal.
Heading back the way we’d come on the Arkansas River Trail, I shared a few words of encouragement with a fellow in Puerto Rico flag shorts. The Look on his face spoke of Physical exhaustion and for good reason, as he told me he’d paced the 4:10 group the day before at the Mississippi Blues Marathon in Jackson, a five-hour Drive from Little Rock. But he was appreciative of the support and still looked to be in good spirits, all things considered. Because when it comes to the marathon, nothing Hurts So Good.
Running Alone alongside the golf course I caught up to Tatum, who even in mile 23 of a marathon still emanated the same agitated energy we’d experienced at the expo two days earlier. In a frustrated tone she talked about her husband (who was running the half marathon) slowing her down in the first half. Moments later the 4:00 pacer passed us running by himself, which if you’re chasing a four-hour finish late in a marathon can feel like a shot to the solar plexus.
Tatum would have none of it. “Are you fucking KIDDING me?!” she demanded in exasperation. “I’m ahead of schedule,” he responded, which I’d sensed to be true with 2+ miles still to go. Then again, why was he running so far ahead of schedule when his sole responsibility was to maintain a reliable four-hour pace? Slowing down I could imagine as fatigue set in, but speeding up?
“Testament: The Little Rock Nine Monument” at the State Capitol
Soon after and just before the “first of the last uphills,” we passed my former Chief Motivating Officer, the 3:55 pacer with whom I’d run for roughly 11 miles. After all her earlier élan, she was now walking by herself, the 3:55 sign dangling from her hand. So far I was less than impressed by the pacing here today, though passing her did provide a momentary surge of adrenaline.
I’d known there’d be one last hill in mile 25, and as it turns out I was half right—there were actually two, neither of which were as bad as expected. Somewhere in the past three miles, in what’s normally the most brutal stretch of a marathon, I’d found my 6th or 7th wind. Now I was feeling relatively strong and eagerly anticipating The Final Countdown as our long but gratifying weekend in Little Rock neared its own finish line.
The L’Oreal Lipstick Stop at mile 26 (a clever diversion for runners who want to look great for their finish-line photos) was more understated than expected and could have benefited from some advance warning. Unfortunately I couldn’t spare the time 💋, but I felt good—check that, great—as I flew by the beautification station and along the final few undulations. Seeing Katie I clapped my hands and held up four fingers—chasing four hours had been a Thriller, but in the end I’d Beat It. Then I cruised through the familiar Marriott tunnel and heard my name announ—
Seeing a blur of movement in my peripheral vision, I glanced to my right to see Tatum go sprinting by like a Maniac with steely focus etched on her face, before crossing Down Under the colorful ‘80s finish arch just ahead of my official time of 3:58:08. I couldn’t imagine a more appropriate finish. And finally, I could Relax.
Even after 26.1 miles, my Katie radar remains as sharp as ever
I’m Still Standing What. A. Day. Beneath overcast skies, I was Walking on Sunshine as I passed a bell in the finish chute begging to be rung, though for what reason I couldn’t be sure: personal best? Boston Qualifying time? First time running Little Rock? Or maybe all of the above.
My attention quickly turned to the familiar face that greeted me as I exited the finish chute, and I thanked/congratulated Geneva (one of the Chicks In Charge) on an Epic, Totally Awesome race day. Then I moseyed ahead into the convention center ballroom where post-race activities awaited, pausing on the way to gratefully accept the spoils of a jog well run—the pride & joy of the Little Rock Marathon.
The ginormous, glittery finisher’s medal was even more ginormous and glittery than I’d envisioned, and more beautiful too in a garishly ‘80s sort of way. Though I’m a bit mortified to admit it after 40+ marathons (and I blame the finish-line endorphins), a child-like giddiness washed over me, manifested by an even-goofier-than-normal grin at having finally earned the nation’s largest, blingiest medal. I know some runners complain the medal is too big, too heavy, too showy, too this, too that, too much. I get it, and at one time I might’ve been one of them. But as I sit here typing and occasionally glancing up to see my Little Rock Marathon medal playing remarkably well with the other medals on my wall, I Can’t Fight This Feeling and now count myself squarely among the believers.
Pretty in pink—as spectators go, she stole the show
A word of advice to prospective Little Rock runners deciding between the full and half marathon: if you’re able to train your body to run 26.2 miles, then Whip It into shape and do it. The marathon course includes Central High School and the State Capitol, and while those last 13.1 miles don’t come easy, you’ll know you made the right decision when it comes time to claim your heavy medal, which is twice the size of the (still impressive) half marathon medal. Because the only thing worse than FOMO is the actual MO.
With my legs and core muscles already wiped out from my morning tour of the city, every step taken with that medal hanging around my neck was a full-body workout. I kept reminding myself to lift with my legs, not with my back as I wound my way through the indoor finisher’s area where chocolate milk, soft drinks, bananas and pizza awaited us, the latter of which I avoided due in part to COVID-19 concerns. Our finisher status also afforded us two free Michelob Ultras, though few people seemed to be taking advantage of that particular perk.
Here I traded “How’d it go?” updates with our expo neighbor Amy from Gypsy Runner, who’d apparently finished close behind me. And I had the chance to congratulate my friend in the Puerto Rico flag shorts, who after pacing 4:10 the day before had finished the second of his back-to-back marathons in a strikingly consistent 4:07. Two days, two marathons. I could empathize.
Once through the line Katie greeted me with Open Arms—we hadn’t seen each other in 15 minutes, after all. Then I settled into a chair in the crowded ballroom to take a load off (i.e. remove the medal) and gather my wits as a big-screen TV broadcast live footage from the finish line. After running 26.2 miles, to sit and do absolutely nothing feels Just Like Heaven. As I sat unwilling to move, volunteers made the rounds offering hot dogs and breakfast burritos wrapped in foil. It was a comfortable, climate-controlled post-race venue. And it wasn’t long before I felt Closer to Fine.
Big Time: Holding down the finish line with the legendary Bart Yasso
After a long and blissful rest, I pulled myself to my feet and we circled back outside to the finish line. There with microphone in hand, long-time running icon Bart Yasso was welcoming and encouraging the last few finishers across the line. Affectionately dubbed the Mayor of Running, Bart is a wonderful guy and one of the sport’s greatest ambassadors, even in “retirement.” And if Little Rock is any indication, he still brings plenty of enthusiasm to every race he announces.
Back upstairs in our room a short time later, I asked the question that needed no answer:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, whose medal is the largest of them all?
Our nostalgic weekend in Little Rock left me with a fairy-tale feeling, an afterglow that would prove short-lived with the awful realization that where 2020 was concerned, there’d be no happily ever after. The next weekend we volunteered at our hometown Los Angeles Marathon, where 20,000+ finishers unknowingly bid farewell to normalcy as they crossed the last urban finish line of the year. Days later, races across the U.S. began to cancel en masse as the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a pandemic, one which as I write has claimed more than 540,000 American lives. And finally, one year later, thanks to science many of us are finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel… while anxiously hoping it’s not just another Crazy Train headed our way.
But life is a much bigger story than I came here to tell. Aside from leaving Arkansas with painfully chapped hands thanks to all the washing, Little Rock was a Straight Up success and as Totally Awesome as advertised. And that’s in large part because the CICs recognize a fundamental truth.
No matter what distance they run, guys and Girls Just Want to Have Fun.
BOTTOM LINE: If I were to sum up a terrific Little Rock weekend in one pithy statement, I’d say the medal is large and the Chicks are In Charge. And if I could earn only one non-virtual marathon medal for all of 2020 (which unexpectedly turned out to be the case), I’m glad I earned it in Little Rock. Arkansas’ capital city may be renowned among marathoners for its intimidatingly large finisher’s medal, but while every race does need something to hang its hat on, the truth is that Little Rock’s appeal goes well beyond the bling.
I wrote a bit about the city itself in my recap of the Jacob Wells 3 Bridges Marathon, but one of the coolest things about Little Rock is that unlike 3 Bridges, which runs mainly along the tree-lined Arkansas River Trail, the city’s namesake marathon treats its runners to a living, breathing history lesson. The course passes Little Rock Central High School (which in 1957 became the epicenter in the battle for forced desegregation), the State Capitol, the Clinton Presidential Library and Museum, the governor’s mansion, and even the Arkansas School for the Deaf with its leopard mascot (hence the deaf leopards, which totally fit with the weekend’s ‘80s theme). As urban marathon courses go, Little Rock is high on the list and particularly among mid-size cities. I’m even willing to forgive the two ho-hum out-and-backs from miles 6–8 and 19–24, since finding 26.2 miles of runnable roads typically requires some ingenuity.
Oh, and a word of advice for anyone deciding between the full and half marathon in Little Rock: if you have the training to run either, this is a no-brainer. Only the 26.2-mile course passes Central High School and the State Capitol… and though you may question the wisdom of your decision in the closing miles, all skepticism will fade once you cross the finish line and get your mitts on the nation’s largest and blingiest medal. Because the only thing worse than FOMO is the actual MO.
A year later, I admit our Route 66 and Little Rock weekends—separated by just over three months—tend to blend together, forming a memorable mid-size marathon smoothie in my brain. Then again, that’s a compliment to both since each features a festive atmosphere, top-notch organization & competence on the part of the race staff, a comfortable post-race gathering venue, great swag, and a lively Southern host city with its own Hurts Donut shop. And even though Little Rock is a city of bridges, the one brief section of the Route 66 marathon course that actually runs on Route 66 also happens to cross a bridge. So it’s understandable I might mix and match the two races in my head at times (luckily I’m a meticulous note-taker). My recommendation would be that you visit both cities and run each race for yourself to see how they compare In Your Eyes. The truth is you can’t go wrong with either, and I’d argue that both will quickly earn Your Love.
As you may expect in Downtown Little Rock there’s no shortage of lodging options, chief among them the uber-convenient Little Rock Marriott, which borders the start & finish line and which shares a building with the Statehouse Convention Center, home to the pre-race expo.
PRODUCTION: Event Directors Geneva Lamm & Gina Pharis (aka the Chicks In Charge, or CICs) and their team know how to throw a 26.2-mile party and have a fabulous time doing it. Case in point their carefully crafted, always creative event theme (2020’s was “Totally Awesome” ‘80s) which changes annually but which never disappoints, and which the CICs clearly put their heart & soul into bringing to life. Seeing the two of them dancing atop the riser alongside the start line on race day, silhouetted against the rising sun with megaphone in hand, felt like the perfect start to my first and (as it turns out) only marathon of the year. And the two deserved to enjoy the fruits of their year-long labor, as race weekend itself was organizationally flawless, from the high-energy expo to the historic course (see above) to the comfortable post-race celebration inside the Little Rock Marriott where volunteers strolled the room offering exhausted runners hot dogs and breakfast burritos. The indoor venue in particular was a strong finishing touch, since Little Rock weather in early March tends to be less than totally awesome.
SWAG: Ask any traveling runner about Little Rock, and the first thing you’re likely to hear about is the finisher’s medal. It’s unabashedly ginormous and hefty with plenty of sparkle, and you can expect a solid core workout if you plan to showcase it proudly around your neck. (Given this year’s “Alice in Wonderland” theme, I hope the CICs model the medal after the White Rabbit’s pocket watch so the post-race gathering resembles a Flavor Flav fan convention.) Each year on the first weekend of March, the Little Rock medal elicits an outpouring of oohs and aahs on social media from amazed/envious/horrified commenters. And I heard several runners admit they opted to run the full marathon rather than the half based simply on the size of the medal, training be damned—because whether you race to collect shiny hardware or do it strictly for the purity of competition, few things trigger such inexplicable FOMO as the Little Rock Marathon medal. Don’t ever let a runner tell you size doesn’t matter.
Participants also received a short-sleeve race tee that fits nicely and… wait, did I mention the medal?
FINAL STATS: Mar 1, 2020 (start time 8:00 am) 26.41 miles in Little Rock, Arkansas Finish time & pace: 3:58:08 (first time running the Little Rock Marathon), 9:01/mile Finish place: 184 overall, 20/112 in M 45-49 age group Number of finishers: 1,389 (738 men, 651 women) Race weather: partly cloudy & cool (57°F) at the start, cloudy & cool at the finish Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 637 ft gain, 641 ft loss Elevation min, max: 230 ft, 488 ft
Heroes come and go, but legends are forever. – Kobe Bryant
Kobe & Gianna celebrate the Lakers’ 2009 championship (Use the slider to compare photo & mural)
On January 26, 2020, a helicopter carrying NBA Hall of Famer Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna and seven others crashed into a hillside in Calabasas, CA, killing everyone aboard. The tragic news sent my hometown of Los Angeles reeling and left the world at large in a state of denial and disbelief. A year later, the shock of Kobe’s sudden passing at age 41 still feels all too surreal at a time when surreal has quickly become the norm.
Individuals across the globe paid tribute to Kobe and Gianna in the traumatic aftermath of their death; as a lifelong basketball (albeit Boston Celtics) fan, I did so myself here on the blog. Among the most visible and heartfelt of all the Kobe tributes, though, have been those we see while driving around Los Angeles, where Kobe played his entire 20-year NBA career with theLakers and where he became the only player in NBA history to have two jersey numbers (8 and 24) retired by the same team.
On walls across LA and surrounding cities, creative and colorful murals celebrating Bryant’s life and career have sprung up like flowers in the spring. After noticing one or two of these murals downtown during Los Angeles Marathon weekend last March, and as a huge fan of urban street art, I made it my mission to visit as many as possible. Which, as it turns out, is no insignificant undertaking. Because despite my own personal PTSD and my keen awareness that Kobe was SoCal’s favorite son and a global icon, still I underestimated the collective emotional impact of his death.
According to KobeMural.com (the definitive online guide to Kobe Bryant murals), there are currently 325 tribute murals in the U.S.—247 in Southern California alone—plus 112 others in 30+ countries. This number is constantly changing as new murals are added and old murals are replaced. Many of these are located on busy streets like Hollywood Blvd, Melrose Ave and Pico Blvd, and if there has been a silver lining to the past ten months, it’s the opportunity this pandemic has afforded us to appreciate these murals sans LA’s notorious traffic. Many of the murals, like Kobe’s legacy, are (much) larger than life, and I’ve taken more than a few photos now while standing in the middle lanes of a normally bustling thoroughfare—the kind of move that, under normal circumstances, would swiftly remove me from the gene pool.
Given Kobe’s unique combination of single-minded focus, professional success, global popularity, and two-decade tenure with Hollywood’s team, it’s difficult to imagine another pro athlete whose untimely death would inspire such a heartfelt outpouring of grief, love and reverence. As @banditgraffiti (one of the artists featured below) notes, “In my years being in Los Angeles, I’ve never witnessed so much unity and respect from the community.” Granted I’ve only lived here for eight years, but I’d have to agree.
Here I share my personal top 50 Kobe Bryant tribute murals from the nearly 120 we’ve visited to date; click on any mural to view a higher-resolution image. I’d recommend KobeMural.com to see hundreds more—some wildly impressive—from around the world. These murals celebrate not only Kobe, Gigi and the seven others aboard that helicopter who left us too soon, but likewise the incredibly talented artists and luminaries who live and work here in the City of Angels. They’re all shining examples of why Los Angeles is the most creative city in the world and why I love LA.
Kobe Bryant may be gone… but long live Kobe Bryant.
(Got a favorite mural of your own? I’d love to hear from you in the comments below!)
This group of murals focuses the spotlight on the man himself.
A tribute to Kobe’s otherworldly talent as 5x NBA champion and Oscar-winning producer 100 N La Brea Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @leviponce
The Japanese characters beneath “Little Tokyo” translate to “Los Angeles,” and the five purple flowers around Kobe’s head represent his five NBA titles 236 S Los Angeles St (inside), Los Angeles, CA Artist: @sloe_motions
Kobe’s metamorphosis from High School All-American to 2x U.S. Olympic gold medalist to NBA Hall of Famer 408 Broadway, Santa Monica, CA Artist: @gz.jr
Kobe celebrates one of his five NBA championships near the border of Beverly Hills 470 N Doheny Dr, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @bournrich
Kobe scored 60 points in his final NBA game, then concluded his farewell speech with “Mamba out” 490 N Beverly Dr, Beverly Hills, CA Artist: @jgoldcrown
An iconic pose reproduced on several Kobe tribute murals 501 W Arbor Vitae St, Inglewood, CA Artist: @jacrispy_signcompany
This lifelike masterpiece celebrates Kobe’s fifth and final NBA championship in 2010 Grand Central Market, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @never1959
A pensive 18-time NBA All-Star watches over East LA 1060 N Fickett St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @velaart
I can’t hear you, Los Angeles! 1626 S Hill St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @artchemists
The man, the Mamba, and five championship rings 2200 East Cesar E Chavez Avenue, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @velaart
Kobe and his five Larry O’Brien NBA Championship Trophies 2429 W Jefferson Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @sloe_motions
Sometimes the simplest statements say the most 2615 Wilshire Blvd, Santa Monica, CA Artist: @the_rev_carl
Kobe shows off his championship ring (Note the “Mambacita 2” tribute to Gianna in starry-sky styling) 5220 Valley Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @melanymd
“Forever Kobe” turns heads in Mid-City 5414 W Pico Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @toonsone44
“Mamba Forever”: Kobe basks in the spotlight of his fifth and final NBA championship in 2010 6454 Lankershim Blvd, North Hollywood, CA Artist: @banditgraffiti
Look closely: An iconic above-the-rim moment immortalized in 413 triangles 7725 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @jc.ro
One of many amazing Kobe tributes from @gz.jr, the man was 🔥 in 2020 7753 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @gz.jr
Located outside Black-owned Sorella Boutique, this mural remained untouched during the protests that followed George Floyd’s death 7829 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @paintedprophet
“LAgends Never Die” 8495 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA Artist: @muckrock
This mural evokes Michael Jordan’s iconic Nike “Wings” photo, with an infinity symbol in place of Kobe’s #8 11705 Ventura Blvd, Studio City, CA Artist: @gabegault
Another photorealistic creation from Jonas Never, located near Staples Center 1336 Lebanon St, Los Angeles, CA (across from LA Convention Center) Artist: @never1959
Murals of Kobe & Gianna
These murals celebrate Kobe as #GirlDad with daughter Gigi, who was herself an up-and-coming baller.
Guardians of the City of Angels 400 W Pico Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @sloe_motions
A tribute so nice, we had to visit it twice 1251 South La Brea Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @mrbrainwash
“Heart of a Legend” on Watts Civic Center (Note the distinctive Watts Towers, shown in the top half) Watts Civic Center (1501 E 103rd St), Los Angeles, CA Artist: @pequebrown
In memory of Kobe, Gianna and the seven other victims, Orange County 512 W 19th St, Costa Mesa, CA Artist: @andaluztheartist
“The Mamba Mentality Lives On” 519 S Fairfax Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @hijackart
Kobe & Gigi sport a version of the “Back 2 Back” jacket he wore (in his pre-Mamba days) after consecutive championships in 2000 and 2001 614 Mateo St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @gabegault
“Legends Are Forever” 800 E 4th Pl, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @royyaldog
Moving Heaven and Earth 1053 S Hill St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @enkone
The mandala adds a spiritual dimension to this “Mamba out” mural 1348 Flower St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @aiseborn
Kobe Bryant, forever a #GirlDad 1361 S Main St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @sloe_motions, @sensaegram
The rim-as-halo effect makes this mural 1602 Cherry Ave, Long Beach, CA Artist: @dannyssignslbc
“City of Angels” (though that wing hugging Gigi’s right shoulder is off-putting) 2450 S La Cienega Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @artoon_art
The heart of a champion runs in the family 1921 N Highland Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @alex_ali_gonzalez
My personal favorite #GirlDad mural, despite a tiny “oops”: the year on Kobe’s towel mistakenly ends in “0,” though the scene shows the two celebrating the Lakers’ 2009 championship 2471 Whittier Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @downtowndaniel
The silhouette of Kobe (24) & Gigi (2) in their jerseys with backs to the viewer is a common theme 3515 Wilshire Blvd (Koreatown), Los Angeles, CA Artist: @muckrock
“You asked for my hustle, I gave you my heart” 5325 W Pico Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @1.4.4.0
It’s all here: Kobe’s championship mindset, Kobe & Gigi silhouetted with halos, plus the Black Mamba 5745 Tujunga Ave, North Hollywood, CA Artist: @nessie_blaze
Note the purple-&-gold outpouring of love & respect from bereaved fans 7753 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @banditgraffiti
“The Dreamer & The Believer” 7751 1/2 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @paintedprophet
Looking to the heavens one last time 11459 Ventura Blvd, Studio City, CA Artist: @artoon_art
Murals of Kobe & Others
These murals includes familiar faces such as fellow NBA greats as well as rapper, activist and entrepreneur Nipsey Hussle, a fellow Angeleno who was gunned down in South-Central LA in March 2019.
“Bend the Knee” may be my favorite Kobe tribute mural with its portrayal of former teammates and rivals, complemented by the Black Mamba at bottom 5873 W 3rd St, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @gz.jr
Kobe vs. Michael, a rivalry in triangles… and don’t miss this cool effect 1803 S Western Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @jc.ro
Trading places: The legendary Vin Scully as Laker, Kobe as Dodger (unfinished) 1124 S Atlantic Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @sloe_motions
“Leave a Legacy” celebrates the Lakers’ 2020 title, their 17th; Kobe sits atop the mural with trophy in lap 5522 Venice Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @gz.jr, @flaxworx
Kobe and Nipsey Hussle look out on Obama Blvd in South-Central LA 5791 Obama Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @jayo_v, @justcreatedit
Lakers legends past & present: Kobe dishes to LeBron on Hollywood Blvd 6544 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @artoon_art
Mamba out: Passing the torch on a championship tradition 10864 La Grange Ave, Los Angeles, CA Artist: @gz.jr, @flaxworx
Blisters, Cramps & Heaves 