Archive for the ‘Marathons’ Category

There are two noble things in life: one to do charity and other to look after your body.
– Fauja Singh, i.e. the “Turbaned Tornado” and the only centenarian to run a marathon

(Happy birthday, Mom! What proud mother doesn’t want a 7,000-word blog post for her birthday?)

We Run For Houston sign at the Houston Marathon expo

As the bumper sticker tells it, “I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.” California may be my birth place and current home, but I grew up in Texas. Almost all of my first 23 years were spent in the Lone Star State, including 14 in the suburbs of Dallas and another four as an undergrad at Rice University in Houston.

I’ve been told (with a wink and a smile) I’m a terrible Texan, and I can’t disagree — I’ve never owned a pair of boots, have no discernible accent (Mom is from Colorado, Dad was from Boston) and am a liberal, BBQ-averse vegetarian. So you might think Texas and I have our irreconcilable differences. But in the case of me and my home state, opposites really do attract… or maybe it’s more like a case of Stockholm Syndrome? In any case, I have a curious but unshakeable affinity for the state that gave the world Crazy Rick Perry and “Lyin’ Ted” Cruz — though certainly not the same affinity I have for California.

In fact, noted Californian John Steinbeck may have best summarized what it means to be a Texan, saying, “I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion…. Texas is the obsession, the proper study, and the passionate possession of all Texans.”

I recognize, too, that much of this nostalgia for my home state stems from my four years spent at Rice, a nerdy blue oasis of letters and science in an otherwise red desert of football fanaticism.

Mike Sohaskey at Rice University

Growing up a basketball player, I didn’t transition from team sports until I reached the West Coast — I had run some shorter races in Texas, but never anything longer than a half marathon. So when I embarked on my current quest to run a marathon (or longer) in all 50 states, my home state was understandably high on my “looking forward to” list. I knew I wanted to do something different, something special to celebrate my homecoming and set it apart from the other 49 states. Something worthy of the popular refrain that “Everything’s bigger in Texas.” But what that was, I had no idea.

Then came Hurricane Harvey. And in the blink of an eye, that popular refrain mutated from tongue-in-cheek promise to nightmarish reality.

Over the course of several days in August, Harvey dropped over 60 inches (roughly 20 trillion gallons) of rain on Southeast Texas, causing catastrophic flooding, 104 confirmed deaths and a reported $125 billion in damage. All of which made it the single largest rainstorm and one of the costliest natural disasters in US history, with a monetary toll comparable to Hurricane Katrina.

The totals are too mind-boggling for most of us to wrap our heads around. By comparison, it takes more than four years for my hometown of Los Angeles to accumulate that much rain. Watching the news coverage in helpless disbelief as scene after scene of watery devastation played out across Houston, I realized my best chance to help the city I’d called home for four years was by running — not away from the problem, but toward it.

With large swaths of the Bayou City underwater and less than 20% of homeowners having flood insurance, it quickly became apparent that once the camera crews departed and the daily coverage subsided, the hard work of getting the nation’s fourth-largest city back on its feet would begin. And for many, the fight to pick up the pieces left behind by Harvey would be the uphill battle of their lives.

Texas flag in floodwaters caused by Hurricane Harvey

(photo: Ralph Barrera / Austin American-Statesman)

Running for a Reason
With the Houston Marathon scheduled for mid-January, the timing was ideal for me to plan and execute my own version of the Texas two-step: running and recovery. So in September I made the decision to run marathon #30 in state #19 while raising funds for Hurricane Harvey relief. And the organization I chose to support was the Houston Food Bank.

With 64 potential charity partners in the Houston Marathon’s “Run for a Reason” program, why the Food Bank? Honestly, the choice was easy. One reality I can’t wrap my head around is the fact that in America in the year 2018, there are still many individuals who don’t know where their next meal is coming from. No citizen of the wealthiest nation on the planet should ever face food insecurity, and yet 1 in 8 do. Katie and I have volunteered at food banks in California and appreciate the excellent work they do with scarce resources. So when I decided to support the hurricane relief efforts, the Houston Food Bank appealed to me as a top-rated charity that addresses a dire need and does it with unrivaled efficiency, given that every dollar donated provides a full day of meals for a child, adult or senior.

What’s more, I knew running for the Food Bank would help fuel my fundraising efforts. Because anyone who’s tried can tell you: fundraising is hard. No one ever likes to reach out to friends and family to ask for money. But when you’re all in and deeply committed to the cause, that commitment makes all the difference. And ensuring people have enough to eat — plus the dignity that comes with food security — is a cause I’m proud to get behind.

At the same time, I wasn’t naïve. Harvey may have been the worst hurricane of 2017 in terms of its financial toll, but it certainly wasn’t the only one. Irma and Maria followed in rapid succession, slamming into Florida and the Caribbean and, in the case of Maria, marking the worst natural disaster in Puerto Rico’s history. Add to that the devastating wildfires in Northern and Southern California as well as drought, hailstorms, tornadoes and other extreme weather, and 2017 ended as the most expensive year ever for the United States in terms of natural disasters, with a record $306 billion price tag.

Chevron Houston Marathon cookies

If 2017 were a movie, it may well have been titled “Mother Nature Strikes Back.” And one sad-but-true consequence of nature’s extended wrath was that Americans began to experience “natural disaster fatigue,” for lack of a better term. People wanted to help, but quickly became overwhelmed by the number of worthwhile individuals and organizations asking for their money. So rather than a straightforward appeal to “I run, you donate,” I opted for something a bit different.

I wanted something fun and interesting, but not too gimmicky. And I wanted this to be a legitimate marathon, one in which I’d (literally) be able to put my best foot forward. So no joggling, no running backward, nothing cutesy enough to land me in a Runner’s World newsletter. Then I remembered how, several years earlier, another runner had raised money with a compelling twist: he had been the last runner to start the marathon, and had asked friends and colleagues to pledge based on their estimate for the number of runners he would pass along the 26.2-mile course. The more runners he passed, the more money he raised.

Immediately I loved the idea, in large part because it suited my temperament. Sure, I could run a mediocre marathon and still raise a meaningful amount for the Food Bank. But by running harder and faster I’d raise even more, with the total amount hinging on my own performance. And hopefully my “fundraising with a twist” strategy would get the attention of runners and non-runners alike, who would find the idea offbeat and compelling enough to donate. I was sold.

If I were to do this, it was important to me that I first gain the approval of the Houston Marathon organizers. Thankfully I was able to score an introduction to the Executive Director of the Houston Marathon Committee, who after some back-and-forth signed off on my strategy, with one caveat: coincidentally, the Committee would be featuring its own official “Last Man Starting,” a fellow from Houston with a 2:32 marathon PR who would be running to raise funds for the Houston Marathon Foundation. And so I agreed to replace “Last Man Starting” in my outreach with the phrase “starting at the very back of the pack,” since the latter sounded better than the more honest “First Man Passed.”

Houston Marathon Last Man Starting promotion

With the logistics worked out, I launched my campaign with an ambitious goal of $5,000. Soon I was fortunate to have my story featured by my alma mater in Rice News as well as by KHOU 11, the CBS affiliate in Houston.

Then I turned my attention to the race itself. And while fundraising turned out to be a laborious and time-consuming process, it would be the tip of the iceberg compared to the training that followed. My determination to give Houston everything I had inspired me to train… and train… and train. Smartly to be sure, keeping my fast runs fast and my slow runs slow, but at a higher intensity than ever before.

Whereas I’d reached 70 miles in a single week on only a handful of occasions before November, for 6 of the last 12 weeks leading up to Houston my training volume exceeded 70 miles. I even topped out at 80 miles to celebrate the last week of the year, three weeks before race day. (Many thanks to speedy running buddy Krishna for sharing his excellent training logs and advice on which I based my own regimen.)

I needed to ensure my legs were ready for the dodge-and-weave, stop-and-start running that awaited them. I still remembered the Walt Disney World Marathon three years earlier, where I’d effectively dashed from one character photo stop to the next. By the time I’d crossed the finish line, my quads were so toasted they practically had smoke rising from them. So I had to be ready to run on tired, heavy legs.

Because I’d never have another shot like this.

Houston Marathon banners downtown

Houston, we have a challenge
A wintry blast of reality greeted our arrival in Houston on a bitterly cold Friday evening. Twelve hours later, motivated in large part by a desire to generate heat and stay warm, Katie notched her personal best at Saturday morning’s ABB 5K. The weekend’s kickoff event was nicely organized and well attended despite the chill, with high energy and closely packed start corrals. I quickly found a small patch of sunlight to warm me as I watched and waited for Katie at the mile 3 marker.

After a celebratory brunch, we headed back to the George R. Brown (GRB) Convention Center (site of the 5K start line) for the easily navigated expo and packet pickup (see “Production” below). Thanks to RaceRaves, we’d been fortunate to be invited on the Houston Marathon Industry Tour, hosted by the Executive Director of the Houston Marathon Committee and joined by several race directors and running industry insiders.

Katie ringing PR bell for Houston Marathon 5K

Katie answered the PR bell in the ABB 5K

On the tour we were treated to an eye-opening, behind-the-scenes glimpse into life behind the curtain on race day. We visited the United Command Center (the hub of all race-day communications), media center, medical facilities, check-in/hospitality room for elite athletes, and finally the enormous ground floor of the GRB where — as I’d experience for myself the next day — finishers are directed in a one-way flow from the finish chute at one end of the convention center to the family reunion zone at the other. And I gained a new-found respect and appreciation for the remarkable choreography that goes into producing a world-class event like the Houston Marathon.

As amazing as the tour was, though, the most memorable part of the day was still to come. Because immediately following the tour was the Skechers pre-race party featuring the debut of the new documentary “Meb: The Home Stretch,” which chronicles the final year of Meb Keflezighi’s storied career as America’s greatest marathoner. And Meb himself was in attendance, along with his brother Hawi and fellow Skechers elite athlete Kara Goucher.

RaceRaves co-founders Mike and Katie with Meb and Kara Goucher

With Kara Goucher and Meb at the Skechers pre-race party

During the Q&A, with no one else raising their hand, I asked Meb about his bold decision to break away from the lead pack during his Boston Marathon victory in 2014, the year after the bombings. And when the moment arrived for a face-to-face with two of running’s biggest stars — well, I could relate to Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” when he finally meets Santa, as I imagined myself staring blankly into Meb’s eyes, nodding my head dumbly and mumbling, “Yeah, football.” I half-expected him to turn to an associate and say, “Ok, get him out of here.”

But as anyone who’s ever met Meb or Kara can attest, both were genial and down-to-earth, and each took the time to chat with every last running geek who lined up to meet them. This was even cooler given that I first started running in Skechers after the 2016 LA Marathon, in large part because of Meb, and have happily worn them ever since.

Sure, in retrospect maybe I did spend too much time on my feet the day before one of the biggest races of my life. On the other hand, maybe our busy Saturday was smart strategery, since that night’s pre-race sleep was one of my best ever at nearly seven hours (!). And I awoke on Sunday morning feeling more relaxed than usual. It helped that our hotel was conveniently located within easy walking distance of the start line. That, together with the fact I’d be starting behind all but one runner, meant I could sleep in until essentially the last minute since I didn’t have to worry about fighting the crowds in the start corrals.

The morning was even colder than predicted (mid 30s) as we made the short walk to join corral “D” queuing outside Minute Maid Park, home of the World Series champion Astros. The first rays of sunrise reflected off the towering glass facades, bathing downtown Houston in a warm orange glow. Unfortunately, that would be the only warmth available as I waited for some sign of forward motion from the densely packed crowds.

At the back of the pack at the Houston Marathon start line

If you squint a bit, you can just make out the blue start line arch ahead

There I stood in my Texas flag shorts alongside a bundled-up Katie, waiting and shivering, shivering and waiting — though I didn’t realize the extent of my shivering until I glanced down at my iPhone to see the “You will not receive notifications while driving” warning. I hadn’t been in a car for 36 hours.

Around me, runners dressed like Arctic explorers prepared for a very different marathon experience than my own. Which, in turn, reminded me that this was a very different marathon experience than my previous 29. Typically I’d wiggle my way as close to the front of the corral as possible. Here, though, I waited with growing anticipation as runners like “No Train Dane” (according to his bib) loaded into the corral ahead of me…

… until at last the moment arrived. I ducked into the corral just ahead of the course sweepers with their large, unmistakable balloons. One of them saw the back of my shirt and thanked me for what I was doing. The mass of runners crept forward like a human amoeba as I glanced over at the last line of porta-potties and realized… I’ve gotta go. Delaying the inevitable now would only sabotage my mission later.

Quickly I exited the corral and waited with the last remaining stragglers as the sweepers issued a two-minute warning: “You have one or two minutes, if you’re not ahead of us at the start line your time won’t count!” Nothing motivates quite like fear, and the door to the porta-potty may not even have fallen shut before I’d rejoined the caravan now moving smoothly toward the start. Glancing to my right, I saw a slender fellow smiling on the sidelines and sporting a bright orange “LAST MAN STARTING” singlet. Then the long cold wait was over, and embracing my role as “first man passed,” I crossed the start line 53 minutes and 47 seconds after the gun. The orange singlet would follow 17 seconds later, though I never saw him pass.

The nation’s tenth-largest marathon was underway. And the chase was on.

Finally starting the Houston Marathon

That orange singlet is the marathon’s official “Last Man Starting” crossing the start line

The first 13.1: finding flow
No sooner had I high-fived Katie at the start than my eyes immediately began to scan the scene ahead of me, darting back and forth, looking for openings. Like a running back on the football field I’d see an opening, accelerate slightly to hit the hole quickly, and then zig or zag to avoid the next moving obstacle.

My plan was to target a net finish time of 3 hours, 30 minutes (average pace 8:00/mile) while passing 5,000 marathoners, the latter number being based on our analysis of Houston Marathon finisher results from the past several years. Unfortunately, that same analysis had predicted a more reasonable 37-minute lag time between the opening gun and my own start, so the extra 17 minutes certainly wouldn’t help my cause. And another key variable we’d forgotten to take into account: not only would 7,000+ marathoners be starting ahead of me but also 11,000 half marathoners, many of whom I’d have to pass but none of whom would count toward my fundraising totals.


Mike Sohaskey dodging and weaving at the Houston Marathon start

Looks like that guy in the shorts had a wardrobe malfunction

Studies have shown that the optimal race-day temperature for elite marathoners is in the high 30s, with that number rising for slower runners — the faster you run, the more heat you need to dissipate. I’ve run my best finish times in roughly 50-degree temperatures, so Houston’s chill was suboptimal for my SoCal-trained physiology. And it showed, as I could feel my legs taking longer than usual to loosen up and relax.

In the tightly packed spaces of the early miles, a series of on-the-fly decisions informed every step: How much room between me and my next target? How long should I wait before making my move? Can I hit that hole before it closes? Can I squeeze by without getting in anyone else’s way? What’s my margin of error? What is the runner ahead of me — and to my left, and to my right — going to do next? Should I be running on the left or right side of the course? Aid station ahead, veer left!

A key factor in my racing strategy would be to avoid riding the brakes, since doing so decreases the mileage in your legs just as surely as it does the gas mileage of your car. Now, as traffic ebbed and flowed around me, I tried to pick up the pace where possible, only to be confounded by runners who clearly didn’t appreciate their role in my race.

You might think running 26.2 miles is a simple case of crossing the start line and then continuing in a straight line until you reach the finish. But apparently not. I quickly came to realize just how many runners inexplicably drift from side to side when they run, while others would cut in front of me suddenly and without warning, forcing me to make a split-second adjustment to avoid a collision.

Evaluate, anticipate, accelerate, repeat.

One well-meaning friend had suggested it might be “real fun” for me to wear a hurricane costume during the race, as if other runners and spectators would be tickled to see me treating the cause of so much misery with a light-hearted touch. As much as I appreciated the feedback, natural disaster humor is rarely a crowd-pleaser. So instead I superimposed our RaceRaves “running guy” logo on the Texas flag, then shared my motivation on the back of my shirt:

Houston Strong
The more runners I pass, the more $$$ for the Food Bank!

I figured this would be a better way to communicate my intentions than by appraising every runner as I passed: “YOU’RE worth $2.00! And YOU’RE worth $2.00! And YOU’RE worth $2.00!”

Mike's custom RaceRaves-Houston Marathon shirt

One of the coolest things about the Houston Marathon is its many HOOPLA stations along the course where diverse musical performers and raucous spectators cheer on the runners. By the race’s own estimate more than 250,000 supporters and spectators participate on race day, and certainly the race isn’t lacking for on-course energy.

Passing the HOOPLA station at mile 3.5 where the Houston Food Bank had their table, I paused to high-five their green apple mascot and share a hug with Courtney, who I’d met through my fundraising. Despite being appropriately dressed like an eskimo, she was in high spirits and I appreciated her encouragement.

Given my focus on passing other runners, I spent more time than usual in my own head and failed to take in as many spectator signs as I normally would. The most memorable sign of the day, though, arrived early in mile 2 or 3 and made me smile as it simultaneously acknowledged and poked fun at a sign every marathoner hates: “YOU’RE ALMOST THERE! ISH”.

I viewed most runners in the same way Pac-Man views dots — as nameless, faceless targets to be overtaken without passion or prejudice. But just as Pac-Man has his flashing power pellets to energize him, admittedly I felt a surge of adrenaline as I passed the fellow wearing the jersey of Astros first baseman Yuli Gurriel, who had created a firestorm during the World Series when he made a blatantly racist gesture in the dugout after homering off Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher Yu Darvish.

MIke Sohaskey high-fiving the Houston Food Bank mascot

Must be one of them GMO apples! (Houston Food Bank station, mile 3.5)

With the crowds thinning after mile 4, I kept my pace as close as possible to 8:00/mile, which I’d tagged as my optimistic-but-still-realistic goal depending on the extent of my dodging, weaving and braking. I knew dropping the pace too far below 8:00/mile in these early “feel good” miles would come back to haunt me later in the race, with every ounce of energy as precious as a drop of water in the desert.

The course opened up considerably near the end of mile 8, where the marathoners split from the half marathoners. Perfect timing too, as the quiet tree-lined stretch down Rice Blvd past my alma mater was (not surprisingly) my favorite mile of the day. Here an unusually restrained subset of the Marching Owl Band performed for runners, their energetic conductor smiling broadly as we passed.

With its frequently offensive, ill-advised and unapologetic sense of humor, the Marching Owl Band — i.e. the MOB, i.e. “the marching band that NEVER marches!” — is a breath of fresh air in the otherwise pompous world of college athletics. The band’s mocking, devil-may-care attitude toward opposing teams has landed it in hot water on several occasions, most recently in 2016 when it taunted Baylor University for its mishandling of sexual assault allegations. In a conservative state like Texas, the MOB (and Rice in general) stick out like a zebra with spots. And the band’s well-deserved notoriety is a source of great pride among students and alumni.

Lovett Hall, Rice University

Lovett Hall, Rice University

Aside from Rice, the only landmark I’d remember from my college days would be the House of Pies on Kirby (mile 5), a dessert institution that would live up to all my collegiate memories later that evening after the race. Still the best Boston cream pie in Texas!

With Rice behind us, soon we were back amid strip malls and residential neighborhoods, with screaming spectators seemingly waiting around every turn. Without any other college campuses to smooth its rough edges, much of the remainder of the course would give the (accurate) impression of vast urban sprawl — not unexpected for the nation’s fourth-largest city.

That said, my least favorite section of the course would be the hairpin turnaround at mile 13, on the frontage road alongside US 59. Luckily the least attractive part of the route would be brightened by its most attractive spectator. Katie’s appearance at the midway point was a pleasant surprise, since unlike most races we were never in sync in Houston. I’d later learn this was due to her spending much of the morning directing bewildered Uber drivers, most of whom had no idea a marathon was happening, much less any idea how to circumnavigate the resulting road closures.

And I thought running 26.2 miles was stressful.

Mike Sohaskey looking strong at Houston Marathon mile 13

Hankerin’ for 13 more miles

The second 13.1: Pass or fail
As if arriving on cue to start the second half, a chilly headwind hit us in the face as we turned back east on Westpark, the headwind shifting and persisting as we passed the Galleria heading north. More resistance was definitely not what I needed, and I tried to focus instead on my footing — head down, one foot in front of the other — since rough and rutted roads predominated in this construction-rich area.

Several people asked if we noticed evidence of Harvey’s devastation during our time in Houston. The answer is no, not directly, as we didn’t rent a car and so didn’t have a chance to visit the city’s different neighborhoods. But what Katie did notice while hustling from one spectating point to the next was an awful lot of contruction, which we both attributed at least in part to post-Harvey reconstruction.

I didn’t hear a lot of chatter behind me from people reading the back of my shirt, though at one point I did hear a woman’s voice say, “Omigosh, he started at the back and he just passed us!” followed by a chorus of laughter, which made me smile. Much better than GU packets hitting me in the back of my head.

I paused to shake hands with Gary, a fellow I’d met in the Comrades USA Facebook group who’d set up his Runners High table in mile 16. And while there’s still a long hard road ahead in mile 16, the anticipation of counting down the remaining miles into single-digits has always been heartening to me.

Houston Marathon Skechers shoes

My feet began to ache. When was the last time that had happened during a road marathon? Usually aching feet is a result of running on rugged, technical terrain where every step lands your foot at a different angle. Here, though, I attributed my discomfort to just one thing — concrete.

Most non-runners — and even many runners — don’t realize there’s a significant difference in hardness between asphalt and concrete. Asphalt, or blacktop, is a highly viscous petroleum-based liquid that’s typically used to bind together the elements in “asphalt concrete,” a material used on road surfaces and composed of roughly 95% stone/sand/gravel and 5% concrete. Because of its viscosity, asphalt is much more forgiving on the legs and feet than cement-based concrete, and by extension preferable for running surfaces. The Berlin Marathon, widely considered the flattest and fastest course in the world, points to its asphalt/bitumen surface as one reason the past six marathon world records have been set there.

On the other hand, any kid who’s ever played on blacktop in Texas in July can tell you: asphalt melts in the summer sun, making it much less durable and cost-effective for road construction than its less temperamental counterpart. As a child growing up in the suburbs of Dallas, on occasion I’d discover the summer blacktop sticking to the bottom of my shoe like a wad of chewing gum. Despite my bigger brain and removeable footwear, I could relate to the dinosaurs that wandered into the tar pits only to get inextricably stuck.

So unlike cooler weather states like, well, nearly all of ‘em, most roads and highways in Texas are surfaced with heavy-duty, long-lasting concrete. Which is great for increasing the lifespan of the road, though not so much the lifespan of your legs as a runner. And the fact is, the human body hasn’t evolved to run on concrete so it lacks well-honed adaptation mechanisms.

The upshot? Concrete is Kryptonite for the most well-trained legs and feet.

Katie Ho finishing Houston Marathon ABB 5K

We interrupt this long-winded marathon to admire Katie’s 5K finishing form

My “head-scratcher of the day” award goes to the announcement broadcast over the PA system in mile 20 that “Registration for the 2019 Chevron Houston Marathon and Aramco Half Marathon opens this afternoon at 3 pm!” The moment was so surreal, so absurd, I couldn’t help but smile. Or maybe the message was intended as comic relief? Either way, my quads were unimpressed… not a real keen sense of humor in those boys.

Passing the vast, browned-out expanse of Memorial Park, my distracted brain wrestled with the reality that this entire area had once been underwater after Harvey. The notion was tough to fathom given that the scene now looked so… normal.

My final Katie sighting came just inside the inflatable red CLIF arch in mile 22. There I paused for a few high knee lifts, hoping to loosen and revive my legs for the last few miles. My quads were having none of it. The CLIF Energy Zone turned out to be a loud and lengthy stretch of music I barely noticed, though I do mark it as the point at which the wheels started to — if not fall off, then at least wobble noticeably. Ah, the nostalgia of the marathon…

The final four miles became a deeply focused exercise in “Next runner standing.” Like a video game, I’d set my crosshairs on the closest runner or group of runners, channel all my energy into passing them, then quickly refocus on the next runner. The aching in my feet was supplanted by the heaviness in my quads, which slowly but surely were adopting the rigidity of the concrete beneath them.

This is it, I thought — the moment I’d trained for, the reason for the two-a-days and the motivation behind the 70+ mile weeks. And though I’d continue to leak oil as my mile times crept above 9:00, the truth is I could’ve hit The Wall much harder. All the high-mileage training weeks would pay off mentally and physically, as I refused to stop moving despite the increasing difficulty of lifting each leg.

Evaluate, anticipate, accelerate, repeat.

CLIF Bar mascot at the Houston Marathon

Glad I wasn’t the only one seeing dancing CLIF Bars on the course

Adjusting my stride to take shorter, quicker steps, I kept my attention focused on the runner immediately ahead of me as my surroundings faded into the background. NASA (or SpaceX) could have launched a rocket on the side of the road and I barely would have noticed.

Mile 23, and a reminder over the PA that registration for the 2019 race opens at 3 pm. Like a boxer taking a standing eight count, the voice sounds very far away. Three miles ahead, Molly Huddle is celebrating her new American half marathon record despite finishing 7th overall. I’ve now run in the same races where the American women’s half marathon record and the current marathon world record (Berlin 2014) were set. That can’t be coincidence, right?

Looking at my splits and the elevation gain/loss per mile this sounds ridiculous, but miles 24 and 25 included several small but significant hills (i.e. highway overpasses) that I actually appreciated for the opportunity to engage different muscle groups. And the corresponding downhills couldn’t have come at a better time.

I recalled an email exchange with Krishna in which he’d referenced studies showing that the major cause of marathoners slowing down in the latter stages of the race isn’t hydration or nutrition, but rather muscle breakdown. Much of my own experience jibes with this conclusion, and once again here I was falling victim to the cold, cruel reality of muscle breakdown. Because as physically hammered as my legs were, I felt remarkably good from the waist up.

I don’t sweat much even under normal conditions, and since the Comrades Marathon last year I’ve taken to training in a depleted state. So on a cold day in Houston I ended up using not a single aid station — no water, no Gatorade, no nutrition, no need for it. At one point I thought about eating one of the three GUs I was carrying, but the idea never sounded appealing and I didn’t want to risk sabotaging my efforts by throwing my stomach a curve ball.

Mike closing the gap at the Houston Marathon finish

Closing the gap on the last few runners in the home stretch

One eternal truth about the marathon: whether you’re running a 6:00 or 10:00 mile, if you’re able to keep running in the last 6 miles you’ll pass a lot of people. And so I did, as runners turned to walkers and walkers stopped to stretch their cramping legs on the side of the road. What my pace was, I had no idea and frankly it didn’t matter — I was doing everything in my power to keep running, despite my leaden legs pleading with me to call it quits and walk it in from here. Let’s walk just a few steps, it’ll feel sooooo good.

I remembered the image of Meb collapsing in exhaustion at the finish line of his final New York City Marathon in November and thought to myself, My legs are going to have to give way beneath me; otherwise we’re going to keep moving and finish this thing, Houston Strong. There’s no other way.

Corny though it may sound, the thought of disappointing a single donor or missing out on a single meal for the Food Bank pained me far more than the heaviness in my quads. Physical discomfort would fade with time; disappointment would not.

High-fives to the awesome spectator who called out “FINAL TURN!” as we veered onto Lamar for the home stretch. As appreciative as I was, though, I couldn’t yet see the finish line ahead and had no clue just how long this final straightaway would last, since I wasn’t sure how much bonus mileage I’d accrued with all my dodging and weaving.

I glanced down as my Garmin beeped for the 26th and final time: 9:23, yikes. Given the effort I was exerting with each step, I’d felt sure I was moving at Road Runner speeds. Turns out it was more like Wile E. Coyote. I exhaled and glanced up feebly to see — no sign of the finish line ahead. Damn.

Head down, keep going, keep passing, hear the cheers, this is it, stay strong, stay focused, trust you’re almost there, pass him, pass her, catch him catch him catch him, empty the tank, YEE-HAW YOU GOT THIS PAHD’NAH!

And then, in one indescribable moment of sheer pride, 16 weeks of my life came to fruition in the form of a brilliant blue finish arch, which welcomed me home in a gun time of 4:35:43 and chip time of 3:41:56, a nearly 54-minute differential. Happily, the wheels hadn’t completely fallen off the wagon in the second half. Certainly my splits — 1:49:21 in the first half, 1:52:35 in the second — earned me my 29th positive split in 30 marathons. But given that I’d started so far behind the eight ball, this may well have been the most positive split of them all.

Mike feeling the accomplishment after finishing the Houston Marathon

Try telling my quads that’s “accomplishment” they’re feeling

Mission accomplished
As it turns out, I’d had greater success running from the back than the official “Last Man Starting,” who ended up crossing the finish in a chip time of 3:22:20, some 50 minutes off his personal record. Meanwhile, my own finish time fell within 20 minutes of my PR from the 2015 Mountains 2 Beach Marathon.

Pausing to ensure my legs were still under me, I turned to watch a few more runners follow me across the finish mat. And I stood for a moment, basking in the realization that each and every finisher for the next 2+ hours would be someone I’d passed along the course.

Then, barely registering the cold on my skin, I took my time strolling through the finish chute, gratefully collected one of my proudest finisher medals to date and mindlessly followed the flow of weary runners into the George R. Brown. As outlined on Saturday’s Industry Tour, the GRB was smartly set up to provide all finishers with a place to warm up and chow down before reuniting with friends and family (see “Production” below). There I collected more finisher’s swag and grabbed a quick bite at the HEB breakfast station, before Katie and I retraced our steps to the finish line to cheer across the last few finishers — even the fellow in the Gurriel jersey.

The Boston cream pie at House of Pies never tasted better than it did that night.

Houston Marathon post-race facility in the George R. Brown convention center

Post-race in the not-so-notorious GRB

For the next two days, on the heels of my successful come-from-behind effort, I’d be walking… on my heels. Quad extension would be challenging at best, and if you hadn’t known better you would’ve guessed this was my first 26.2-mile rodeo. My lack of mobility turned almost comical on Tuesday as freezing rain coated the streets with ice, turning even the shortest walk into a slow-footed shufflefest. Icy curbs might as well have been the Berlin Wall.

But every microscopic muscle tear would be worth the discomfort. Because when the dust settled, I’d officially passed 3,820 of 7,000 finishers, not counting the 11,000 half marathoners who’d started at the same time. And thanks to all the amazing friends, family and colleagues who answered the bell, we eclipsed our already ambitious goal by raising $8,400.56 = 25,201 meals for the Houston Food Bank and the victims of Hurricane Harvey. I’m proud to say that’s more dollars than even words in this blog post. And I can’t thank my donors enough for their heroic empathy and selflessness.

Don’t mess with Texas, indeed.

Katie and I extended our Houston stay so we could visit the Rice campus on Monday (MLK Jr. Day) and volunteer at the Food Bank on Tuesday. Mother Nature, though, would have other ideas, as the aforementioned freezing rain ended up canceling both our volunteer shift at the Food Bank and our return flight to SoCal. So we had no choice but to “stay a spell” and enjoy Houston’s hospitality for one more night, as the city hunkered down under a rare winter storm warning.

Our snowed-in situation brought to mind a verse from my childhood, memorable for both its unapologetic grammar and its unabashed sentiment, and most likely learned from a bumper sticker years before the birth of the Internet:

The sun has ris, the sun has set,
and here I is in Texas yet.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho – Houston Marathon finish line selfie

The Houston Food Bank, a top-rated 501(c)(3) charity on, is able to stretch every $1.00 donation to provide one person with a full day of meals. Please support their continuing hurricane relief efforts to help rebuild lives and keep the Bayou City #HoustonStrong!

BOTTOM LINE: Recommending the Houston Marathon is as easy as sliding off a greasy log backward. Houston is a crown jewel of the US marathon circuit, being one of the more smartly planned, flawlessly organized and professionally executed marathons you’ll ever have the pleasure of running. With 7,000 marathon finishers and over 11,000 half marathon finishers this year, it’s the tenth-largest marathon in the country. And yet everything flows so smoothly throughout the weekend, from the pre-race expo to the post-race exit from the George R. Brown Convention Center, that you almost won’t mind being herded like cattle into the crowded start corrals on race morning — and especially if race day temperatures hover around freezing like they did this year.

The race itself was a high-energy tour of the nation’s fourth-largest city, with an untold number of HOOPLA (cheer) stations set up along the course, along with a diverse array of musical performers to keep you constantly entertained and keep your mind distracted from the fact you’re running 26.2 miles on one of the hardest surfaces on the planet. The course is largely flat and speedy, though several wickedly positioned uphill jags in the final four miles will look to sap whatever life remains in your concrete-stricken legs. And once you cross the finish and collect your well-deserved medal, actual breakfast food awaits inside the George R. Brown (see “Production” below). Apologies to all you diehard fans of green bananas and stale bagels.

I ran this race differently than I had any of my other 29 marathons, starting from the very back (nearly 54 minutes after the gun) and passing runners to raise money for the Houston Food Bank’s Harvey relief efforts. So my focus throughout the race was less on enjoying myself (though I definitely did) and more on amassing “roadkill” (to use the Ragnar term for runners passed). That said, this struck me as an ideal marathon (or half) for first-timers, with so many raucous spectators and supporters — 250,000, according to the race website — to keep propelling you forward when the Gatorade and energy gels no longer can.

As a mobile supporter who likes to spectate at several points along the course, Katie had a tougher time in Houston than at most other races. Luckily the race provides a handy business card-sized Spectator Guide that folds out like an accordion, so figuring out where you want to see your runner on the course is easy enough. Getting there, on the other hand, can be a logistical nightmare. Katie spent much of the morning directing Lyft or Uber drivers who either didn’t realize the marathon was happening or didn’t know how to circumnavigate road closures to reach her destination. As it turns out, having her own vehicle would have made the morning more manageable and less stressful — something to keep in mind if you’re planning to be a mobile spectator yourself.

Disclaimer: I grew up in Texas and graduated from Rice University, so I already had a strong personal connection to the city. Even objectively, though, Houston is a must-run event for the hardcore marathoner or half marathoner based on the three E’s: efficiency, energy and all-around excellence. In the wake of Hurricane Harvey, the city’s unity and pride were on full (and vociferous) display throughout the weekend, and I’m psyched to have played a small role in helping a world-class city get its groove back.

PRODUCTION: In the best situation, producing a 20,000+ person event in a major urban center is a significant challenge. Throw in one of the most devastating natural disasters in U.S. history, and you add a level of complexity and uncertainty to the mix that would cripple most race organizations. And yet the Houston Marathon team managed the unforeseen arrival of Hurricane Harvey like the experts they are. And any arguments I might have with the production are more suggestions than gripes.

The 2018 Race Program provided a wealth of interesting and relevant information about race weekend, the runners and the city itself. And honestly I read more of the program in Houston than I did in either Boston or New York. Flooding apparently moved this year’s expo to a smaller hall than previous years within the George R. Brown Convention Center (GRB); however, packet pickup was quick and easy, and the expo itself was very manageable and easily navigated within an hour, even with several stops at sponsor booths (gotta check out all the races!).

I stopped at exactly zero aid stations on the course, but I did notice water and Gatorade were provided in different-colored cups (water in plain Dixie cups, Gatorade in branded cups). As trivial as this may sound, visually differentiating the two helps to alleviate in-race confusion, particularly for the tired runner, and it’s one of my litmus tests for whether a race organizer knows their stuff. Because many don’t.

Immediately after the race, finishers were funneled into the GRB. There we collected more swag (see below), enjoyed a McMuffin-style breakfast and ice cream sandwich plus hot and cold drinks while chatting with fellow finishers, and finally reunited with friends and family to wander the “We Are Houston” RunFest set up on the Discovery Green outside the convention center. In my experience this smartly conceived, one-way directionality of post-race traffic flow (exit –> swag pickup –> breakfast –> gear check –> family reunion) on such a massive scale is unique to Houston. And while it arguably makes life more difficult for family members who have to wait at one end of the hall for their runner to reach them, it’s easy to see how creating this “finishers only” space would benefit the runners by reducing both traffic and confusion, particularly in the dining area. Though I can’t imagine this setup is optimal for sponsors who are (literally) left out in the cold in their tents on Discovery Green — aside from HEB which provided breakfast, Skechers was the only sponsor I noticed with presence inside the GRB.

And speaking of Skechers, all official Houston Marathon apparel and merchandise is 50% off at the Skechers booth on race day. So if you’re willing to wait and gamble that your size will still be in stock come Sunday, you can score some pretty sweet deals on everything from water bottles to shoes. I actually train in Skechers and ran the marathon in the Skechers GoRun Ride 6, so I can vouch for the fact the company makes a very comfy running shoe.

The GRB opens on 5:00am on race day to accommodate early-arriving runners, a nice convenience and especially in bone-chilling cold like we had this year. Coming from out of town, we stayed in the downtown area (at the Aloft Houston Downtown) within walking distance of the start line, and so were able to wake up later than most and arrive after the starter’s pistol had already fired. I’m pretty sure that not having an insanely early wakeup call helped me relax and enjoy one of my best pre-race night’s sleep in recent memory.

My only real suggestion for the organizers would be to move the celebratory photo-op signage (“Feel the pride,” “Feel the accomplishment” etc) from the finish chute just inside the GRB — where many dazed and exhausted runners passed them by without so much as a glance — to the family reunion area where they’re much more likely to be appreciated. Oh, and I’d recommend rethinking the on-course announcement at miles 20 and 23 that “Registration for the 2019 Chevron Houston Marathon and Aramco Half Marathon opens this afternoon at 3:00pm!” The timing was so absurd that even in my depleted state, I couldn’t help but laugh in the moment. Or maybe that was the point?

Houston Marathon medal with Rice University owl

SWAG: The finisher’s medal is entirely unique and distinctly unTexan, being the creation of local aerosol/graffiti artist Mario E. Figueroa, Jr. aka Gonzo247. And though I wouldn’t have been upset with something in the shape of Texas, as a lover of street art this is a standout addition to my collection. Beyond the medal, runners received not one but two shirts — a Gildan short-sleeve cotton tee at registration with “Run Houston Strong” printed on front and a Skechers short-sleeve performance finisher’s tee after the race, which like the medal features Gonzo’s artwork above the word “FINISHER.” But wait, there’s more! Unfortunately, that “more” came in the form of a glass finisher’s mug that I will never use and which will sit on my shelf at home gathering dust for all eternity.

Updated 50 States Map:

Mike Sohaskey's 50 States map on RaceRaves (Feb 2018)

RaceRaves rating:

Mike Sohaskey's Houston Marathon review on RaceRaves

Jan 14, 2018 (start time 7:00am)
26.57 miles in Houston, TX (state 19 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:41:56 (first time running the Houston Marathon), 8:21/mile
Finish place: 1,325 overall, 131/614 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 7,001 (4,319 men, 2,682 women)
Splits: 1:49:21 (first half), 1:52:35 (second half)
Number of marathoners passed: 3,820
Race weather: cold & sunny at the start (35°F) and finish (46°F), breezy throughout
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 147 ft ascent, 141 ft descent
Elevation min, max: 11 ft, 73 ft
Dollars raised for the Houston Food Bank: $8,400.56 (= 25,201 meals)


I kept going.
– Kayleigh Williamson, the first runner with Down Syndrome to complete the Austin Half Marathon (2017)

View of Clark Fork River

Behold! The Clark Fork River

Runners whose goal it is to race in all 50 states often find themselves living a tale of two –ities: opportunity and serendipity. This summer, the Treasure State weighed in with a golden opportunity I couldn’t refuse.

One of my favorite places in the country, Montana offers several attractive possibilities for the 50 states runner. These include the Madison Marathon, which at a starting elevation of 9,250 feet is the highest road marathon in the country; the Governor’s Cup, which follows a gentle downhill course that finishes in the capital city and gold rush town of Helena; and the Missoula Marathon, which takes place in the small-town home of the University of Montana and is among the highest-rated events on

So my choice of Montana marathons wouldn’t be easy — until it was. As luck would have it, Katie’s family (with our input) chose Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming as the destination for this summer’s family vacation. And as timing would have it, our visit to the parks would end the day before the Missoula Marathon in neighboring Montana.

If that weren’t enough to seal the deal, Tony Banovich, the Race Director in Missoula, had generously invited us to join them for their marathon in early July. And so as soon as family getaway plans were finalized, we jumped at Tony’s offer to join him and his Run Wild Missoula team in Big Sky Country.

Missoula Marathon welcome sign in Missoula airport

With our family vacation ending on Saturday, the day before the race, we departed Grand Teton National Park that morning en route to Missoula some 400 miles away. Eight hours later, we pulled into town too late to make the pre-race expo but still in time to pick up my packet at the tiny local airport (a much-appreciated option; see “Production” below). Then it was time to begin in earnest the all-important business of weather watching and forecast fixating.

Marathon weekend found Missoula in the midst of a heat wave that would have made Beelzebub sweat. The temperature on race day was expected to reach the high 90s, the silver lining being a starting temp in the mid 60s that would rise gradually and peak in the late afternoon, once all runners were safely off the course. Regular pre-race emails from Tony and his team had assured us the show would go on as planned, while explaining what they’d be doing to prepare for the potentially dangerous heat (e.g. shortening the course time limit from 7½ to 6½ hours).

So all things considered, my concerns about racing the mercury to the finish line were minimal. Luckily, with a week of high-temperature and high-altitude hiking already in my legs, I had no plans for anything other than a relaxed, leisurely marathon.

As it turns out, I had no idea just how relaxed.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho at Grand Teton

Grand Teton, the reason we missed the pre-race expo

From fireworks in Frenchtown…
The mind always knows when it’s race day.

I woke up in the darkness, roughly a minute before my iPhone alarm did the same. Thirty minutes later we were in the car on the near-deserted highway for the 15-minute drive to Frenchtown, where the marathon would begin just after sunrise. Parking was easy peasy, with most runners riding the shuttle bus to the start.

Strolling toward the start line we were lucky to catch Race Director Tony B, who was predictably seeing to last-minute details. He was fighting a cold but seemed relaxed (more so than me) and excited to see all his hard work come to fruition. He wouldn’t be disappointed.

Fireworks briefly filled the dusky gray sky with light and sound, providing a cool distraction as I waited in the last-minute porta-potty line. Rural and low-key, and particularly so early in the morning, Frenchtown feels like a one-horse town. This was shaping up to be my kind of race, and I reached the start line in a more relaxed frame of mind than I’d arrived.

Missoula Marathon 2017 start line

Awaiting the go-ahead to run wild

The singing of the National Anthem (for which everyone stood, yes) was followed by the wheelchair start which was followed by the rest of us, a small stampede of runners directed toward downtown Missoula 26.2 miles away.

No sooner had I elevated my heart rate and found my stride than I heard the question come from directly behind me. “Are you Mike?” I glanced back to see Colorado native Eric O. pull alongside me. Eric had been the enthusiastic winner of a free race entry in our 2016 RaceRaves Missoula Marathon reviews giveaway, and today he was joining his daughter who was running her first half marathon. We ran together for a couple of miles, chatting about his first Boston Marathon earlier this year and his positive experiences at past Missoula Marathons.

Then I wished him luck and held myself in check as he gradually pulled away behind the 3:40 pace group. I was determined not to do anything reckless here today, with my only goal being a sub-4 hour finish to keep my streak of sub-4 road marathons alive (despite a close call at Victoria Falls). That meant showing the discipline to keep my early pace controlled and comfortable (~8:30/mile), to avoid imploding in the second half.

Or so I thought.

Missoula Marathon 2017 mile 4

Eric O. (in tie-dyed tee) pulls away in mile 4

The first 9.5 miles of Missoula was among the most pleasant stretches in my marathon memory. After a couple of gentle turns in the first mile, we ran with an eye toward the horizon on a well-maintained, recently blacktopped road flanked by open countryside and overseen by a distant wall of mountains on our right. Past horse stables, an industrial paper & packaging plant and even a donkey farm we ran, the miles ticking off with relative ease thanks to the scenery and still-cool temperatures. And though the rising sun would flex its muscle soon enough, the early morning cloud cover certainly helped as I didn’t have to don my sunglasses until mile 9.

With plenty of fresh air and elbow room, Big Sky Country was definitely living up to its name. And though mentally I wasn’t in the best place to be tackling a marathon after a week in Yellowstone and Grand Teton, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.

All the small details of the race were handled beautifully and with the runners in mind. For instance, each aid station was advertised in advance by unmistakable placards, with each station offering Powerade in front and water in the back, a sequence clearly articulated by the excellent volunteers. This struck me as Baton Rouge with better scenery.

Mike Sohaskey - mile 9 of Missoula Marathon 2017

Two thumbs up at mile 9

“Please don’t collapse — it’s our day off!” urged the placard at one of the nurses stations we passed. Gotta love health workers with a sense of humor, and hopefully they got to enjoy their day off without interruption.

In mile 10, a sharp right turn led us west away from Mullan Rd toward the Clark Fork River, the first of two rivers intersected by the marathon course. Open countryside stretched out on all sides, the mountains now looming large ahead of us as we made our first river crossing of the day via the two-lane roadbed of the Kona Bridge. Much to my chagrin, a small group of well-meaning spectators sat with music cranked up on the other side of the bridge — I’d been reveling in the tranquil stillness of our surroundings, and the dissonance hit my ears like a sonic boom.

Mother Nature would provide all the external distraction and entertainment I’d need on this day. Luckily amplified interludes were few and far between, though I was able to muster a moment of music appreciation at mile 13. There we were greeted by Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer,” a favorite of clever spectators at the midway point of marathon courses across the country (WHOAAAAA, we’re halfway there…).

Kona Bridge - mile 11 of Missoula Marathon 2017

A river runs under it: Kona Bridge, mile 11

… to a near-miss in Missoula
The lone hill of note on the course — “Halfway Hill” we’ll call it — awaited just after the midway point. At its base a cowboy on horseback waved and greeted us. “Where you coming from?” he asked good-naturedly. Halfway Hill ascended for about half a mile through soaring evergreens and featured a false summit where an aid station awaited. Slowly I climbed, maintaining a jog while chatting with a fellow from Kansas City.

From there the course rolled for about 1½ miles before making its final descent near the mile 16 marker. Unfortunately there were no photographers on this scenic wooded downhill as there had been the year before. Accelerating downhill toward an upcoming aid station, I decided this was a good time to force down consume my first Stinger gel of the day, since water was imminent. Swallowing the first mouthful, “BAD IDEA” sirens went off in my head as a wave of nausea immediately washed over me. I don’t recall the last time I felt nauseous during a race, maybe never. Even worse, this feeling would stick with me for the next two miles and signal the beginning of a very looooong ten miles to the finish.

Mile 14 of Missoula Marathon

Heading up Halfway Hill, mile 14

Despite my nausea and early fatigue, mile 17 was one of the most entertaining of the day. It started with my second Katie sighting, followed by a fellow playing the piano on the lawn of someone’s backyard (and in full dress tails Big Sur-style, I do believe). Soon after that a young girl (maybe 4 years old) in ballerina outfit turned cartwheels and cheered as we approached. And finally we crossed the Bitterroot River at perhaps the most photogenic spot on the course, Maclay Bridge, which was recently added to the National Register of Historic Places. Disappointed not to see an official photographer positioned on the far side of the bridge this year, and honestly looking for any excuse to slow down, I paused to snap a shot of my own.

Maclay Bridge - Mile 17 of Missoula Marathon

Maclay Bridge, mile 17

All three mile 17 moments (Katie not included) were charming pick-me-ups and spot-on examples of what makes Missoula a special race and a special place.

By mile 18 my inexplicable nausea had passed for the most part, but my body was clearly done. Whether or not “adrenal fatigue” is a legit medical condition, I visualized my adrenal glands as shriveled-up raisins with nothing left to give. My legs felt encased in concrete, and increasingly I was able to walk faster than I could run. This was a tough situation, similar to — though more brutal than — what I’d faced in Boston in 2016.

As the course entered the residential neighborhoods of Missoula and transitioned onto narrow tree-lined streets, sprinklers became plentiful. Many were strong enough only to wet my upper legs, and though the heat remained largely a non-factor at this point, these cooling interludes were much appreciated.

Case in point, the single best hydration moment of the day came courtesy of two young girls standing by with loaded Super Soakers at the ready. One girl met my eyes as I approached with an inquiring “OK to shoot?” expression on her face. Without a word I raised my hand in the universal gesture of “Bring it on,” and was immediately hit by a blast of cold water that felt incredible and instantly revived my spirits, if not my legs.

For once I didn’t mind intermittent walking because my #1 goal here in state #16 was to enjoy my scenic foot tour of Missoula. And even in my depleted state I was doing just that. How could I not, what with the town’s pleasant neighborhoods, cute homes boasting immaculately manicured lawns and spectators that were supportive in every way?

Missoula residents misting marathon runners

The residents of Missoula never mist a chance to take care of their runners

At the same time I’m a proudly competitive guy, and as I shuffled onward my mind kept nagging at me, the dangling carrot of the sub-4-hour marathon urging me onward. Did I still have a chance? Had I banked enough time in the first half to overcome this second half implosion? Where was the 4-hour pace group? When would they pass me? And would I care when they did? Of course I would, but would I be able to do anything about it?

This final possibility was the most disconcerting, and it brought to mind the helpless feeling I’d had in Eugene when the 3:25 pace group had blown by me in mile 23.

Each time I saw Katie in the second half (at miles 17, 20, 21 and 24), I seized on the opportunity to slow to a fast walk alongside her. First time I’ve ever done that, and with each slowdown I felt like I was adding an hour to my finish time. She’d hand me the coconut water we’d brought, and I’d drink as much as I could stomach while trying to rally my exhausted body.

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift” read the race placard posted around mile 20, a quote from the legendary Steve Prefontaine. That was followed by “The challenge ahead of you is never as great as the strength within you” — a bit corny to be sure, but under the circumstances both relevant and uplifting. Much more so than the least creative spectator sign of the day, which in an apparently failed attempt at snarky humor simply read “Motivational sign.”

For a short stretch I ran alongside an overly sweaty fellow who looked like he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. He mumbled some words of encouragement at me and I grunted back a weak “You too” before again slowing to a walk. He pushed ahead at a jog, though not a particularly speedy one since I passed him soon after.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 21 of Missoula Marathon

“Thumbs up” is marathoner-speak for “I’m still alive” (mile 21)

Each time I slowed to a walk I’d feel a momentary wave of lightheadness, with chills passing through my legs. And here it wasn’t even hot yet, oy. I’d walk briskly until my equilibrium returned for the most part and then I’d pick up the pace again, feeling more composed. And I listened for the telltale cheers that might indicate the 4-hour pace group coming up fast behind me. Given that I was now leaving a charred trail of 10-minute miles in my wake, it was only a matter of time.

After mile 20 I’d use each mile marker as a goalpost and an excuse to walk. I even slowed to a walk at the mile 25 marker, so little energy did I have to finish this thing, much less finish strong. As though anticipating my arrival, an official race sign posted just past the mile 25 marker promised “One more mile in the pain cave.” As marathons go, this particular pain cave was deeper and darker than any I’d ever been in. Then roughly half a mile later, “You’ve come this far, you might as well finish.”

Missoula Marathon finish line

(Photo: Gameface Media)

I was liking these signs more and more.

I reached the mile 26 marker running on fumes and with my wits half intact, so it took me a moment to register the fellow wearing an orange tee who fell in beside me at an easy jog. “How you feeling?” asked Race Director Tony B with a furrowed brow and sympathetic smile. “Better now, “ I acknowledged, my spirits lifted by the mile 26 marker and by his friendly presence.

Tony does what he does because helping others achieve their goals and realize their dreams is his passion, a truth that becomes self-evident both in talking with him and in every detail of his race. And he’s fortunate to be able to pursue that passion in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Getting to know Tony and other amazing folks in the running industry has been one of the most rewarding benefits to building and growing RaceRaves these past three years.

Now he jogged alongside me for a short distance before pointing at the upcoming Higgins Avenue Bridge. “You’ve got one last uphill hump, then it’s all downhill to the finish,” he reassured me and with that, he left me to finish on my own. Feeling his eyes (true or not) still on my back, I put every last ounce of energy I had into cresting that bridge, where I let momentum carry me down toward one of the most magnificent finish arches I’d ever witnessed, the late morning sun now showcasing the marathon logo atop the arch.

A picture-perfect finish to a race that, aside from nearly killing me, did everything right.

Turns out Tony’s last-minute motivation was exactly what this doctor ordered. Given my grotesque “positive split” — i.e. a second half slower than the first half — I had no business finishing in 3:59:18, but that’s exactly what my Garmin read as I crossed the finish line completely spent. After Victoria Falls, Missoula was the second straight sub-4 victory I’d snatched from the jaws of defeat. Wobbling forward in the finish chute, I turned seconds later to see the 4-hour pacers crossing the line right on time as pacers tend to do — alone.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Missoula Marathon

Ain’t nothin’ so fine as a finish line

When the going gets tough, keep going
Jubilant relief swept through me as a friendly volunteer hung the hefty bronze finisher’s medal around my neck. Then I collapsed on the curb and gave Katie (waiting outside the finish chute) a “We did it” fist pump. A medical attendant came by to check on me, and with a weak smile I assured her I’d done this before and I’d be just fine. Montana and state #16 completed? Check. In less than four hours? Check. All things considered, and despite my body’s protests to the contrary, it had been a very good day.

Slowly and deliberately we made our way to the post-race festival in Caras Park, where I snapped a finisher photo and took advantage of the massage tent, the latter at an additional charge. Predictably my stomach wasn’t in the mood for solid food, and wasn’t willing even to give the Big Sky Brewing tent a chance. Dejected, I refueled with a strawberry lemonade from a local vendor before heading back to the finish line to watch RaceRaves member and fellow Marathon Maniac Tim (who’d made the drive from South Dakota) finish his own race. With the clock approaching high noon, temperatures were creeping toward the 90s as the last few finishers crossed the Higgins Avenue Bridge.

Then, roughly 18 hours after we’d arrived, it was time to bid Missoula a fond farewell. We hustled back to our hotel for a quick shower, before hitting the road to nearby St. Regis for a visit with friends and an afternoon float on the Clark Fork River. Katie and I both regretted the brevity of our stay — we weren’t even able to check out the University of Montana campus — but unfortunately it couldn’t be helped this time. And on the bright side, we now have a compelling reason to return. Missoula is one of the few destinations on my 50 states quest so far that I honestly hope to revisit. Besides, I feel like the I owe the course a rematch on fresher legs.

Mike Sohaskey & Tim Mullican at Missoula Marathon

Celebrating with RaceRaves member and 50 states finisher Tim M. at the post-race festival

Because as much as I’d hoped to live in my own reality distortion field, the truth is that an incredible summer spent traveling and racing in the heat of South Africa and Zimbabwe, and then hiking in the heat and elevation of Northwest Wyoming, had finally taken its toll. Clearly I’m no Mike Wardian, the 43-year-old freak of nature who this past August conquered the country’s most difficult marathon on Pikes Peak a few hours after notching 100 high-altitude miles at the iconic Leadville Trail 100 Run. Completing either race is enough to wreck most normal runners, but Wardian isn’t normal — he finished both races in a combined record time that’s unlikely to be broken any time soon. Coincidentally, Wardian was scheduled to speak at this year’s expo in Missoula, an appearance we missed due to our late arrival. If only we’d made it on time, I might have benefitted from his secondhand bad-assedness.


In any case, Missoula crystallized in my mind the most important lesson any runner can learn, and the two words that so often determine success or failure in any walk of life: Keep going. Never give up and never give in. One foot in front of the other, always forward until you cross that finish line. Because you never know.

Keep going. Easy to promise yourself from the comfort of your sofa, much tougher to do when your finely tuned engine is leaking oil in the heat with six miles to go. If I’d walked a few more seconds here or there rather than pushing forward at every opportunity, I‘d have finished in just over four hours and spent the next 34 states woulda- coulda- shoulda-ing. Because once the race is over and you regain your senses, it’s easy to rationalize how you could have done better.

Keep going. Anyone can be a runner when they’re feeling good and running with the wind; the challenge comes when the going gets tough, then tougher, then toughest. What will you do when the deck is stacked against you? Will you fold? Or will you go all in, show your best poker face and push your chips to the center of the table? No matter the conditions, no matter the distance, mental toughness is the wild card each and every time that starter’s pistol fires. Just ask Kayleigh Williamson, who this year because the first runner with Down Syndrome to complete the Austin Half Marathon in a time of 6:22:56.

At any rate, any runner who’s tried it will tell you: this is how the 50 states quest works. Running a marathon (or longer) in every freaking state often plays out as a tale of two –ities, opportunity and serendipity. State #16 was the best of times, it was the worst of times — Big Sky beauty and hospitality coupled with my worst road marathon time to date. But hard times or not, our visit to the Treasure State exceeded even my great expectations.

Because I enjoyed the dickens out of Missoula.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho - Missoula Marathon finish line selfie

BOTTOM LINE: It’s no hyperbole to say Missoula is the perfect small-town marathon. But you don’t need me to tell you that – it’s one of the most highly rated events on RaceRaves (currently an amazing 4.9 shoes out of 5, based on 140 reviews). Tony Banovich and his team let the peaceful rural beauty of the point-to-point course and the friendliness of the locals speak for themselves, and both speak loudly. As you might guess, you won’t get mile after mile of blasting music or screaming spectators (thankfully), but you will get a wildly rewarding marathon experience that, Halfway Hill and potential July heat aside, makes you wish you could bottle Big Sky Country and take it with you. And lucky you if you live here.

Unlike other expensive events that “entertain” their runners on race day with blaring music, colorful distractions and contrived bells and whistles, Missoula feels entirely authentic. And delightful touches like a piano player on a front lawn at mile 17 only add to its charm. Missoula is a spot-on race to include in your summer vacation plans, with Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park to the southwest and Glacier National Park to the north. Though if you do opt for a racecation, do your legs a favor and run the race first — several days spent hiking in the Big Sky heat and at Big Sky altitude beforehand will wear you down, and the ultimate victim will be your legs on race day. Somewhere around mile 18. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Huckleberries in the wild

PRODUCTION: In a word, elk-cellent. The Run Wild Missoula team are clearly pros — from the regular prerace email updates (particularly important when the weather forecast threatens triple digits), to enabling expo latecomers to pick up their bib numbers hassle-free at the Missoula airport, to the low-key start-line fireworks in Frenchtown, to the well-labeled aid stations, to the motivational signs posted along the course in the later miles (when I very much wanted to call it a day), to the awesome post-race spread and Big Sky Brewing tent.

Case in point, I didn’t realize until Saturday afternoon — entirely my fault — that I wasn’t going to be able to reach the expo before it closed, so I sent an email asking if I might be able to pick up my bib number at the airport that evening. Soon after, I received a very friendly and personalized “Welcome to Missoula!” email that went on to say, “We are happy to provide you with the opportunity to pick up your packet late!” The whole process was quick and easy, with Missoula Marathon banners greeting us at the airport. I’ve never received better customer service from a race.

(That said, I would suggest extending expo hours until 6:00pm, since a 4:00pm closing time for a one-day expo seems a bit early.)

Seeing all the sprinklers, hoses and squirt guns mobilized for our benefit, it felt like the entire town of Missoula had prepared and shown up for its hometown race. The town clearly takes pride in its marathon, and as a visiting runner there’s no better feeling. Because you can’t fake that — coming from Los Angeles, I know the disappointment of having an A+ race play to apathetic locals. Like Louisiana in January, this is a race organized first and foremost with the runners in mind. Race Director Tony B. seemed very relaxed (despite fighting a cold) when we saw him moments before the race, which is unusual for an RD, and I was reminded of what Peyton Manning once said: “Pressure is something you feel when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.” Clearly Tony and his team know what they’re doing.

(And if you decide to run Missoula based on anything I’ve said, tell ‘em Mike and Katie from RaceRaves sent you!)

2017 Missoula Marathon medal
SWAG: I’m not that guy who proudly displays his bib numbers, but the Missoula bib stands out since it’s shaped like the state of Montana — another of the small but cool details at which this race excels. But while I’m not a bib guy, I’m definitely a medal guy, and this year’s Missoula medal is a classic reminder of a first-class event. Suspended from an eye-catching orange ribbon, it’s a hefty piece of bronze hardware emblazoned with the race logo — not always a good thing for races, unless your logo happens to feature a silhouette of an elk with shoes dangling from its antlers on a backdrop of mountains. Then you show it off whenever you can. Likewise the race tee is a keeper that promises to become a regular in my rotation, white with attractive orange lettering and stitching.

Free finish-line photos were provided to all runners courtesy of Gameface Media, though unlike last year no photographer was positioned on the opposite side of Maclay Bridge, maybe the best vantage point for photos along the course. And Referee Photo was set up at the post-race festival to print glossy hard copies of your triumphant finisher’s photo at no charge. First time I’ve encountered that, and one more “surprise and delight” moment in a weekend full of them.

Updated 50 states map:

RaceRaves rating:

July 9, 2017 (start time 6:00am)
26.18 miles from Frenchtown to Missoula, MT (state 16 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:59:17 (first time running the Missoula Marathon), 9:08/mile
Finish place: 248 overall, 23/53 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 867 (456 men, 411 women)
Race weather: cool, partly cloudy at the start (temp 64°F), warm & sunny (74°F) at the finish
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 372 ft ascent, 221 ft descent
Elevation min, max: 3,045ft, 3,261ft

Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion, or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle, or it will starve to death. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle. When the sun comes up, you better start running.
– African proverb

Mike Sohaskey at Victoria Falls
Every marathon hangs on a moment of truth. That defining instant when you realize the outcome of your race hinges on what happens next. Never sure when it will arrive, you know it when it does. At that crucial moment, will you blink first? Or will you hold your ground, dig deep and find a way to maintain focus, to tune out the dissonant voices in your head, to will yourself through the fatigue and discomfort and across the finish?

I hate to blink first. Most athletes do. Yet sometimes it’s a necessary evil, a survival skill—and this time I was eager to do so. Because never before had my moment of truth blinked back…

Victoria Falls Marathon course map
I have no idea what to expect, I realized as I cycled through my pre-race warmup absent-mindedly in a last-minute attempt to awaken my dormant legs.

Since crossing the Comrades Marathon finish line in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa two weeks earlier—hands-down the highlight of my running career to date—I hadn’t run a single step. Walked plenty, run none. We’d spent the past two weeks playing tourist first in South Africa and now in Zimbabwe, and understandably I’d had little time or interest in reacclimating my legs to running. They’d earned the rest.

Besides, runners typically “taper” before a big race. For a standard 12- to 16-week training cycle, this means that starting four weeks before race day when training mileage is at its peak, a runner will reduce their mileage gradually over the next three weeks culminating in race day. The purpose of the taper is to strike a delicate balance that ensures the legs are rested when they reach the start line, while maintaining the physiological benefits of training. Rest, not rust.

So looking at the glass as half full, my past two weeks had been a steep taper for Victoria Falls. Well, almost. Adding to my low expectations for myself was the reckless amount of walking we’d done the day before to view the Falls themselves, first on the Zimbabwe side of the border and then across the bridge on the Zambia side. The risk was well worth the reward—as the only waterfall in the world with a width exceeding one kilometer and a height exceeding 100 meters, Victoria Falls is a magnificent, overwhelming force of Nature. But again, as a blatant middle finger to the marathon gods, I knew I’d end up paying for my indiscretion on race day. C’est la vie.

Bottom line, I had no idea what to expect from my legs and body. Would they be stubbornly lethargic? Reasonably well-rested? Completely drained? Oddly energized? Or maybe all of the above? My money was squarely on the latter.

Much like in Durban two weeks earlier, the prevailing darker skin tones and pungent waft of body odor in the small start corral reminded me I wasn’t in America anymore. But whereas Comrades had reminded me of the Boston Marathon in its scale, this felt more like small-town America, more like last year’s Hatfield McCoy Marathon in Kentucky where a hastily chalked line in the parking lot of the local Food City had served as the start line.

Fewer than 300 runners would be tackling the 26.2-mile journey around the tourist capital of Zimbabwe. Another 1,100 would be lining up for the half marathon scheduled to start 30 minutes later, and a popular 7.5-km “fun run” would round out the day’s events. The occasional red-and-white official Comrades cap could be seen in the close-packed crowd, so at least I wasn’t alone in my questionable decision-making.

I gave Katie a farewell peck on the forehead and wished good luck to Gloria and Jihua, two Bay Area runners we’d met the day before. Then I positioned myself squarely in the middle of the pack behind the baby blue start arch, hoping to protect myself from my own stupidity and prevent my going out too fast.

Victoria Falls Marathon start line

See that one white head sticking up above the crowd in back?

Legends of the Falls (Start–mile 14)
Start time arrived with little fanfare and no national anthem. With a final countdown we were off and headed directly toward the border and the town’s breathtaking namesake.

Crossing the bridge from Zimbabwe into Zambia on this initial out-and-back, it struck me that this would be my first truly international marathon, i.e. a marathon run in more than one country. Whereas many races include the word “international” in their name, most mean it in the sense of hosting runners from around the world, rather than in the literal sense of crossing borders. So this would be the first time I’d set foot in two countries over the course of a race.

(Back home both the Detroit Free Press/Chemical Bank Marathon and the Niagara Falls International Marathon—coincidentally run on the same day in October this year—cross the U.S./Canadian border, with the NFIM starting in the U.S. and finishing in Canada.)

Admittedly, the only real disappointment of the Victoria Falls Marathon is that you can’t see Victoria Falls from the course. This is unavoidable, however, and not the fault of the organizers, since as a World Heritage Site and the primary source of revenue for the town, the main Falls are hidden from view and so not readily visible from the road. Nonetheless, as though flexing its muscle for its guests, the Falls greeted us with a gentle mist as we crossed the bridge and approached the border post into Zambia.

From the bridge the Zambezi River, which separates Zimbabwe and Zambia, could be seen swirling far below. The spray from the Falls hung tantalizingly in the air, hinting at the raw power just out of view around the bend. Scenery-wise, this out-and-back segment between nations would be the highlight of the day.

View of the Zambezi River from the Zambezi Bridge

The Zambezi River and “Boiling Pot” seen from the Zambezi Bridge

Traveler’s Tip: If you plan to visit Victoria Falls, your best bet is to purchase a KAZA UniVisa for $50 which allows much easier travel between Zimbabwe and Zambia, as well as day trips to Botswana (e.g. to visit Chobe National Park) through the Kazangula border. Katie and I each purchased a KAZA UniVisa upon arrival at the Zimbabwe airport. Entrance to the Falls themselves will cost you $30 on the (more developed) Zimbabwe side and $20 on the Zambia side. Both are worth the price of admission, particularly in the late fall/early winter (April–June) when water levels are at their peak. Later in the year when water levels fall, I’d stick to the Zimbabwe side. No matter when you go, be prepared (outside the park) to be approached by determined “artists” looking to sell you copper bracelets, wooden knick-knacks and other souvenirs.

No sooner had we crossed the bridge than we reached the turnaround point (manned by armed guards) and headed back the way we’d come, our total distance run in Zambia amounting to barely one of the race’s 42 km. As memorable as this border crossing had been, clearly the folks in charge needed us off the bridge quickly so they could reopen it to traffic.

Crossing the Zambezi Bridge, mile 2

Good news greeted me along this first out-and-back—a lingering pain in the soft tissue on the top of my foot, an acute bruising sensation which had arisen after Comrades and which had flared up sporadically in the interventing two weeks (including this morning), subsided early in the race. Oddly— though maybe not so oddly if you’re a runner who understands the niggling aches and pains that come and go—that would be the last I’d hear from the top of my foot. It’s almost as if it had simply—missed running?

With the most scenic stretch behind us, the next 35 km would essentially amount to two loops through the more rural sections of town. Here the terrain remained fairly consistent: a variably dusty two-lane asphalt road with transitional stretches of dirt and sand. The morning remained pleasantly cool as the winter sun rose overhead, and with abundant cloud cover to thwart its rays, I wouldn’t have to don my sunglasses until around mile 7.

Traveler’s Tip: If you’re planning to run the Victoria Falls Marathon (assuming it’s still in June or July when you read this), bring your sunscreen but feel free to leave the mosquito repellent at home. Despite packing two types of repellent we failed to see a single mosquito during our stay in Africa, including 3+ days on safari plus another few days visiting one of the continent’s largest sources of water. Truth is, winter isn’t the mosquito’s breeding season. And while most travel guides will tell you the risk for malaria during the winter months (June–Sept) is low, based on our own experience in South Africa, Zimbabwe and Botswana, it’s effectively zero.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 3 of Victoria Falls Marathon
The best thing about the two out-and-back sections in the first half of the race was having the chance to see the lead pack pass in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, by the second half the leaders were too far ahead for me to catch a glimpse on the out-and-back.

Long stretches of open road were punctuated by the occasional tourist lodge, nature sanctuary or crocodile farm. One property advertised vulture feedings at 10:30am. The out-and-back section from miles 5.5–10.5 (and likewise miles 17–22) bordered Zambezi National Park, and though on this day the only wildlife along this stretch would be the huffing and puffing two-legged variety, the occasional armed guard stationed along the course testified to Nature’s presence and power in the region.

As uneasy as it made me feel to imagine a majestic animal being shot so I could run a marathon, at the same time I recognized this as a fact of life here in Zimbabwe, where wild and tame coexist in such close proximity. And maybe this is simply me rationalizing, but I got the strong sense that the rifles brandished by the guards would be used only as a (very) last resort.

The most extended uphill of the day (which again, we’d tackle twice) began at the tail end of this 5-mile out-and-back stretch. A steady, nondescript climb roughly two miles in length, I was relieved to encounter it for the first time early in the day, while the clouds persisted and the sun was not yet high in the sky.

We wouldn’t be so lucky on the second loop.

Miles 6 and 17 of the Victoria Falls Marathon

Climbing in mile 6 (and 17)

Starting at the hour mark, I downed a GU or Stinger gel—I find the latter easier to swallow on the run—every five miles or so, enough to provide the occasional burst of energy without upsetting my stomach in the rising heat. Like Comrades the aid stations offered water sachets (pouches) rather than cups, and after 87 km of practice in South Africa my teeth were sharpened and ready.

As originally devised, our travel plan had been to spend the duration of our African visit in South Africa. We’d added Victoria Falls only after a native Zimbabwean had mentioned it in passing at the Santa Barbara Wine Country Half Marathon expo in May. Somehow the conversation had turned to Comrades and he’d recommended that, while in Africa, we also check out the Victoria Falls Marathon that same month. Once planted, that seed had quickly germinated in the well-tilled soil of our brains—who knew when we’d have another chance to visit?—and within two weeks we’d changed our plans to include Victoria Falls.

This was, of course, before I had 87 km in my legs. A second marathon in Africa had seemed so carpe diem at the time. And if I’m being honest, Vic Falls offered an enticing backup for my African marathon, just in case Comrades didn’t go according to plan.

Known to the indigenous Tonga people as Mosi-oa-Tunya or “The Smoke That Thunders,” Victoria Falls has been named one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and is a popular tourist destination. And though I feel like we experienced Zimbabwe in much the same way a foreigner visiting Las Vegas experiences the United States, the Falls is a national treasure and for good reason.

Entrance to Victoria Falls park Zimbabwe side
And speaking of national treasure, Zimbabwe needs all it can get because it’s clearly not a wealthy nation. The economy of Zimbabwe shrank dramatically at the turn of the century, resulting in widespread poverty and an unemployment rate as high as 95%. Hyperinflation led to the country suspending its own currency in 2009, and Zimbabwe paper money such as the 100-billion-dollar (as in $100,000,000,000) bill is now hawked around town as a souvenir.

Likewise, roving “artists” relentlessly peddle copper bracelets and wooden figurines in search of naïve tourists—and clearly a white man and Chinese woman look the part—willing to buy their wares at bargain prices. On our pre-race stroll across the bridge from Zimbabwe to Zambia and back, we were approached by a steady stream of self-proclaimed artists looking to chat us up about Obama or Trump while hoping to offer us a deal we couldn’t refuse.

Amazingly the same man—93-year-old Robert Mugabe—has ruled the country since first taking office in 1980 with the announcement that Rhodesia would be renamed as Zimbabwe. During his tenure he has been praised as a revolutionary hero by some and criticized as a corrupt dictator by others (sound familiar?); the truth, as with most complex characters, lies somewhere in the middle.

Quickie Quiz: Anyone know the capital city of Zimbabwe or the nation’s most widely spoken language?

A: Harare is the capital with a population of 1.5 million, while an estimated 70% of the population speaks Shona.

Zimbabwe flag
Miles 12–14 featured a gentle downhill that passed back through the blue start arch, signaling the start of the second loop. Here Katie awaited at the most convenient access point on the course. I waved, let her know I was feeling good, and switched gears again as the road turned back uphill over familiar ground.

Multi-loop courses aren’t my favorite—I always prefer a good point-to-point—and so with no new scenery to look forward to and no strict time goal to keep me dialed in mentally, I found my interest in running 26.2 miles flagging. I needed a distraction, some sort of pick-me-up to motivate me through the next 12+ miles.

Turns out “pick-me-up” was a poor choice of words. But as motivation goes, I may never top what happened next.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 14 of Victoria Falls Marathon

Back to the start, mile 14

Close encounters of the African kind (mile 15–finish)
I’d glanced up to my left at the billboard advertising an authentic African-themed dinner experience, when suddenly I heard the cracking of tree branches to my right. Instinctively I turned toward the sound and there, staring back at me and about to enter the road, was a solitary elephant. Not the largest elephant I’d seen in our travels, but as the heaviest land mammal on the planet, an African elephant of any size is large enough to ruin me.

And this was no zoo.

I slowed immediately, not wanting to startle him but not about to take my eyes off him either. He seemed to have the same idea. Luckily there were no other runners within 50 yards of us. I looked at him, he looked at me, we looked at each other. Then he let out a brusque snort, apparently surprised and not particularly amused to see a biped blocking his path. Why did the elephant cross the road? his steely eyes seemed to ask from beneath heavy gray eyelids. Get the hell out of my way and I’ll show you!

I could already picture the next day’s headline:

Darwin Award 2017: Slow-footed American startles unamused elephant
“I’d give 100 billion dollars to have him back,” says weepy spouse

During this exchange both time and I slowed to a crawl, though neither stopped. My brain, typically in standby mode during marathons, snagged momentarily—after all, we’d been instructed that the least attractive option when confronted with a pissed-off elephant was to run away. That said, I was already running away. And so I made the split-second decision to keep doing what I was doing and not break stride. I hoped this would have the dual benefit of a) not frightening him with any sudden movements and b) indicating by my retreat that I was no threat, and that I had no intention of thwarting his progress.

Encountering elephant at mile 14 of Victoria Falls Marathon

Best. Spectator. Ever.

And so I kept running as he remained still, eyeing me warily from the side of the road. As soon as I’d put roughly 20 yards between us (pretty sure I held my breath for the first ten), I quickly turned back and snapped a photo—‘cuz what good is getting trampled by an elephant while on vacation if no one believes you? All without spooking the animal or soiling myself.

I guess I just have a way with wildlife.

Then I picked up my pace and accelerated up the hill, toward a group of spectators and volunteers who were all staring down in my direction and pointing back the way I’d come.

Behind me I heard my new acquaintance trumpet loudly, presumably to let the other curious bipeds know that like it or not, he was damn well going to cross the road. His road.

(I note this unsettling incident which occurred one month after our visit to Vic Falls—a tragic and horrific story which starkly demonstrates the raw, unpredictable power of these animals. My heart goes out to the family of the unfortunate guide.)

Pre-race instructions for Victoria Falls Marathon

Instructions posted at the pre-race expo

Predictably I rode a bit of an adrenaline surge for the next few minutes—so much so that despite having 14 miles in my legs, despite slowing for the elephant and despite stopping to capture a couple photos of baboons frolicking alongside the course and in the trees, I still managed my fastest and only sub-8:00 mile of the day in 7:53.

No wonder the world’s fastest runners hail from Africa.

The course was not closed to traffic and occasionally a car or truck would pass, flattening half-filled water sachets with a {POP} and stirring up dust in its wake. As the sun rose in the sky and the day grew hotter, a noseful of warm orange dust wasn’t exactly a refreshing surprise. But this was Zimbabwe after all and besides, if you’re planning to run a marathon and do it comfortably, you should probably find a different sport.

As the African sun burned away the remaining cloud cover, the déjà vu of our surroundings didn’t bother me as much as the mounting heat and steady diet of rolling hills. Whereas every uphill in the first half of the course seemed to have a corresponding downhill, the second half—like a life well lived—definitely had more ups than downs.

Miles 9 and 20 of Victoria Falls Marathon

The turnaround point at mile 9 (and 20)

The highlight of the last out-and-back stretch (miles 17–22) was a group of small children watching from the side of the road, some quiet and others more enthusiastic. As I’d done at Comrades, I slowed and bent down to share high-fives with them as I passed. Their bright eyes and excited smiles lifted my spirits and were nearly as motivating as an anxious elephant.

“Thank you!” I responded reflexively over my shoulder and then, realizing they may not speak English, followed that quickly with a thumbs-up sign. The chorus of giggling behind me was more beautiful than the Falls themselves. Because laughter really is its own natural wonder of the world. And anywhere on the planet—no matter one’s nationality, ethnicity, skin color, language, socioeconomic status, shoe size or popsicle preference—a five-year-old is a five-year-old. No hatred, no judgment, no bottled-up feelings of rage or resentment at a world that doesn’t understand them and which they can’t control. Only wide-eyed joy, unconditional love and the giddy appreciation that comes with living each and every moment without regret and in a world of unlimited possibility.

Buoyed by these tiny spectators I pressed on, and was able to see new Bay Area friend Gloria pass in the opposite direction, looking tired but strong a few minutes ahead of me. Her husband Jihua remained some distance behind, though just how far I didn’t know.

Three times along the course an ambulance approached with siren wailing, and three times it blew past me without stopping. Dodged another one, I thought on each occasion.

By mile 22 I was struggling bigly, and it became abundantly clear that Comrades is the gift that keeps on giving. Two weeks of travel in a foreign land apparently hadn’t been enough to clear those 87 km from my legs.

Grazing wart hogs at mile 22 of Victoria Falls Marathon

Grazing wart hogs in dappled lighting, mile 22

I was momentarily distracted from my discomfort by a pack of wart hogs, which I inadvertently surprised as they stood grazing on a sun-dappled patch of green grass. The skittish animals retreated a short distance before realizing I was no threat and returning to their meal, while keeping a safe distance between us juuuuust to be sure.

Soon after the wart hog sighting I stopped briefly to shake out and stretch my overworked legs and hips. And soon after that, on another gradual climb with the sun directly ahead and beating me in the face, my cadence became so slow and labored that I was forced to slow to a hike along with two other runners. Reaching the top of the hill I continued to power-walk for a short distance, too exhausted to run immediately but refusing to concede a second more than was absolutely necessary.

This scenario repeated three or four more times, as each time the combination of heat and hills (no matter how gentle the grade) stopped me in my tracks, along with every other runner around me. By this point there were very few runners around me who were still, well, running. As it turns out, seeing other runners walking is itself tiring, and has the psychological effect of making it harder to pick up the pace yourself. At the same time, I’m pleased to report that only one runner passed me the entire second half of the race, and that happened in the final km.

At the next aid station I grabbed an orange slice, sucking out the juice like I’d discovered the elixir of life. One orange at a time, one mile at a time, one step at a time.

Rainbow at Victoria Falls
The number of aid stations—and the number of volunteers manning those aid stations—seemed to shrink in the later miles. As it had in the heat at Comrades, water again grew unappealing late in the race, a bizarre notion considering the human body is roughly 60% water. Which tells you just how stressful running 26.2 miles in the heat can be.

It didn’t help that the water here was less consistently cold than it had been at Comrades.

By mile 24 I had no idea whether a sub-4-hour finish was still within reach, but if so it was quickly slipping away. After two straight 11+ minute miles, how many more could I log and still have a shot at sub-4? To be honest, though, this wasn’t my primary concern as everything now felt like it was working against me: the heat, the hills, the final 10K of a marathon, the many hours spent on foot the day before viewing the Falls from both the Zimbabwe and Zambia sides. And of course there was the little issue of the 87 km I’d run two weeks earlier…

No, at this point I needed to focus all my energy on simply finishing this race while enjoying the final two miles of my Africa experience as much as possible. Easy to say when you’re sitting at home writing a blog post, tougher to do in the moment when you’re suffering mightily.

Victoria Falls Marathon elevation chart

Those two sharp downward spikes are Garmin error on the bridge

Just after the 40km marker I caught up to a fellow wearing a familiar cap. “Looking good, Comrades runner!” I encouraged him as I passed, to which he responded, “Man, this is killing me!” Clearly the Ultimate Human Race was still extracting its pound of flesh from us all.

The “2 KM TO THE FINISH —>” sign was followed by a sharp right turn and more consternation at seeing the road ahead of us leading uphill yet again. I’d been hoping we might finish the second half of the race the same way we’d closed out the first, with a speedy descent that carried us through the finish line.

On the contrary, there would be no more downhills, no more joyful children, no more snorting elephants to keep me motivated and moving, only raw will and determination to get… this… thing… done.

The density of runners increased as the marathon and half marathon courses merged one last time. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion now, and essentially they were—these remaining half marathoners were now approaching the 3½ hour mark, so they were in no hurry to reach the finish.

Mike Sohaskey at Victoria Falls Marathon finish

Entering the finish chute

One final right turn led us onto the grounds of the Victoria Falls Primary School where finishers and spectators milled about as race officials tried to prevent them from strolling into the path of oncoming runners. My sole focus now was on finding the finish line, and I used the last of my energy reserves to weave around these folks and onto the grass track where I saw the blue finish arch—nowhere.

Where was that fucking arch?

Clearly it was close—I heard the music blasting and saw the crowds of happy finishers celebrating on the grass as I circled the cricket field slowly, like a hungry but exhausted shark. Glancing back I saw the finish arch at last, positioned at the end of a spiral path leading me back the way I’d just come. This was definitely the 0.2 of the 26.2 miles and an appropriately sadistic finish to an unforgettable challenge.

The sponsor flags seemed to salute me as I passed, the finish chute feeling like a red carpet as I dragged my spent body across the line. As relieved as I was to be done, I was equally ecstatic at what came next. Glancing down at my Garmin I saw an unofficial finish time of 3:58:19 staring back at me (official time 3:58:12). Somehow I’d done it—I’d kept my streak of sub-4 road marathons intact, in the process accomplishing my one and only real goal of the day.

And I have an agitated pachyderm to thank for it.

Mike Sohaskey with Victoria Falls Marathon sign
Out of Africa
With my second African finish in the books I gratefully accepted my finisher’s medal and tanktop, both still in their protective plastic bags. And maybe it’s just me, but being handed a medal that’s still in its baggie after running 26.2 miles is always a letdown—I much prefer the pomp and circumstance of having a volunteer hang it around my neck, or at least hand it to me by the ribbon so it feels more like an award than an afterthought.

At that moment I never wanted to run again—I was S-P-E-N-T. Not quite vomit-in-the-bushes, I-may-never-get-comfortable-again spent like at Comrades, but spent enough that the thought of running another step left me woozy. I threw my arms around Katie (as much for support as in celebration) and staggered toward a shaded tent. There I collapsed in a chair and, like a newborn wearing mittens, worked haplessly to open a pouch of chocolate milk. As usual, my post-race stomach wanted only to be left alone.

Exhilaration and body odor filled the air, the winter sun continuing its assault on the packed cricket field. Moments later I heard my name announced over the PA, presumably a delayed congrats for having finished a tough but gratifying race.

Mike Sohaskey - I love Vic Falls
The music played on as the announcer continued to congratulate finishers, including one fun run finisher who was greeted with “Congrats on taking so long to join us!” The field was a sea of red and blue, and it was cool to see so many happy finishers all sporting their race apparel in unison. The mayor of Victoria Falls said a few scripted words, a representative from Econet (the title sponsor) reinforced the company’s commitment to the marathon as it continues to grow, and our new friend Gloria accepted her award for finishing in tenth place among female finishers. Then we hobbled out to the dirt parking lot where, after some confusion, we succeeded in flagging down a shuttle to transport us back to the Kingdom Hotel where a lazy afternoon awaited.

And with that it was time to bid Zimbabwe and Africa farewell, but not before we promised to meet again soon. We’d only scratched the surface of what this vast and amazing continent has to offer.

Victoria Falls may not be the largest, or the sexiest, or the most hyped marathon in Africa. But unlike many American marathons, it continues to grow each year and for good reason. No other race on the planet promises immediate proximity to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and a potential close encounter of the two-tusked kind. If you’re a Seven Continents hopeful or a traveling runner of any kind, I’d recommend you take a good long look at Vic Falls when planning your African adventure.

And if not? Well tusk, tusk on you.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho at Victoria Falls Marathon finish line

Traveler’s Tip: If you have a choice, do yourself a favor and avoid intercontinental travel the day after a marathon. Your immune system will already be compromised from the effort, and the physical toll exacted by the race + many hours of cramped quarters and recycled air = an illness waiting to happen. Case in point, fellow SoCal runner Gil ended up in bed for two days with a nasty flu after flying back the day after his impressive 8:40:02 finish at Comrades. And though I was lucky to avoid the same fate, flying from Zimbabwe to Los Angeles the day after the Vic Falls Marathon wasn’t an experience I’d be eager to share.

BOTTOM LINE: Victoria Falls may not be the largest, or the sexiest, or the most hyped marathon in Africa. But unlike many American marathons, it continues to grow each year and for good reason. No other race on the planet promises immediate proximity to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and a potential close encounter of the two-tusked kind. If you’re a Seven Continents hopeful or a traveling runner of any kind, I’d recommend you take a good long look at Vic Falls when planning your African adventure.

Other than the initial out-and-back across the bridge alongside the Falls, you won’t have the benefit of head-turning landscapes. The dusty two-loop course lacks compelling scenery, a fact made more conspicuous by having to run it twice. And even in winter, you should plan for a warm day—you can always be pleasantly surprised if cooler temperatures prevail. This is Africa, after all.

And yes, an African elephant (the largest land mammal on the planet) did wander onto the course next to me in mile 14, an encounter that seemed to surprise us both. I’m proud to say I managed to give him clearance and still snap a photo, all without spooking him or soiling myself.

Not the sign you want to see on your 3rd floor elevator after a marathon

PRODUCTION: The organizers do a first-class job of hosting their third-world marathon. The Kingdom Hotel where we and many other runners stayed is a 3-minute walk from the start line, always a huge advantage. Likewise the outdoor expo held at the Kingdom Hotel was pleasantly small and easily navigated. At the expo we were able to sign up for shuttle service from the finish line back to the hotel on race day. And though shuttle service at the finish line at Vic Falls Primary School was a bit disorganized, the brief inconvenience was nothing that a bit of patience didn’t resolve.

The course could have used another aid station or two in the closing miles, and maybe a few more buckets of ice in which to store the water sachets. And there weren’t a whole lot of spectators, but then again that’s not really the expectation in a tourist town like Victoria Falls. Besides, I’m pretty sure my ears were still ringing from all the cheering at Comrades, so a low-key but well-supported race was just what this doctor ordered.

Victoria Falls Marathon Expo at Kingdom Hotel

The pre-race expo at the Kingdom Hotel

The course wasn’t closed to traffic, but on sparsely traveled two-lane roads this was never a concern, aside from the clouds of dust kicked up by passing vehicles. Though seeing discarded water sachets being blown into the underbrush by passing trucks was disheartening, and I hope the organizers and volunteers were able to find and collect them before the wildlife did.

SWAG: First time ever I received a finisher’s tanktop (rather than t-shirt), and an attractive one it is—eye-catching red and blue with the race logo emblazoned on front. And it was cool to see everyone wearing theirs at the finish line festival. I’m not a huge “suns out, guns out” guy with my runner’s physique, but I’m sure I’ll find ample use for it in the SoCal heat. The finisher’s medal is also nice, though small and understated, and depicts three (male?) runners with the Falls in the background. And despite its diminutive size, it’s still the largest of my African medals!

Victoria Falls Marathon medal
RaceRaves rating:

June 18, 2017 (start time 6:45am)
26.19 miles in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe
Finish time & pace: 3:58:12 (first time running the Victoria Falls Marathon), 9:06 min/mile
Finish place: 92 overall, 26/60 in the “Veteran” category
Number of finishers: 276 (201 men, 75 women)
Race weather: cool & cloudy at the start (temp 59°F), warm & sunny at the finish (mid-70s)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 1,421 ft ascent, 1,194 ft descent

Red arrow indicates my elephant encounter and fastest mile



A boy’s story is the best that is ever told.
– Charles Dickens

Louisiana Marathon start
State 15 would beckon from

a land of purple & gold,
The next chapter in our story
and each chapter must be told…

The scene felt eerily lifted from a dystopian sci-fi film. As if of one mind, bodies like drowsy ants moved slowly but purposefully toward the start line. The hulking shadow of the nation’s tallest state capitol building loomed in the background, its dimly lit tower shrouded by the gray morning fog.

This was race day weather different than any I’d experienced before—foggy and yet strangely humid. Anyone who didn’t keep track of such things wouldn’t have guessed that just seven days earlier and 175 miles to the northeast, the Mississippi Blues Marathon in that state’s capital city of Jackson had been canceled by freezing rain and icy conditions.

Welcome to winter in the Deep South.

Louisiana Marathon start line shrouded in fog

Into the fog: One minute to “go” time (the state capitol is out of the picture behind us)

By contrast, here in Baton Rouge we’d apparently lucked out. Cloudy skies were expected to prevail until at least noon, and all signs pointed to ideal race day conditions. In our customary fashion Katie and I had arrived—after a ten-minute walk from our hotel—within 15 minutes of the official 7:00am start. That left me plenty of time to sidle my way to the front of the loosely packed start corral, where I found new friends James and Joey lined up ready to roll. Literally.

James and Joey (Team JoJo) would be taking part in the Louisiana Half Marathon as Ainsley’s Angels, a group that “aims to build awareness about America’s special needs community through inclusion in all aspects of life”. I’d first been introduced to Joey online and learned of his story through Mike B, a Bay Area friend who’d met the boy through “I Run For Michael”, a Facebook group that pairs able-bodied and special needs athletes.

Mike runs for Joey because Joey can’t run for himself. Joey has cerebral palsy but—as Mike likes to say—it doesn’t have him. He recently underwent Selective Dorsal Rhizotomy (SDR) surgery to reduce the spasticity in his lower body, a breakthrough procedure that has enabled him to walk and even run short distances. Nevertheless, his is a daily battle fought with the love and support of his dad James, mom Jessica and sister Abi.

But if you think having special needs earns him your pity, you’d be wrong. Joey is like any other 7-year-old boy—bursting with energy and eager to show off. When Katie and I met him and has family at the expo on Saturday, he kept us laughing with his infectious smile and carefree goofiness.

Mike Sohaskey, Joey and James D at the Louisiana Marathon expo

Joey shows off his Iron Man-like abs at the pre-race expo (dad James is at right)

And as it turns out, Joey loves to race. Apparently, after seeing an Ironman competition on television one day, he let it be known that that’s what he wanted to do. So at the urging of his son (and because that’s what awesome dads do), James trained his body into triathlete shape and now regularly pushes his athlete-rider son in a specially designed racing chair reminiscent of Boston’s legendary father-son duo of Dick and Rick Hoyt.

With start time fast approaching in Baton Rouge, Team JoJo looked ready to roll alongside a couple dozen other teams of Ainsley’s Angels. I wished them both good luck before falling back to take my place among the 3:45 pace group.

The Mayor/President-elect of Baton Rouge said a few words of welcome over the PA, and with five days to go until the inauguration of our 45th President, who can say whether she was referencing the current political unease when she quoted Kathrine Switzer: “If you are ever losing faith in human nature, go out and watch a marathon.”

Horace Wilkinson Bridge over the Mississippi during Louisiana Marathon weekend

The Horace Wilkinson Bridge spans the mighty Mississippi, with the USS Kidd in the foreground

Under cloudy humid skies this day
there’d be no winter cold
(All the details that matter
to the story must be told).

After a National Anthem sung by a fellow runner whose goal is to sing in all 50 states, we were off on what for most of us would be our first marathon of 2017. The first few miles flew by quickly, as the first few miles of a marathon typically do. With little to see thanks to the lingering fog, I took the opportunity to gather my thoughts and plan out my strategery for the next 3+ hours.

My goal for the day was simple: my training plan called for 13 miles at a pace of 8:08/mile, meaning I’d give myself three slower miles to warmup before kicking it up to an 8:08/mile pace. I’d then maintain that pace until mile 16, where I’d re-evaluate and hopefully take the last 10 miles to pat myself on the back. No pressure.

The fog persisted as though it had something to hide, and it struck me how little of Baton Rouge I was seeing. We’d begun our visit 36 hours earlier in a similar manner, entering the town under cover of darkness after making the late-night drive from New Orleans. All I’d been able to spy in the way of scenery had been the shadowy skeletons of trees lining both sides of the highway, and my brain had conjured up spooky imagery to fill in the gaps created by the blackness. In our rental car “Far From Any Road”, the haunting theme song to HBO’s gritty True Detective, served as our soundtrack welcoming us to Louisiana.

Back on course, I was feeling great despite the odd winter humidity, and was having no trouble holding an 8:08/mile pace. In fact, on several occasions I had to consciously slow down to avoid dipping down into the 7:40s. Given that 2016 had been a slowdown year for me with zero sub-3:30 marathons, it was comforting to be able to hold an ~8:00/mile pace easily.

Running south in a literal haze we passed The Book Exchange, one of the few edifices I could make out and the most dilapidated building we’d see all day. The store looked abandoned to say the least, as though it had exchanged its last book sometime during the Eisenhower administration.

Team JoJo at mile 9 of the Louisiana Marathon

Team JoJo looking strong in mile 9

Teams of Ainsley’s Angels were out on the course providing plenty of inspiration, and I clapped and cheered as I passed James and Joey on a slight incline in mile 3. James ran with a smile on his face while Joey stared straight ahead, keenly focused on the task at hand. And though I’d miss seeing them again as they’d finish an hour before me, father and son would celebrate their 13.1-mile accomplishment with Joey crossing the finish line on his own two legs—legs that I have no doubt will cross a lot more finish lines in the future. Congrats, Team JoJo!

Continuing along Park Blvd, the sprawling oaks lining each side of the street formed an extended “tree tunnel” that would have offered much-needed shade on a warm day. The green expanses of Baton Rouge City Park swept by, followed by City Park Lake, which seemed to morph almost seamlessly into the creatively named University Lake that borders the Louisiana State University (LSU) campus.

We hit the mile 5 marker outside what I’d guess is the centerpiece of the campus and the most popular center of worship in Baton Rouge—Tiger Stadium, which hosts the football team and undoubtedly as many LSU faithful as it can fit during the football season. I’ve said it before—I’m a sucker for a good college campus, and certainly the opportunity to run around and through the LSU campus may have influenced my choice of Louisiana marathons (that and not liking New Orleans). Like Austin, Baton Rouge is a college town moonlighting as a state capital.

Louisiana Marathon running by Tiger Stadium at LSU

The church of college football: Tiger Stadium (aka “Death Valley”) at mile 5

The highlight of the marathon route, had I not been distracted by the massive football monolith on the opposite side of the street, would have been the 15,000-square foot outdoor tiger enclosure, constructed in 2005 for a reported $3 million. The enclosure’s sole inhabitant is the campus mascot, Mike the Tiger—since 1936 there have been a series of “Mikes” who have called the campus home. Sadly its most recent occupant, Mike VI, lost his battle with sarcoma (soft tissue cancer) in October, and so the habitat currently sits empty.

I’m not an advocate of zoos, and so I was glad not to see another regal animal cooped up in a small space. And I’m not alone—after Mike V’s death in 2007, PETA had apparently urged the LSU chancellor at the time not to bring in a new tiger, a request that was roundly rejected in favor of Mike VI. But in LSU’s defense, Mike VI had been a rescue animal donated by an Indiana-based large cat and carnivore rescue facility, so it’s not like the chancellor sent a campus task force out to the Serengeti to poach a Bengal tiger. Nevertheless, the thought of such a magnificent beast living alone on—of all places—a college campus left me with mixed emotions, and I was admittedly relieved not to see it for myself.

Making a brief detour away from University Lake, we ran on narrow streets that read like a “greatest hits” of U.S. higher education—Cornell, Harvard, Emory, Stanford—past well-maintained homes with immaculately groomed yards and patios set off by white balustrades. Telltale signs of faculty housing.

By the time we rounded the campus and reached the opposite side of the lake, now headed north the way we’d come, the fog had lifted and I could finally appreciate our surroundings. Nutrition-wise I was sticking to a schedule, downing one Clif Shot Blok every 20 minutes and one gel on the hour, a strategy that seemed to be keeping my energy levels stable. I was feeling good, and I continued to pull back on the throttle as I regularly dropped below an 8:00/mile pace.

Mile 9 of Louisiana Marathon around University Lake

Fog-free mile 9 around University Lake

But no matter how good I felt as I pulled alongside the 3:35 pace group on the narrow lake path, it was tough to appreciate Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” blasting its time-tested chorus of “WHOAAAAAA, we’re halfway there…” in mile 9. With 17+ miles to go. (This is the running equivalent of an “alternative fact”.)

Entering double digits at mile 10, I passed the bizarre “Supreme Race selfie station”. From what I recall based on a fleeting glimpse, this featured a wooden cutout of a large bag of race primed for picture taking. And you’ll probably be shocked to learn there was no one waiting in line when I passed. No offense to Supreme Rice, I’m sure they make an awesome grain and I appreciate their sponsorship of this event since we couldn’t run without them—but how high on endorphins or Insta-crazed do you have to be to pose in the middle of a race with a fake (or real) bag of rice?

The miles flew by on a fantastic day for running, with long stretches of residential roads featuring pockets of cheer zones, though never any oversized or overly raucous groups of spectators. And now that I think of it, though they’re referenced on the website I don’t recall hearing any live bands along the course, either.

Speaking of spectators, my shout-out for best of the day went to an enthusiastic 4-year-old drill sergeant-in-training, with his blonde crewcut and impassioned cries of “LET’S GO RUN-NERS! LET’S GO RUN-NERS! LET’S GO RUN-NERS!” For a second I thought he might see my smile and tell me to drop and give him 10 pushups. He didn’t miss a beat or pause for breath as I passed, his boisterious chants receding in the distance behind me.

At mile 11 the marathon and half marathon courses diverged, with the half marathon course headed back toward the Capitol and the marathon course continuing east. This splitting of the two courses thinned the crowd (~75% half marathoners, 25% marathoners) dramatically and left me essentially running by myself. Just the way I like it.

Mike Sohaskey selfie in mile 10 of Louisiana Marathon

There’s always time during a marathon for a selfie (University Lake, mile 10)

To maintain an aggressive pace
whether naïve or bold,
Leads our story to an ending,

and the ending must be told.

I continued to hit my 8:08 mile paces comfortably as I approached mile 16, the end of my planned 13-mile tempo run. I decided to maintain that comfortable pace beyond mile 16 rather than intentionally slowing down, since the latter ironically struck me as the more laborious option. If I got tired I got tired, and at that point I’d slow down. All I had to do from here was maintain an 8:30/mile pace to ensure an easy sub-3:45.

Through attractive subdivisions we ran, along oak- and magnolia-lined streets decorated with homes whose distinctive architecture hinted at their antebellum roots. The city’s charming Southern architecture helped distract my mind from the mounting mileage.

The more marathons I run, the less likely it becomes I’ll see a new spectator sign that strikes my fancy—and Louisiana was no exception. “Your couch misses you” may have been my favorite of the day, though a shout-out to the lady with the “You run marathons, I watch them on Netflix” sign. And I’ve noticed in the past year that “Run faster, I farted” has become the go-to race day motivation of kids across the country.

Louisiana Old State Capitol building and Baton Rouge 200 sign

Louisiana’s Old State Capitol—used as such for 60 of the town’s 200 years—is now a National Historic Landmark

“Great job, random stranger!” is one of the more popular spectator signs at any marathon, and I couldn’t help laughing when a runner behind me responded on one occasion with an exuberant shout of “Thanks, random citizen!”

I reached mile 23 before fatigue finally insinuated its way into my quads and hip flexors. Recognizing that I’ve got a lot of racing miles ahead of me in 2017, I consciously slowed to avoid blowing out my legs in my first race of the year. Even so I continued to pass other runners, and I can only recall a single runner passing me in the last 13 miles, with that coming in the final mile. Not since last year’s Los Angeles Marathon had I run a marathon this comfortably. Good to know my legs ain’t broke.

I held off on my last gel until just before the mile 24 aid station, leaving me no choice but to accept a cup of water from a fellow dressed head-to-toe in Green Bay Packers gear. Those same Packers would jettison my Dallas Cowboys from the NFL playoffs on a last-second field goal later in the day. Unfortunately, at mile 24 of a marathon beggars can’t be choosers, so I smiled and thanked him while silently wishing a soul-crushing and season-ending defeat on his team. Apparently he was wishing just a little bit harder.

Louisiana Marathon finish line homestretch

1/10 of a mile to go with half marathoners on the left, marathoners on the right

Mile 25, and the marathon and half marathon courses merged once again as we turned back toward the Capitol. And here the organizers demonstrated the kind of keen foresight that runners appreciate (and remember), keeping the two courses separated with half marathoners on the left and marathoners on the right. Not that there were many half marathoners remaining after more than 3 hours, but it’s never fun to have to weave tiredly around a pack of shoulder-to-shoulder walkers spread out across the street and oblivious to exhausted runners coming up behind them. It’s a small thing to be sure, but small things add up—and attention to detail is what distinguished the Louisiana Marathon from some other small-town races I’ve run.

The course is almost entirely flat, the most noticeable “hill” being the North Blvd overpass located in mile 2 and—as course layout would have it—mile 26. Still feeling good but ready to be done, I ran step-for-step with another determined fellow as we crossed the overpass and approached the short-but-nasty uphill jag leading to the final turn.

One last surge of adrenaline hit me as we turned up 4th St. into the home stretch, and I could just make out the finish arch faintly visible nearly half a mile away. I’d done what I came here to do, and as I passed the mile 26 marker I soaked up the crowd’s energy and genuinely enjoyed the last 385 yards, returning to the State Capitol in much less of a haze than I’d left it and in a time of 3:31:13, my fastest marathon in nearly two years.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Louisiana Marathon

Bienvenue à la ligne d’arrivée! Celebrating a jog well run

I reunited with Katie who had been everywhere as usual, covering the course almost as efficiently as the fog. We compared notes and cheered in other finishers before slowly diffusing toward the finish festival. It’s not often I look forward to a post-race party, but I’d heard and read so much about Louisiana’s hospitality that I was eager to see what all the fuss was about.

And the festival didn’t disappoint, with food and vendor booths set up around the perimeter of State Capitol Park, giving finishers a place to stretch, lounge and munch while a live band entertained with the musical stylings of the Deep South. If you’re wondering how two vegetarians found their way in a state known for meat-heavy dishes like jambalaya and crawfish étouffée, the Whole Foods Vegan Village featured a variety of tasty options, even if they did run out of several items early. And the beer was flowing freely for carnivores and herbivores alike.

On the leisurely walk back to our hotel we stopped to chat with Jim, a fellow finisher clad brightly in INKnBURN gear, hot pink headband and rainbow calf sleeves. Jim also happened to be the singer of that morning’s National Anthem. We chatted briefly about his own 50 states quest (running and singing), and he mentioned that he celebrates every finish with a post-race headstand. Clearly the man is—in his own words—not a wallflower.

Upon learning he’d be running SoCal’s own Surf City on Super Bowl Sunday, we promised to keep an eye out for each other. And as luck would have it, three weeks later we’d reunite after crossing the Surf City finish line within seconds of each other, Jim finishing the half marathon (which started 90 minutes later than the full) while I wrapped up my second marathon of the young year. It’s a small world, after all.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho at Louisiana Marathon finish line
Parting ways with Jim, we’d have one last acquaintance to make before saying our goodbyes to Baton Rouge. As we strolled down 4th Street away from the finish line, I saw slowly approaching the distinctive stride of marathoning legend Larry Macon, accompanied by two other runners. His labored stride—suggestive of a man carrying a bag of rocks slung over one shoulder—betrayed the accumulated miles of a man who’s run over 1,800 marathons in his 72 years. His face, however, told a different story.

“Nice to meet you, Larry!” I called, stopping to applaud. “You too!” he smiled back as he shuffled past without breaking stride. As we watched, his blue “LARRY – 1,800 Marathons and counting” vest faded into the distance, passing the mile 26 marker en route to the same finish line I’d crossed nearly 3½ hours earlier. And the question flashed across my mind—will I still be running 26 miles at a time 26 years from now? It’s tough to imagine, but one thing is certain: I won’t need four digits to count ‘em up.

Larry Macon at mile 26 of the Louisiana Marathon

Larry Legend and friends close in on mile 26 and the finish line

Few of us will ever catch a touchdown or hit a home run or dunk a basketball—but anyone can cross a finish line. If an indomitable 7–year-old with cerebral palsy can do it, and a 72-year-old can do it over 1,800 times while still smiling, then there’s no excuse for sitting on the sidelines. You don’t have to run marathons, or even half marathons, but the cliché is cliché for a reason: Where there’s a will, there almost always is a way. In an increasingly bitter and divided country, running is everyone’s sport. As the nation continues to accumulate negative energy, challenging yourself to reach your personal finish line regardless of obstacles—physical or otherwise—will always be among the most positive things you can do to improve yourself, inspire others and make a difference.

Because there’s nothing like a good run to lift the fog.

The lesson learned? Keep this in mind:
though (s)he be young or old,
A runner’s story may just be
the best that’s ever told.

Baton Rouge sunset

Whether you’re a 50 stater
or just seeking a great race,
I can tell you with conviction
Baton Rouge is just the place.

With Deep South hospitality
and lagniappe to spare,
you get the sense the folks in charge
do really give a care.

Logistics are easy, the course shows off
the campus and the town,
and ‘cross the finish line awaits
the best post-race fest around.

Free photos, awesome volunteers,
aid stations laid out well—
if the devil’s in the details
Louisiana gives ‘em hell.

Sure, the swag may not excite
with simple shirt and bling.
But ask me would I run again?
No doubt—and that’s the thing.

So a final word for runners
looking for a top-notch show:
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
is the place you want to geaux!


Louisiana Marathon medal by state capitol building

Baton Rouge wins the medal for tallest state capitol building in the nation

RaceRaves rating:

RaceRaves review of the Louisiana Marathon

January 15, 2017 (start time 7:00am)
26.38 miles in Baton Rouge, LA (state 15 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:31:13 (first time running the Louisiana Marathon), 8:01/mile
Finish place: 76 overall, 8/71 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 951 (537 men, 414 women)
Race weather: cool, cloudy & foggy at the start (temp 61°F), cool & cloudy at the finish, humid throughout
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 170 ft ascent, 173 ft descent


You have to forget your last marathon before you try another. Your mind can’t know what’s coming.
– Frank Shorter, 1972 Olympic marathon gold medalist

Mike Sohaskey at Big Sur International Marathon bib pickup
As 2016 crosses the finish line, and as memorable a racing year as it was, I’m much more excited to look forward than back. But before we raise the curtain on 2017, there’s one glaring hole remaining to be filled in this year’s blog—a race that, while a bucket list event for most marathoners, happened to fall squarely between my two favorite races of 2016 and a busy time of the year for us at RaceRaves.

After breaking out my happy dance, the second thing I did after receiving my acceptance to the 2016 Boston Marathon last September was to throw my name into the hat for the bicoastal Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge. The Big Sur International Marathon (BSIM)—which I ran for the first time in 2014 while dealing with plantar fasciitis—falls one or sometimes two weeks after Boston, with the organizers reserving several hundred entries for runners who will also be running Boston. This year Boston and Big Sur were a mere six days apart; in 2017 the recovery period will be a more forgiving 13 days.

While the race itself is the same for all runners, participants in the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge earn some very cool perks. For starters, ubiquitous ultrarunning legend and author Dean Karnazes—who runs to the start line in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park each year from his hotel in Monterey, before turning around and running back to Carmel as part of the race itself—hosts a Q&A meet-and-greet for B2B runners at the expo the day before the race. During this session, my favorite answer was the response he gave to the question of whether he’d ever consider running the Barkley Marathons, the +/– 100-mile gut check through the Tennessee wilderness that’s so difficult, only 14 different runners have completed the five-loop course in its 31-year history. The race even inspired its own full-length documentary. In any case, though Dean’s answer was more thoughtful and diplomatic—including an acknowledgement that he’d have to hone his hiking & navigation skills before tackling a course like the Barkley—by reading between the lines I interpreted him to be saying, “Ain’t never gonna happen”. And I can’t say I’d blame him, since the Barkley is more survivalist exercise than legitimate foot race.

But back from the future: B2B finishers also receive, in addition to the usual Big Sur tech tee and distinctive clay finisher medallion, exclusive B2B-specific swag (see “SWAG” below). And a special tent set up next to the finish line offers a comfortable place to sit with your fellow B2B’ers while you recover & refuel at the dedicated post-race buffet. Clearly the BSIM organizers take great pride in hosting this challenge, as do their runners in tackling it.

Having blogged about (and GoPro’ed) my first BSIM experience in 2014, I thought I’d take a different approach from my usual mile-by-mile narrative this time, and end an otherwise questionable year on a positive note by making other runners aware of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge. Because I’m surprised that, $300 price tag notwithstanding, so few Boston runners (402 this year) take advantage of this unique opportunity to run two of the country’s top marathons on back-to-back weekends.

Here then is my photo-cumentary of a weekend spent running one of the world’s most photogenic races in one of the country’s most beautiful venues. Given the high winds and the fact I was trying to beat my disappointing Boston time of 3:48:36 (which I did, in 3:44:21), I didn’t stop for every photo op. But what follows should give anyone looking for an epic race experience a strong sense for the majesty that is the Big Sur International Marathon. And better late than never!


Beautiful scenery abounds in Monterey, though admittedly I did bring some of my own

Sea lions in Monterey Bay

As in most places, oceanfront property is in high demand in Monterey…


… and sometimes you just need to find your own rock and get away from it all

newborn sea lion with parents

An amazing discovery: California sea lion couple with newborn pup

newborn sea lion

Newborn sea lion pup with milk around its mouth and placenta still attached

sea otter couple in Monterey Bay

You otter always practice the buddy system when swimming in deep water

Big Sur poster with runners names-bch

Look carefully—this expo sign includes the names of all 2016 participants, with legacy runners (“grizzled vets”) and last year’s winner in white

Dean Karnazes groupies at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Photo op with Dean Karnazes (front row 3rd from left, in case you couldn’t guess)—nobody told me to wear my race singlet for the gun show


The porta-potties at Big Sur have a cheeky sense of humor

No breeze at start of 2016 Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Check out that flag—nary a breeze 30 minutes before the start

Start line at 2016 Big Sur International Marathon bch

Runners take their places in the start corral—I get a jolt of adrenaline just looking at this photo

Mike Sohaskey and Krishna at Big Sur Marathon start_bch

Meeting up with fellow B2B’er Krishna (from Chicago) moments before the start—luckily he noticed me zoning out and said hi. Thanks Krishna, hope to meet again soon!

Big Sur mile 9 marker with pinocchio bch

Big Sur’s iconic mile markers have a wicked sense of humor, like this example one mile before the climb up to Hurricane Point (photo:

Base of Hurricane Point at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Mile 10, looking up toward Hurricane Point

Up Hurricane Point at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

King of the world! Reaching the top of Hurricane Point at mile 12

View from Hurricane Point at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Eye-popping view from Hurricane Point, with the Bixby Creek Bridge in the distance

Gusty winds at 2016 Big Sur International Marathon_bch

This year’s race was rumored to be the most blustery on record, with gusts up to 40 mph

Crossing Bixby Bridge at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Crossing the Bixby Creek Bridge at the halfway point

Bixby Bridge pianist at Big Sur International Marathon_bch

Neither rain nor snow nor swirling winds keeps Michael Martinez from his appointed role as Bixby Creek Bridge pianist—and thanks to the headwind, I could hear the first strains of his piano from atop Hurricane Point

Big Sur International Marathon mileage sign_bch

The “.2” subtly appended to the “26” turns this otherwise standard mileage sign (located at the finish line) into roadside awesome

Big Sur International Marathon finish

Finishing time! Note the above “Big Sur 26.2” road sign behind the spectators

Boston to Big Sur medals

One of the coolest & most hard-earned medals in road racing

Mike Sohaskey and Mike Beckwith at Big Sur finish_bch

One of the highlights of the weekend was hanging with Bay Area running buddy & Brazen Racing streaker #111 Mike Beckwith

Signed Boston to Big Sur poster_bch

Autographed by all 2016 Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge finishers


No better way to celebrate 52.4 miles of racing in 6 days on opposite coasts than with a finish line selfie

Boston 2 Big Sur medals_bch


That’s Hurricane Point at mile 12

BOTTOM LINE: If you’re a hardcore runner and/or California native planning to run the Boston Marathon, then the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge should be a no-brainer. Not only is it a unique bicoastal challenge, but you’ll have the opportunity to run one of California’s most highly recommended (and this year, one of its most blustery) marathons as part of an exclusive group—and I’m not sure anyone was denied entry via the lottery this year. The only drawback is the steep price of admission—at $300 this is likely the most expensive marathon you’ll run. But if Big Sur is on your bucket list anyway, why not kill two birds with one stone and ride that post-Boston endorphin high for as long as possible?

PRODUCTION: Flawless, just as it was in 2014. School buses transport all runners from Carmel or Monterey (we stayed at the uber-convenient Portola Hotel & Spa at Monterey Bay) out to Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park for the start of the race, leaving plenty of time to eat, stretch, meditate, take selfies, visit the porta-potties and generally do whatever you need to do to prepare yourself for the 26.2 miles of hilly Pacific Coast Highway that await. The pre-race pasta dinner is always a relaxed opportunity to convene with friends beforehand, and the post-race spread for B2B finishers is among the best I’ve seen at any race. The BSIM organizers could easily skate by on the course’s proximity to the Pacific Ocean and jaw-dropping vistas—instead, their assiduous attention to detail is the cherry on top of a very satisfying sundae Sunday long run.

SWAG: The swag for Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge finishers is among the best you’ll find anywhere. In addition to the standard clay finisher medallion (which itself is one of the best in racing) and tech tee, B2B’ers receive a second finisher medallion, long-sleeve tech tee inscribed with the B2B logo and nicely crafted, embroidered ASICS finisher jacket.

Boston 2 Big Sur swag_bch

Boston 2 Big Sur finisher swag included dual medallions and a nicely embroidered jacket (back shown)



April 24, 2016 (start time 6:45am)
26.37 miles from Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park to Carmel, CA
Finish time & pace: 3:44:21 (second time running the Big Sur International Marathon), 8:31/mile
Finish place (BSIM): 366 overall, 267/2,024 M, 40/293 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers (BSIM): 4,160 (2,024 M, 2,136 W)
Finish place (Boston 2 Big Sur): 130 overall, 81/175 M
Number of finishers (Boston 2 Big Sur): 402 (175 M, 227 W)
Race weather: blustery; cool & cloudy at the start (temp 54°F), cool & partly sunny at the finish (temp 58°F)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 2,083 ft ascent, 2,366 ft descent


He conquers who endures.
– Persius

Omaha We Don't Coast sign
The Boss dedicated an album to it. Academy Award nominee and noted ultrarunner Bruce Dern starred in a movie about it. On game days, its college football stadium becomes the second-most populous “city” in the state. And it’s widely regarded as America’s Heartland, although technically speaking relative to the nation’s geographic center in Kansas, it’s more like America’s appendix.

But if Nebraska is indeed America’s Heartland, then given the current state of the nation I shouldn’t have been surprised by the PA announcer’s words as we gathered in the first light of daybreak outside TD Ameritrade Park.

“There’s been a shooting over on Cuming, we’re going to have to push back our start time 30 minutes to an hour.”

After the initial shock subsided—a shooting? At 6:30am on a Sunday in Omaha?—a murmur of uncertainty rippled through the modest crowd. Now what do we do?

Omaha Marathon 2016 start line

Sunrise behind the start line

An important footnote for non-runners: delaying the start of a marathon isn’t the same as rescheduling lunch with a friend or pushing back a work meeting an hour. It’s not even the same as a rain delay at a baseball game.

As athletic endeavors go, marathon preparation is the most meticulous of its kind. For most runners this means 16+ weeks of dedicated training that culminates on race morning with an elaborately choreographed ritual of mental and physical preparation. Alarms chime before the crack of dawn, allowing time (but not too much time) for breakfast to be eaten and digested by a nervous gut, while leaving time (but not too much time) for the body to wake up and warm up to face the day’s daunting challenge.

More than anything, though, race morning is about steeling the mind for the 26.2-mile battle ahead, so that by the time you toe the start line you’ve mentally retreated to your happy place, poised and focused on the task at hand.

For many runners, then, delaying the start of a marathon is like trying to shove toothpaste back in the tube. Don’t get me wrong—running a marathon ain’t rocket science. But as seasoned runners can testify, the key on race day is to control the process and limit the number of variables that can go wrong. The more variables that are out of your control, the more likely one of them will go haywire and short-circuit your day. And this semblance of control is one reason so many Type A personalities are drawn to running.

So then delaying the start of the race an hour introduced several new variables beyond our control, which I’ll touch on shortly. Ironically, aside from the necessarily convoluted pre-race machinations of a Boston or New York, small-town Omaha already was one of my more eventful races—and it hadn’t even begun.

Mike Sohaskey & Dan Solera at Omaha Marathon start

An hour delay at the start left me & Dan plenty of time for photos

Mission: Nebraska
Before landing in Omaha, what I’d known about Nebraska could have fit on a kernel of corn—think “Warren Buffett” and “Cornhuskers”. But then again, what does anyone know about our 37th state? “I want to askya about Nebraska,” I imagined myself saying to the young Bieber wannabe working the front desk at our hotel. But I refrained, afraid that his violently forward-combed hair may rise up like Medusa’s and turn me to stone for flaunting my ignorance.

Nebraska. The word had conjured up visions of deafening red seas of college football chaos, of sweeping golden plains and expansive green stalks of corn swaying gently in the breeze and stretching unimpeded to the infinite horizon. Wyoming would be visible to my left, Iowa to my right, with the marathon start line behind me and South Dakota directly ahead. Big-boned, salt-of-the-earth types would greet me with a firm handshake and look me in the eye when they spoke, unaware that on their smart phone at that moment, a much more interesting conversation was no doubt taking place.

So I’d admittedly been excited to leave behind, for two short days, the Hollywood pretension and urban angst of Southern California for the more tranquil open spaces of America’s Heartland. And a pre-dawn shooting to start the day definitely wasn’t sticking to the script.

Like the other anxious runners milling around us, Dan and I had no choice but to resign ourselves to the situation. We planted ourselves on the sidewalk, wandered through the crowd, hopped back in line for the porta-potties, all the while glancing frequently at our watches and hoping this watched pot would boil sooner rather than later. Because speaking of boiling, mo’ delay meant mo’ heat, and pushing the start back an hour meant we’d now be finishing closer to midday, when the mercury would top out in the mid-80s.

Finally the PA system crackled to life with the promise that the race would start promptly at 8:00am, one hour behind its scheduled 7:00am start. Unfortunately, due to the shooting—which I’d later learn involved a fellow firing a handgun at passing cars before being wounded by police—the course would have to be re-routed, meaning the organizers could no longer guarantee its certified status as a Boston Qualifier. So now, faced with the reality of qualifius interruptus, many runners had no choice but to reset their expectations. Luckily, neither Dan nor I had arrived in Omaha expecting anything more than a new race in a new place.

I’d also arrived in Omaha without Katie, the first time in four years she wouldn’t be joining me for a race. Not since the Griffith Park Trail Half Marathon in 2012 had she sat one out. With a previous commitment filling her weekend, and with no known acquaintances in Omaha, it hadn’t taken much arm-twisting from Dan to convince me to join him in coloring in Nebraska on our 50 states map.

8:00am arrived at last. Restless runners took their place in the start corral as an instrumental rendition of the National Anthem played, accompanied by the presentation of colors by the Marine Color Guard. I glanced around out of curiosity, seeing nobody on one knee doing their best Colin Kaepernick impression. With a countdown and police siren we were off, running east directly into the morning sun rising inexorably over downtown Omaha. The race was on to get back here before that same sun had its way with us.

Omaha collage from Omaha Marathon weekend

Scenes from the Heartland, or What we saw in Omaha (Clockwise from top left): the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge connecting Nebraska and Iowa; TD Ameritrade Park, home of the College Baseball World Series (CWS); oversized homage to the CWS in the Old Market neighborhood; Spirit of Nebraska Wilderness in Pioneer Courage Park; cousins to the Golden Gate Bridge?

“We don’t coast, we set the pace”
Through downtown Omaha we cruised, along gently rolling streets and past quiet industrial sections, before transitioning to more residential neighborhoods. A sign proclaiming “BLACK VOTES MATTER” greeted us from the lawn of a stately looking residence. Within two miles Dan’s long, relaxed strides had carried him out to a significant lead, and I let him go.

My training since May’s Hatfield McCoy Marathon had been strictly aerobic (meaning plenty of slow runs while wearing a heart rate monitor) with minimal speed work, and so I was determined to keep my heart rate under control and my pacing in the mid-8:00/mile range as much as possible. Given the impending heat, my main goal for the day would be a nice round sub-4 hours, with a sub-3:45 in the back of my mind depending on how things played out.

Dan Solera coasting in mile 1 of Omaha Marathon

Dan coasts while setting the pace in mile 1

Looking at the course map before the race, I’d been disappointed to see the route would 1) be an out-and-back covering 13.1 miles, and 2) not pass through either the Creighton University or the University of Nebraska Omaha campus. I’m not a fan of out-and-backs, particularly in road races where there’s no shortage of potential routes, but I am a sucker for a good college campus, so this was already (maybe unfairly) two strikes in my mind. On the other hand, as we ran along tree-lined residential streets I realized the shade here would be very much appreciated on our return trip 2+ hours from now.

At every road race, amid the predictable “RUN NOW, BEER LATER” and “WORST PARADE EVER” signs, there’s typically at least one spectator sign that’s memorable for its wit. Sometimes, though, the best humor is unintentional—and my smile mile would come early in Omaha, courtesy of a spectator sign gone wrong. As we made our way north still feeling fresh, four young kids stood elbow to elbow, each holding a sign which collectively formed a message of support—or at least that was the intent. Instead, their piecemeal message read:


Or maybe, I considered, they’re just being honest? Unfortunately the moment passed before I could think to stop and snap a picture, and we continued on our way without further amusement, legs churning away over asphalt streets interlaced with cracks.

Miller Park section of Omaha Marathon

Cruising through Miller Park

The green oasis of Miller Park in mile 6 offered a momentary reprieve from the treadmill monotony of residential Omaha. With its block after block of bungalow-style homes and chain-link fences, the town reminded me very much of—well, pretty much every other small town in America. This could have been Jackson, Mississippi. Or Mobile, Alabama. Or my own childhood hometown in Texas. I could have sworn I’d been here before, just as I knew I’d be here again.

In mile 8 the course emerged from residential streets onto an exposed stretch of asphalt that paralleled rusty train tracks. As the sun continued its ascent overhead, the next 10 miles of unshaded trail promised a gut check for a lot of us.

Roughly half a mile later we were directed on to the Riverside Trail, a sidewalk that paralleled the main road and which led past Power Park, an unusual collection of youth sports fields overlooked by the park’s skyline-dominating power plant on a backdrop of gleaming transformer towers. One wooden footbridge later we were turning away from the main road toward the Missouri River (mile 9-11) and Carter Lake (miles 12-13), each of which doubles as the border between Nebraska and Iowa.

Life was good, I’d knocked out the “gotta get through these” early miles, and I looked forward to seeing how much ground I could make up on those ahead of me. Watching a steady stream of runners returning from the mile 13.1 turnaround, I realized there would be serious work to do. Naturally I assumed that at least a few of these runners would fade in the intensifying heat, and I just hoped I wouldn’t be one of them.

Turns out I had NO idea.

Power Park section of Omaha Marathon

The industrial centerpiece of Power Park

Everybody hurts
Approaching from the other direction and looking composed, Dan responded to my question of “How you feeling?” with an ominous “Feels like mile 22 already.” Not what I wanted to hear, but I assumed he would—as he had so many times before—find his third or fourth wind in time to rally down the stretch.

I reached the turnaround point where a few spectators waited to cheer us on, and continued back in the opposite direction at my comfortable Goldilocks pace—not too fast, not too slow, but juuuuust right. With a nod to Iowa across the water I stepped up my pace ever so slightly and focused on my mission of passing as many runners as possible.

Dan Solera at mile 14 of Omaha Marathon

Turnaround time: Dan still floating on air in mile 14

Running along the water on the exposed trail, it struck me—unlike most runners who avoid the heat of the day, I love running in peak temperatures. Most of my weekend long runs happen at midday along a shade-free beach path under cloudless skies. Granted our SoCal summers don’t compare with the heat & humidity of a Boston or Dallas, but still given the choice, few folks will choose to run 20 miles in mid-80°F temperatures without the benefit of shade. So in that sense, these 10 miles in Omaha were no different than my typical Sunday long run, minus the ocean view.

I don’t envy you, I thought as a female runner dressed snugly as an ear of corn passed in the opposite direction, reminding us all that this was the Cornhusker State. I would’ve followed, but didn’t want her to think I was a stalk-er.

Apologies for the corny humor.

Miles 11 and 16—the segment leading from the Missouri River to Carter Lake and back again—bordered Eppley Airfield and was predictably the most drab section of the course. With little more than concrete and chain-link fences for scenery, I focused instead on my breathing and on encouraging the occasional runner still approaching in the opposite direction. These are the toughest runners out here, I thought, commiting to a 5+ hour marathon on a day like this…

Passing what looked to be a concrete mixing plant, the noxious stench of petrochemical waste clashed with the soothing sound of crickets chirping in the tall grass alongside the river. Petro-triggered memories of stifling summer days spent growing up in the suburbs of Dallas rushed to my brain—all I needed to crystallize this nostalgic interlude was a few nasty chigger bites.

Mile 17 of Omaha Marathon

Mile 17, with concrete mixing plant at left and Mormon Bridge spanning the Missouri in the distance

Looking ahead as I passed the mile 18 marker just before Power Park, I saw a sore sight for eyes, one that I hoped was nothing more than a heat-induced hallucination. But it wasn’t hot enough to be seeing things, and sure enough there was Dan’s sleeveless white tee and lime green Sauconys some 50 yards ahead of me. This sucks, I thought, crestfallen to see his head drooping and his stride reduced to a labored shuffle.

Having now experienced it, I can say without a doubt that nothing I’ve endured as a runner—not the kidney-punishing heat of Diablo, nor the food-poisoning fiasco in Mobile, not even the nauseating pain of running the last 9+ miles in Nevada on a severely sprained ankle—could compare to the abject helplessness of seeing a friend struggle mightily. And especially not with 7+ miles still to go. Were it possible, I would have gladly siphoned off half of my remaining energy and IV’ed it straight into his bloodstream. But the inconvenient truth was, Dan was the only one who could pull himself out of his unexplained tailspin. And so, with a few words of “Hang in there”-type encouragement that rang hollow in my own ears, I put my head down and plowed ahead.

Whether sympathetic or not, my own stride felt a bit more labored as I followed the Riverside Trail back toward downtown Omaha. Of course, this being the last 8 miles of a marathon on a hot day may also have contributed to my mounting fatigue.

The hotter it gets, the less my body craves calories, and I’d been training specifically for months (via dietary tweaks and frequent fasted runs) to take advantage of my body’s fat stores and reduce its need for supplemental calories on race day. So I took in zero solid calories during the Omaha Marathon nor did my body crave them, even refusing the one Clif Shot Blok I popped in my mouth in mile 16. My only in-race “nutrition” other than frequent water stops was a couple sips of Heed, the sports drink favored by masochists and runners born without taste buds. The stuff remains as unpalatable as I remember it from the otherwise amazing Moab Trail Half Marathon four years ago. On the bright side, it didn’t eat through the paper cups.

Iowa across Carter Lake - Omaha Marathon

Iowa standing tall across Carter Lake

I’m sure too the folks at Hammer Nutrition sponsoring the race would have appreciated hearing the volunteers yell “GATORADE!” at every aid station while holding out cups of Heed. Apparently nobody had instructed the volunteers on what was actually in those carbuoys.

In mile 23 I nodded to a couple of cheering spectators, one of whom called out to me, “That’s the first smile we’ve seen in a while!” Unless I’m really suffering I try to smile as much as possible, if for no other reason than to Jedi mind trick my brain into thinking “This is not the fatigue you’re looking for.”

This year’s marathon was at 1/3 capacity with 332 finishers… though after mile 20, that number seemed about 300 too high. A war of attrition was playing out as we retraced our steps through the tree-lined residential neighborhoods of Omaha. Runners became increasingly sparse and I passed each one in succession, many of them valiantly jogging a few steps at a time before giving in to fatigue and slowing to a walk.

One fellow sporting a bright yellow Marathon Maniacs singlet chugged along, his arms pumping furiously. Grunts of exertion escaped his lips, sounding like something I’d expect to hear on the other side of my hotel room wall. His snorts & groans acted like second-hand fatigue, threatening to sap my own energy as I hurried to pass.

Mile 25 of Omaha Marathon

Runners were few & far between as we neared downtown Omaha in mile 25

Coming down the long straightway of N. 19th St. in mile 25, with an uplifting view of the downtown Omaha skyline rising in the distance, I had to keep close tabs on the nearest runner some 100 yards ahead, since it would have been easy to guess wrong—especially with my subpar sense of direction—and take a wrong turn at any intersection.

Honestly, I’ve never seen a group of marathoners struggle more in the last few miles than I did in Omaha—aside from the runner directly ahead of me, I don’t recall seeing anyone running in mile 26. Usually a few folks dig deep in that final mile, riding the last of their energy reserves to a proud finish. Not in Omaha. And I was reminded that psychologically it’s incredibly tough, with the sun beating down on you and your body begging you to take a break, to keep running when everyone around you is walking. Not that my pace by this point was anything to celebrate—my final three miles would each clock in at over 9:00 minutes. But still, I refused to stop running. And sometimes that’s all it takes.

Time to finish this thing.

Omaha Mural Project

Omaha Mural Project: Fertile Ground tells the story of Omaha’s past, present & future

The Road to Omaha
Approaching TD Ameritrade Park, the crowd of runners swelled as we merged with the back-of-the-pack half marathoners. None of them were running either.

One final left turn and we entered the park, emerging on the center-field warning track. The jumbo screen to our left broadcast live footage of runners approaching the finish. Crikey, I still have to circle the field? I thought wryly as my desperate eyes searched for and found the finish line 300° away, like water in the desert. Ironically, on any other occasion I might’ve taken the time to soak in my surroundings and savor this victory lap—but not right now. Right now I wanted to be done. I sped up on the dirt to pass the family ahead of me so I could finish in the clear, crossing the finish line in a time of 3:47:22.

U.S. Marine awarding Omaha Marathon medal

When a U.S. Marine congratulates you, that’s humbling

For the first time in 23 marathons, not a single runner had passed me in the second half of the race.

With as energetic a “thankoo” as I could muster, I proudly allowed one of the waiting Marine Corps officers to hang an impressively ginormous medal around my neck, accepted two ice-cold bottles of water and then staggered toward the outfield wall, which looked both willing and able to support my exhausted remains. As though waiting for this moment, sweat begin to stream down my face, stinging my eyes with sunscreen. And despite a cooling breeze and partially cloudy sky, the day suddenly got very hot. Was I overheating?

I collapsed in the shade against the wall and gulped one bottle of water while balancing the other on the back of my neck. There I watched one runner after another round the field, few seeming to enjoy their victory lap. The 3:45 pacer crossed the finish and shuffled past, shaking his head and muttering “Bad day for a personal worst”.

Trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, I turned my attention instead to Dan. As though reading my mind my phone buzzed with a text, letting me know he was at mile 25 and feeling dizzy. Well, shit. I weighed my options—I could sit here and wait for him, or I could stumble around and likely throw up on the field. I chose not to move.

Really now… who wouldn’t want to run a marathon?

Mike Sohaskey at Omaha Marathon finish
Finally Dan emerged from the entryway tunnel, taking his time circling the field before striding across the finish looking none the worse for wear. Clearly he’s a quiet sufferer, I thought. And it was amazing to think that although each of us had run nearly twice as many (hilly) miles together four months earlier, these relatively flat 26 miles had felt twice as hard as those 50. No doubt about it—heat is a stone-cold killa.

We were both completely spent and not at all hungry, and after briefly collapsing on a patch of grass Dan headed back to the hotel while I stuck around to collect my day’s winnings, courtesy of a runner-up age group finish. Unfortunately the organizers weren’t yet ready to present the marathon awards. Not only that, but the fellow announcing the 5K winners under the midday sun was doing so at a lethargic pace that, by comparison, made the sloth from “Zootopia” sound like an auctioneer. Luckily I was able to return after hotel checkout to claim my award, since it’s a very nice certificate presented in a curved acrylic frame. Not the easiest thing to carry on an airplane, but definitely worth the inconvenience.


Someone stop her, she’s making a run for the border!

Our last couple of hours in Omaha were spent at a Nebraska-like pace. Try as we might we couldn’t muster the energy to visit the trendy Old Market neighborhood with its supposedly cool breweries, nor could either of us locate our appetite. Instead we sat in a gastropub next to TD Ameritrade Park, chatting while Dan nursed one beer and the poor waiter graciously brought us refill after refill of water. Dan (recently a 3:16 marathoner) tried to make sense of his acute struggles, which you can read about in his “Anatomy of a Bonk”.

Luckily Dan’s a resilient guy (on to state #46!), a thoughtful guy and to me, Omaha was more memorable for the company and life experience than for any race day detail (random shooter notwithstanding). Plus, coming together in the middle of the country was a terrific way to experience a place that otherwise holds very little allure, like the Jeb! of the 50 states.

Omaha certainly wasn’t the most distinctive city I’ve marathon’ed in—aside from The Road to Omaha, a 1,500-pound bronze sculpture that sits outside TD Ameritrade Park, nothing about the city stood out in my mind. Typically a marathon course bends over backward to showcase a city, so maybe this was more the fault of the organizers than the city. Granted my visit lasted only 42 hours, and maybe there are other parts of the city that residents point to as distinctly Omaha—but if not for its hosting the College World Series, I’m not sure there’d be another reason to visit. The fact that the city’s two other marathons, the Heartland Marathon and Nebraska Marathon, both log many of their miles in Iowa suggests the locals feel the same.

The Road to Omaha - Blisters, Cramps & Heaves

The Road to Omaha, timely motivation right before running a marathon

Finishing on the field was a cool touch, though there’s nothing uniquely captivating about TD Ameritrade Park. And bypassing both Creighton and the University of Nebraska Omaha only added to the sense of a very “beige” city. Race production—including the sneeze-and-you’ll-miss-it expo which featured individually wrapped slices of bread—was largely devoid of personality (see “Production” below), with the race itself feeling detached from rather than integrated into the surrounding community. For a race in its 41st year, spectator interest was minimal.

Omaha brought to mind the (no pun intended) running joke I have with a couple of buddies, that low-energy or less dynamic cities are often described by their residents as a “great place to raise kids”. It’s like the phrase is code for “there’s nothing to do here”. And hey, to each his own—if your top priorities in life are peace and quiet (and living among white people), then there’s a place for you in Omaha. I don’t need car horns and police sirens shrieking outside my bedroom window 24/7, but I would prefer that my state’s cultural & economic relevance extend beyond college sports.

Our weekend in Nebraska reinforced the notion that America’s Heartland, both geographically and functionally, may be more appropriately described as America’s appendix—as in, nobody really knows why it’s there. Yes, the people I met in Omaha (Omahans?) seemed friendly enough. But aside from having spent a fun weekend with Dan, ten years from now I’m not sure what I’ll remember about the city itself—maybe the pre-race shooting, maybe the finish line on the field, maybe the fact that it shares a border with Iowa. Even its signature sports stadium is best known for hosting teams other than its own. Omaha is Anytown, USA or Springfield, Nebraska, and so I’m not sure how I’d recommend the city to anyone who’s not a college baseball fan. Unless of course they’re looking for a quiet place to settle down and start a family.

Because Omaha? Omaha would be a great place to raise kids.

Dan Solera & Mike Sohaskey at Omaha Marathon finish

After miles spent running without shade, my camera suddenly decided to provide its own

BOTTOM LINE: Like its pleasant yet average host city, the Omaha Marathon is a pleasant yet average race. To this outsider Omaha was largely nondescript, and if you didn’t know where you were you’d be hard-pressed at any point to identify what city you’re running through. So it’s definitely not the most memorable course you’ll run, but then again it’s a golden opportunity to tour (per the race website) “Nebraska’s most vibrant city”. And the course lies entirely within the state border, a plus for me since I was there to fill my brain with Omaha and Nebraska, like a student cramming for final exams.

(Each of the city’s two other marathons, the Heartland Marathon on Oct. 2 and the Nebraska Marathon on Oct. 16, includes significant mileage in Iowa—though why the 43rd most populous city in the country needs three marathons all within a month of each other is unclear. I sense a bit of civic competition!)

The city aside, the race itself felt like a faceless event devoid of personality and going through the motions. It felt detached from rather than integrated into the community, and it certainly didn’t seem to draw much interest from residents. On-course entertainment was lacking (unless you count a small number of spectator signs), and without aid stations we would have run in silence for most of the 26.2 miles—no high-school bands, no speakers pumping in aural adrenaline, no music of any kind. Even the music at the start line felt apologetic, its volume so low as to be nearly inaudible.

I certainly don’t mind smaller, quieter events—in fact I prefer them, and here some of my favorite races spring to mind, including Run Crazy Horse, the Mississippi Blues Marathon and the Hatfield McCoy Marathon. The difference, as their names suggest, is that these events focus on and embrace the local culture, giving runners a legitimate sense of place. Would you rather run the “Jackson Marathon” or the Mississippi Blues Marathon? The “Eastern Kentucky Marathon” or Hatfield McCoy? Not only that, but the swag for each of these races featured a “surprise & delight” nod to local culture (e.g. a harmonica from Mississippi Blues, a mason jar from Hatfield McCoy). The best race organizers understand that details matter.

The lone kernel of Nebraska culture on this morning was the runner dressed as an ear of corn who I saw shortly after the turnaround. On the bright side, the race was a solid value at $85 (plus inconvenience fees) and significantly cheaper than Omaha’s two other marathons. Though given the Nebraska Marathon’s competitive slogan of “Run local”, I’m guessing its organizers may do more to recognize and embrace local culture.

Omaha Marathon expo

The expo, the whole expo and nothing but the expo

PRODUCTION: All things considered, I wasn’t surprised to learn that HITS Endurance, which produces the race, is based in New York and is “the largest equine show jumping production company in the world” (equine as in horses). The Omaha Marathon is currently the only running event on the company’s calendar, along with a handful of triathlons. Race production struck me as color-by-numbers and just good enough to get by, as though someone had watched a two-minute YouTube video or read a primer on “How to produce a marathon”.

Overall the day ran smoothly enough with no major speed bumps, and kudos to both the organizers and the Omaha police for resolving the pre-race shooting incident as quickly as possible and with minimal disruption to the event itself. At the same time, several missed opportunities throughout the weekend suggested a lack of attention to detail.


EXTRA GRAINY—and now extra plasticky!

First, the expo was disappointing—the five or six tents set up in the parking lot of TD Ameritrade Park were of little interest and seemed scarcely targeted toward runners, including the vendor closest to the entrance who handed us each individually wrapped slices of bread. I could practically hear the planet groaning underfoot.

In addition to the concerns above and the color-by-numbers feel of the production, aid stations were inefficiently organized. Race organizers who pay attention to detail will ensure that water and sports drink (in this case Heed) are offered in visually distinct cups so you can tell at a glance which is which. In the heat of Omaha I had to expend energy at each aid station asking for water, since everything was served in white cups. Not only that but unlike Gatorade, Heed is clear and so indistinguishable from water, thus adding to the confusion. Though this didn’t prevent volunteers from mistakenly shouting “Gatorade!” at every aid station.

Mike Sohaskey with Omaha Marathon medal

This Katie-sized medal will be standing in for Katie today

The post-race spread, though not terrible, was typical: bananas, oranges, dry bagels, an oversized open jar of peanut butter and a container of jelly with flies buzzing happily around it in the heat. No local vendors offering samples or selling food, something I always appreciate as an easy way to showcase the community to a receptive audience. Dan did manage to score us some chocolate milk from a cooler of ice.

Individually these may sound like the nitpicky ramblings of a high-maintenance runner, but while none are make-or-break details, together they’re a clear indication of how well an event production company knows its stuff—and maybe more importantly, how much it cares.

SWAG: Other than surviving the heat, the highlight of the Omaha Marathon may have been the swag, most of all the impressively sized medal that passes the “heft test” and which is now among the largest in my collection. The age group award—a colorful certificate in a curved & beveled acrylic frame—was an unexpected bonus; luckily I stuck around to claim it, since it would have cost me $10 to have it shipped. And the race shirt is a nicely designed, dark blue & green long-sleeve tech tee that will come in handy during the harsh Los Angeles winters.

Read Dan’s side of the story HERE.

Omaha Marathon medal and age group award


Sept 18, 2016 (start time 8:00am after an hour delay)
26.44 miles in Omaha, NE (state 14 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:47:22 (first time running the Omaha Marathon), 8:36/mile
Finish place: 38 overall, 2/28 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 332 (212 men, 120 women)
Race weather: cool & sunny at the start (temp 61°F), hot & sunny at the finish (temp 80°F)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 332 ft ascent, 332 ft descent

Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.
– Muhammad Ali

Gallopalooza — the horses of Louisville

Gallopalooza — a celebration of Louisville artistry & community

(If you’re here because you happened to Google “Hatfield McCoy race reports”, feel free to scroll… the race starts about 1/3 of the way down the page)

In a more lucid moment, I might have found my situation ironic—that in a state renowned for its moonshine, one of my lasting memories would be its sunshine. The cooling shade had largely abandoned me, and my current progress could best be described, not as “mile by mile” or even “step by step”, but as “sponge by sponge”. With my legs growing increasingly sluggish, I reminded myself that every step taken was one step closer to the next aid station and the next icy sponge. And with temperatures creeping toward 90°F, I knew revival = survival, at least for my chances of a sub-4 hour finish.

For the first time in a long time I’d reached the start line of a marathon feeling anxious, unsure of what to expect. Sure the heat, humidity and lack of sleep were all partly to blame. But the truth was, I hadn’t expected to be here at all.

Hadn’t expected to be in Kentucky, of all places. Hadn’t expected to make my first visit to the Bluegrass State this weekend, to run a hilly marathon four weeks after my first 50-miler, to drive 800 miles across the state and back in just over 60 hours, touching three other states in the process. This was supposed to be a low-key weekend at home back in SoCal, part of my ongoing recovery from the previous month’s a-May-zing Ice Age Trail 50.

Then The Greatest died.

Muhammad Ali career record sign

I’d never been a student of Muhammad Ali’s life, never been a zealous fan or devoted follower. In fact, by the time I was old enough to express my distaste for boxing, he was well past his pugilistic prime.

But Ali was one of the first professional athletes I’d encountered as a child, in the same place I’d encounter most of my early heroes—in the pages of books. My elementary school library carried a series of biographies on famous athletes, the entire series of which I devoured like a great white shark after a weeklong fast. Three names from that series still stand out in my mind nearly 40 years later: Hank Aaron, Billie Jean King and Muhammad Ali.

By the time I picked up his biography in the first grade, Muhammad Ali was already a legend in and beyond the world of boxing. For a sports-obsessed white kid growing up in the suburbs of Dallas, the life story of a black boxer, heavyweight champ and Olympic gold medalist who’d brashly declared himself “The Greatest”, disavowed his “slave name” Cassius Clay and converted to Islam (what did that mean?) was a fantastic tale. Dragons and wizards had nothin’ on this guy!

In the years to come, I read at least two other biographies of the Louisville Lip. And while Ali’s life after boxing was progressively slowed by the neurodegenerative effects of Parkinson’s, his stature as a humanitarian — and the world’s need for his message of peace and tolerance — only grew. The mere mention of his name was enough to draw my attention, because unlike other athletes I’d looked up to as a kid, I knew he’d never disappoint. This was never more true than in 1996 in Atlanta, when a visibly trembling yet calmly dignified Ali inspired a global audience by accepting the torch from swimmer Janet Evans and lighting the flame to open the Centennial Olympic Games. Go ahead, try to watch the footage without getting emotional.

Ali lived in our hometown of Los Angeles for nearly a decade, and between 1975 and 2002 the city declared no fewer than five different dates to be “Muhammad Ali Day”, including his birthday on January 17. And his is the only star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame that’s never been stepped on — it sits embedded in a wall on Hollywood Blvd because Ali reportedly didn’t want anyone to “trample” the name of the prophet Muhammad.

Over the years, the name Ali came to represent far more than the man himself — an almost superhuman manifestation of beauty, power, spirituality and compassion. He was arguably the most recognizable and revered figure of our time, a charismatic athlete whose superior punching power was exceeded only by the strength of his convictions, at a time when standing by those convictions cost him three prime years of his career and nearly his freedom. Yet at the same time Ali was unfailingly down-to-earth, with a sharp wit and a poetic tongue. And he was a reporter’s dream come true, always quick with a memorable sound bite. Before his 1974 “Rumble in the Jungle” bout with George Foreman, he delivered this crowd-pleasing quip:

“I done somethin’ new for this fight! I have wrestled with an alligator, I done tussled with a whale; I done handcuffed lightning, throw thunder in jail. That’s bad. Only last week I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean I make medicine sick.”

You can’t spell “personality” without “Ali”.

Muhammad Ali tribute collage

Scenes from the Muhammad Ali tribute (clockwise, from upper left): video board outside the KFC Yum! Center; Louisville commemorates its favorite son; a fan pays his respects on Muhammad Ali Blvd; exhibit inside & memorial outside the Muhammad Ali Center; The Greatest remembered in his own words

So when I read on Tuesday—four days after his death—that he’d arranged (in typical Ali fashion) for the funeral ceremony in his hometown Louisville to be open to the public, I knew this would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to honor an American icon. Never would Kentucky be more relevant in my lifetime, seizing the national spotlight as the birthplace of a man who dedicated his life to making a positive impact on his nation and the world—rather than as the home state of Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell.

Unfortunately, I also knew the only way to rationalize the expense of the trip would be to find a nearby marathon to run as part of my 50 states quest, since two separate trips to Kentucky would be untenable. But what were the odds of the state hosting a compelling marathon—one I actually wanted to run—that same weekend?

Here the running gods smiled down on me. Using our best-in-class race finder over at, I found one marathon happening in the entire state that weekend, and it just so happened to be the one Kentucky race that piqued my interest: the Hatfield McCoy Marathon, held 250 miles east of Louisville on the border of West Virginia. In fact, the race starts in Kentucky and finishes in West Virginia, a bonus for 50 states runners who can count the race for either state.

Things moved quickly from there. On Wednesday we secured flights, lodging and rental car, and I checked the Hatfield McCoy Facebook page to ensure that, despite projected weekend highs in the 90s, there’d be no threat of the race being canceled due to heat. Then on Thursday, as our flight taxied down the runway for takeoff, I submitted my online race registration ahead of the midnight deadline.

And that’s how a white guy and a Chinese-American gal with no interest in the “Sweet Science” ended up catching a last-minute flight to a place we’d never been, to pay our respects to a black Muslim boxer we’d never met.

Muhammad Ali tribute collage2

Ali memorialized at his boyhood home (top & bottom right) and on the streets of Louisville (bottom left)

Honoring “The Greatest” (Muhammad Ali, 1942-2016)
Touching down in Nashville (our cheapest travel option) shortly before midnight, we hopped in a car for the three-hour drive to Louisville. As if our night weren’t already short enough, we lost another hour somewhere along I-65N as we transitioned from Central to Eastern Time, stopping only to secure a dinner of trail mix and Naked Juice from a highway convenience store. Not my typical pre-race diet, but then again this wouldn’t be my typical race.

Six hours after reaching the Louisville city limits, we rolled out of bed and threw open the curtains on a brilliantly sunny day — and a scene that felt “Truman Show”-esque. In a city poised to star on the global stage, an eerie sense of normalcy accompanied us along the steamy sidewalks of Kentucky’s largest city. Until, that is, we reached the animated throngs lining Muhammad Ali Blvd.

The people await their champ on Muhammad Ali Blvd

The people await their champ on Muhammad Ali Blvd

Residents of all ages sat on curbs, stretched out in lawn chairs, sprawled on the hoods of cars, and leaned against trees, fences and sign posts awaiting the opportunity to pay homage to their hometown hero one last time. Opportunistic enterpreneurs peddled t-shirts. Cameramen stood on ladders, multiple cameras draped around their sweaty necks and tripods ready, as police rolled out yellow “DO NOT CROSS” tape to enable modest crowd control. In this residential neighborhood just down the street from Cassius Clay’s high school, a predominantly black crowd lined the streets, in contrast to the more racially mixed crowd we’d encounter several blocks over in the downtown district.

Regardless of venue, the congregation’s heartfelt outpouring was undeniable as the funeral procession — led by unmarked police cars and Ali’s hearse — made its way purposefully along Muhammad Ali Blvd. Cheers erupted, prayers were given, high-fives and handshakes were exchanged through open car windows, flowers rained down on the motorcade. And Will Smith — who played Ali in the 2001 biopic and would be one of his pallbearers — beamed brightly like a kid on Christmas morning from the back seat of his vehicle.

The horde of enthusiastic supporters continued to grow as the procession, after a stop at Ali’s boyhood home, circled back on Broadway toward downtown. Helicopters overhead tracked its progress, and here the crowds were even more vocal in their chants of “ALI! ALI! ALI!”, as if expecting their hero to emerge in red gloves and his trademark white sneakers for one last epic battle. As the eager masses pressed in like paparazzi, jockeying for position and a fleeting glimpse of greatness (“There’s Will Smith!”), I was pretty sure someone was about to get their foot crushed under the motorcade’s slowly moving tires.

Gradually the procession faded into the distance, its destination Ali’s final resting place at Cave Hill Cemetery, where his casket will forever face Mecca. We decided to grab a quick lunch near the oddly named KFC Yum! Center, where Ali’s memorial service would be held later that afternoon. I’d been unable to secure tickets by phone for the service, since all 15,000 tickets had been distributed (for free) on a first-come, first-served basis two days earlier. But I certainly wasn’t alone in my futility: many locals who’d stood in line for hours had themselves left empty-handed.

Instead we strolled the area outside the center which was abuzz with activity, including an appearance by former heavyweight champ Larry Holmes. Then, with a marathon the next day and a 250-mile drive still ahead of us, we hit the open road and set our sights on Pikeville in far eastern Kentucky. Vast swaths of rolling green countryside flew by on either side as we listened to the memorial service on the radio. As a highlight of the memorial, I’d recommend Billy Crystal’s funny and poignant eulogy, delivered at a time when laughter really was the best medicine.

Unfortunately we weren’t laughing when an accident on the highway sent us on a lengthy and circuitous detour along the state’s backroads. Throw in a longer-than-planned dinner stop in Lexington, and we finally rolled into Pikeville around the time most Hatfield McCoy runners were entering REM sleep. Quickly I laid out my gear for the next morning and we dropped into bed, hopeful for another 5+ hours of sleep before our 5:00am wake-up call.

Yeah, right.

The road to Hatfield McCoy Marathon in South Williamson

The road to South Williamson

No Feudin’, Just Runnin’
My brain was wound tighter than a pre-med on Red Bull as I lay in bed, reliving the day and unable to sleep. I was almost relieved when my iPhone sang out to signal the start of our day, since I could at least get up and do something. But rather than exhausted I felt strangely energetic, neither drowsy nor lethargic as we dressed, prepared breakfast and made the sleepy, sinuous drive to South Williamson where the day’s fun would begin. It was an almost mystical ride, an exhilarating start to the day, with the first shafts of sunlight illuminating fog-shrouded valleys and majestic rock walls blasted out on either side of the highway.

That sense of awe, though, faded quickly 25 minutes later as we pulled into the parking lot of the Food City supermarket that would double as the race start. Luckily, what the venue lacked in ambience it made up for in convenience, and 10 minutes later — having claimed my bib and made one last pitstop at the vacant porta-potties — I was chatting with a nervous first-time marathoner from Arkansas. This seamless, relaxed process was much appreciated, since given our whirlwind 36 hours and lack of sleep, I was already feeling something I hadn’t felt at a marathon start line in quite some time — anxiety.

Taking inventory of the running faithful, I guesstimated the percentage of Marathon Maniacs, Half Fanatics and Double Agents at 20%, give or take. Given its remote & strategic setting (the closest city is tiny Charleston WV, 80 miles away), Hatfield McCoy is clearly appealing to 50 Staters looking to “knock out” either Kentucky or West Virginia.

Marathon Maniacs & Half Fanatics group photo at Hatfield McCoy Marathon

Marathon Maniacs & Half Fanatics group photo, which I missed during my pre-race pitstop

Case in point Fran & Tom, who we originally met on our Antarctica trip and who are currently on their third — or is it their fourth? — tour of the states. Glimpsing them in the crowd, we had just enough time to exchange “how are ya?”s before Tug Valley Road Runners Club President Alexis Batausa gathered us together and sent us on our way across a makeshift start line hastily chalked on the asphalt parking lot.

With Food City in our rearview mirror and only ~500 marathoners and half marathoners, I was soon running with plenty of elbow room. The cool morning air urged me onward as if to say Hurry, before the sun comes up! Wisps of morning fog like smoke signals peeked above the trees to our right, and I found myself already stopping for photos in mile one.

My loosely formulated “plan” would be to bank time (typically a terrible strategy) in the first half of the race, hoping to leave myself enough cushion to push through the soaring mercury in the later miles and still finish in under four hours. Realistic? It was impossible to know how my legs would hold up to the heat, humidity and accumulated fatigue. ‘Cuz 26.2 miles, you know?

Mile 1 fog at Hatfield McCoy Marathon

The morning fog watches over its domain

Along US-119 we ran past tree-lined hills and blasted rock walls. The camber on the shoulder of the road was pronounced, like a gentler version of those “anti-gravity” rooms typically seen at low-budget amusement parks.

Turning off US-119 in mile 2, the course changed dramatically as we entered thickly wooded neighborhoods on a two-lane road. Colonial-style homes and the occasional chapel flanked the narrow road, the sporadic resident wishing us good morning with a jovial wave from their front porch. A well-fed dachshund dragged its belly through the grass to confront me, its frenetic yapping suggesting that were it not for the chain-link fence between us, my ankle would have all it could handle.

We’d entered the heart of feud country. And yet contrary to its ornery origins, at every turn and every aid station the Hatfield McCoy Marathon distinguished itself as one of the friendliest races I’ve ever run, with its focus clearly on making its runners feel welcome. For instance, something I’d never seen: all along the course, and especially in the first three miles, handwritten “Welcome Back {Runner’s Name}!” signs with motivational messages were posted on trees, rails and sign posts, shouting out to repeat runners. There must have been over 50 signs distributed along the course, and I’m sure this was a welcome distraction for many runners keeping an eye out for their sign.

Mile 2 rock walls at Hatfield McCoy Marathon
Those first five miles remained temperate thanks to the early hour as well as dense tree coverage that blocked the rising sun. I even clocked a sub-8:00 mile in mile 5, one of only two I’d manage on the day.

Also in mile 5, the course adopted a gradual upward trajectory culminating in our first real test of the day, a steep 0.8-mile climb to the base of Blackberry Mountain that stopped many runners in their tracks. Not wanting to crank up my heart rate I slowed to a jog, passing quite a few walkers on my way to the top where we were rewarded with an aid station and immediate 1.3-mile descent. Down through a verdant world my momentum carried me to my second sub-8:00 mile of the day. And somehow I resisted the impulse to fling my arms out and let loose with “I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD!!!”

Luckily this would be the case for most of the hills on the rolling 26.2-mile course, with each uphill closely followed by a congratulatory downhill.

The Hill at mile 8 - Hatfield McCoy Marathon

Top o’ the world — the base of Blackberry Mountain (mile 8)

Near the base of the hill we passed Hatfield’s mini-dwarf horses, which certainly sound like a cute addition to the county fair, but which had the geneticist in me wondering how many generations of inbreeding had conspired to bring us these tired-looking creatures.

More entertaining was the fellow playing the trumpet at one of the early aid stations. As I approached he deftly transitioned from the “Superman” theme to “When the Saints Go Marching In”. Thinking back first to “Sweet Caroline” in Boston, then “Chariots of Fire” on the Bixby Bridge in Big Sur, and now this… it had been a solid two months for on-course entertainment!

I smiled as we passed the McCoy Funeral Home, thinking about how lucrative business must have been back in the day. And skirting the Hatfield McCoy Park, I imagined rifle-toting young’uns mounted on mini-dwarf horses chasing each other around the colorful plastic jungle gym. And this was before any of the heat-induced hallucinations set in.

Hatfield McCoy Mini-dwarf horses at mile 10 of Marathon

Hatfield’s mini-dwarf horses (mile 10)

The course was surprisingly beautiful in a way I hadn’t experienced before. Sure it lacked the coastal grandeur of a Big Sur, the majestic red sandstone cliffs of a Moab or the secluded, one-with-nature feel of Ice Age. But its tree-lined backroads and tranquil green countryside, sprinkled with southern style and patrolled by a softly babbling river, were the very definition of charming.

Starting at mile 10, I began to douse myself with cold water at aid stations, saving a sip from each cup for my insides. I’d chosen to wear white arm sleeves to a) protect my pale skin from the sun and b) soak up my sweat and any water I poured on them, thus slowing evaporation and keeping me cool longer. I also began to pop a Clif Shot Blok every 30 minutes or so, only to realize by the third one that my body wasn’t really in a sugar state of mind. Fuel wouldn’t be my nemesis on this day — my primary concern would be lack of sleep.

Given the choice of poor nutrition or poor sleep on race day (nice choice, I know), I’ll take poor nutrition every time. The body is amazingly adaptable when it comes to its fuel sources, especially younger bodies—some elite East African runners, for instance, have been reported to subsist on dietary staples of Uji (porridge) and french fries, the latter for its fat content. Over time I’ve trained my body to run long distances on primarily its internal fat stores, and these days I can run 20 miles after fasting for 12-16 hours. And that’s me, who is to an elite athlete what mini-dwarf horses are to thoroughbreds. So clearly, for runners at least, there’s significant flexibility where diet is concerned.

Mile 3 chapel at Hatfield McCoy Marathon
Sleep, on the other hand, is indispensable. There’s no substitute for sleep, no scientifically proven shortcut, no alternative path to mental and physical recovery. Critical physiological processes are activated only during REM sleep, and plenty of scientific studies attest to its importance. And though they may not read the scientific literature, elite runners know this to be true, with many of them logging ten hours of sleep per night plus one or more naps during the day. Kenyan runner and women’s half marathon world record holder Florence Kiplagat insists on 16 hours of sleep per night. That’s more than some new parents get in a week!

A live band blasting ZZ Top greeted us as we crossed over the Tug Fork (known as “America’s Bloodiest River”) and into tiny Matewan, West Virginia. After a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it loop of the town, I passed the half marathon finish in 1:48:24, leaving myself over two hours to complete the second half. With the mercury rising steadily and fatigue waiting in the wings, I just hoped it would be enough.

Crossing into West Virginia at Hatfield McCoy Marathon halfway point

Crossing the West Virginia border at the halfway point

Kentucky fried runner
Crossing the Tug Fork back into Kentucky, we immediately turned onto a crushed gravel bike path. After the halfway point, the already sparse flock of runners thinned significantly, and I’d end up running solo for most of the last 13.1 miles.

For much of the race, a river ran through it — the Blackberry Fork in the first half, the Tug Fork with its many branches in the second. For some reason I neglected to take a picture, which was unfortunate since the quietly babbling river was maybe the most soothing aspect of the course.

Loose gravel trail at the Hatfield McCoy Marathon, mile 18

The course transitions to loose gravel in mile 18

Miles 14-18 began on crushed gravel before transitioning onto looser gravel, and from there onto a dirt road with sparse muddy patches. These few miles rolled quite a bit but were largely shaded, and despite the rising heat and mounting fatigue I began to see a (sun)light at the end of the tunnel. Though as I trudged up another roller, it entered my mind that Damn, I pity the fool who comes here trying to run a BQ.

Mile 18 ended on the grounds of the Tug Valley Country Club. Here the unshaded course followed a paved cart path alongside the golf course before crossing a charmingly rickety wooden suspension bridge, its widely spaced slats reminding me of a hillbilly’s teeth.

Back and forth across the Tug Fork we ran — into West Virginia, then Kentucky, then West Virginia. And though this sounds dizzying, I wouldn’t have realized any of it without consulting a map post-race.

Wooden foot bridge_mile 19 of Hatfield McCoy Marathon

Crossing the wooden suspension bridge into West Virginia (Tug Valley Country Club, mile 19)

Based on my trial-by-fire experience at the Mount Diablo 50K and Harding Hustle 50K, I knew as the day grew hotter I’d need to pay close attention to my breathing — inhale for 3 steps, exhale for 2 steps, otherwise I’d end up panting like an overheated dachshund. Not an image any runner wants to emulate.

At one aid station a stuffed figure clad in overalls and a straw hat hung in effigy from a gallows, a noose around his neck. Seeing him hanging there, it crossed my mind that he may be the lucky one, at least he’s in the shade.

I could feel my energy reserves dwindling as I exited the golf course, so the timing was perfect for my first Katie sighting. Like the world-class support crew she is, she came armed with a full bottle of ice water, and after drinking a few sips I poured the remainder on my head and arms and down my neck. The refreshing shock awoke my overheated muscles and brought me back to life, propelling me along this exposed stretch and past other shuffling runners for nearly a mile.

Mike Sohaskey approaching mile 20 aid station at Hatfield McCoy Marathon


Departing mile 20 aid station at Hatfield McCoy Marathon

… and departing the mile 20 aid station

The life-affirming shade — my closest ally for the first 20 miles — was now largely behind me, and my ability to endure these final six miles would be the litmus test for a sub-4 hour finish. As the ruthless sun exacted its toll, Katie and I would repeat the ice-water drill at miles 22 and 24, with help from the icy sponges provided by aid station volunteers.

Speaking of which: the Hatfield McCoy volunteers were some of the nicest and most genuine folks I’ve met anywhere, and in this respect they reminded me very much of another event in the Deep South, the Mississippi Blues Marathon. A couple of them asked amiably where I was from as they handed me a cup of water, seeming both surprised & delighted to hear me say California.

I was able to maintain a reasonable pace until around mile 22 when, realizing I resembled more zombie than runner, I slowed to a brisk walk, marching with knees high to loosen my quads and hip flexors. After a short stretch I forced myself to pick up the pace and run to the next aid station or the next Katie, whichever came first.

Like a wind-up toy powered by icy sponges I moved from one aid station to the next, getting off to a brisk start at each one before inevitably slowing under the sun’s onslaught.

Hatfield McCoy Marathon elevation profile

It doesn’t look like much compared to miles 5–8, but that innocuous-looking spike in mile 24 is a gut check

Funny thing about hills: their impact during a race can depend as much on placement as on steepness. So a smaller hill in mile 24 can feel just as draining, if not more so, than a longer steeper hill in mile 7. Such was the case here — glancing at the course elevation profile, I’d been so focused on the monster in mile 7 that I’d failed to notice the more modest speed bump in mile 24. Now though, in the moment, that molehill felt more like a mountain.

It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it’s the pebble in your shoe. – Muhammad Ali

One last Katie sighting at mile 24. One final dousing of ice water, two squirts of Powerade and I was off again, slowing just before the mile 25 marker to gather myself and harness my residual energy for the final stretch. My Garmin chimed to signal mile 25 and I glanced down for the first time since mile 2, seeing an overall pace of 8:49/mile staring back at me. In my haziness I realized I could still break four hours, though doing so (I told myself) meant I’d need to hustle, which meant no more walk breaks.

The mile 24 hill looms ahead - Hatfield McCoy Marathon

The mile 24 hill looms ahead

A wave of exhaustion washed over me as I picked up my pace again — just over a mile to go, surely I could draw motivation from that? As I chugged along my brain kept telling itself, I’m fine, I can stop to walk anytime, just run a few more steps first. One step at a time I strung my steps together at a slow but deliberate pace, seeming to gain momentum with every step. Not much momentum, but enough — and the finish line was getting ever closer.

With half a mile to go we re-emerged onto US-119, passing the last and most tempting aid station yet — the local Dairy Queen — followed by the ultimate mile 26 landmark, the Marathon gas station. The end was near, but not before one final crossing of the Tug Fork back into West Virginia. Visions of Hill City at the Run Crazy Horse Marathon came rushing back as I sped up ever so slightly over the final 200 yards through “downtown” Williamson, barely registering the red-brick facades and mom-&-pop store awnings as my eyes locked on the official time hanging below the finish line arch.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Hatfield McCoy Marathon
I’d done it, sleepless night and all — and I tried to savor those final few steps before sharing an exhausted low-five with Mr. Hatfield and Mr. McCoy in a finish time of 3:53:23. I paused just over the finish line to regain my wits before shuffling forward to accept a bottle of water and collect my medal. The LED display on the bank across the street read 87°F.

Reuniting with Katie, we joined the post-race party already in progress in the parking lot of the Community Trust Bank, where I collapsed in a chair under a shaded tent. There I rehydrated, refueled with chocolate milk, devoured a few defenseless orange slices and compared notes with other Maniacs and 50 Staters. One finisher commented with a weary smile that she wished she’d had her own Katie out on the course to bring her ice water. Truth is I’m the luckiest runner at every race, and I’ll never dispute that. And it’s doubtful I’d do some of the crazy things I do without Katie by my side — because what fun would that be?

Mike Sohaskey high-fiving Hatfield & McCoy at finish

As it turned out, every finisher also received a mason jar emblazoned with the race logo. It may sound odd but I’m a sucker for mason jars, and as a bonus this one could be used to sample the local “white lightning” moonshine. Unfortunately, in my depleted state whiskey sounded as appealing as 800m repeats.

We also needed to get back to Pikeville before check-out, and we still had a 250-mile drive ahead of us back to Louisville. There we’d use our remaining time to pay further tribute to The People’s Champion, visiting Muhammad Ali’s boyhood home as well as the Muhammad Ali Center, before driving north 120 miles to Indianapolis for our flight back to Los Angeles.

But what a weekend it had been — 800 miles driven through four states in less than 72 hours. Marathon #22 in state #13 completed, a hidden gem I’d recommend to any runner looking for a race that underpromises and overdelivers. And final respects paid to one of the most revered figures of our lifetime, a man best memorialized as “the living, breathing embodiment of the greatest that we can be”.

Mike Sohaskey at Hatfield McCoy Marathon finish line

Happy to mediate a finish-line truce

For those who ask and for those who wonder, Kentucky exemplified why I want to run a marathon (or longer) in all 50 states and around the world. Not to “knock out” states as fast as possible like a speed-dating session, or to chase elusive self-esteem across finish lines, or to validate my journey as measured by the amount of hardware and the number of “likes” on Facebook. I do this to meet people I’d otherwise never meet, to see places I’d otherwise never see, and to open myself up to new experiences that challenge my values and make me question my truths.

Because as contentious as the world has become, in the end we’re all in this together. And in our hearts we are all Muhammad Ali. Ask me “Why?” — Why visit Kentucky? Why travel there of all places to run a marathon? — and my answer will inevitably be “Why not?” So while others may say I “knocked out” Kentucky on my 50 states quest, I think all the judges in this case would agree.

It was Kentucky that won by a knockout.

Sunset outside Lexington, Kentucky

BOTTOM LINE: Don’t sleep on Kentucky — Hatfield McCoy is a hidden gem of the marathon (and half marathon) scene. Even if you’re not a 50 Stater, I’d recommend the race for its low-key ambience and peaceful, bucolic course that thumbs its nose at the modern, anxiety-ridden American lifestyle. Hearing only your own breathing and footfalls on the quiet, densely wooded back roads will relax your mind and make you feel like you’ve run back in time to a simpler era. The rustic setting is surprisingly scenic & beautiful, with the least appealing part being the start in the Food City parking lot. Plus, the people are among the friendliest you’ll meet anywhere, from the organizers to every volunteer who selflessly donated their time to stand out in the heat so the rest of us could run — especially the two good-natured fellows who played the roles of Hatfield and McCoy, wearing long sleeves + long pants and agreeably standing under the sweltering sun for HOURS to greet finishers and pose for pictures. Every man, woman & child was amazing.

The ever-changing course is challenging in that it rolls quite a bit, with notable hills in miles 7 and (ouch) 24. Luckily the first 20 miles are well shaded, since heat was a definite factor this year as indicated by a winning time of 3:13:22. In an age of ever-escalating registration fees and new events that don’t merit the expense, the HMM is also a tremendous value — I paid only $80 (plus a $6.20 inconvenience fee) two days before the race.

Granted the race’s remote setting — the closest “city” is Charleston WV, 80 miles away and we stayed in Pikeville KY, 25 miles away — works against it, making it difficult to attract first-timers and the more casual runners targeted by large urban marathons. On the other hand, that remoteness is a huge part of its charm. So if you’re willing to travel a bit out of your way, and unless you’re a runner who absolutely needs screaming spectators and rowdy on-course entertainment, do yourself a favor and check out the Hatfields & McCoys.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho - Hatfield McCoy Marathon finish line selfie

Maybe the best photobomb ever — and no, we didn’t plan it

PRODUCTION: On point, from pre-race to post-finish. Race-day packet pickup couldn’t have been easier, though as a courtesy I’d avoid parking in the Food City lot if you plan to leave your car there all morning. But at 6:30am there was plenty of parking there as well as in the nearby lots recommended by the organizers. And while “More porta-potties!” is typically the race-day rallying cry of runners everywhere, there were more than enough of those at the start as well, with a relatively small group to accommodate.

Luckily traffic was sparse on the narrow roads and so not much of a concern. The course itself was well marked for the most part — even with my subpar sense of direction I never took a wrong turn, though more signage in a couple of spots (e.g. the end of River Rd in mile 18 where the course enters the golf course) would have been helpful. Thanks to the heat I made frequent use of the aid stations, where awesome volunteers were always ready with ice water, Gatorade, and even icy sponges. Given the lack of shade after mile 20 a couple more aid stations in the last five miles wouldn’t have been unwelcome, particularly for those who didn’t have a Katie taking care of them.

I wonder if political train wrecks?

Maybe also specializes in political train wrecks

Hats off to the dedicated folks manning the post-race grills in the 90°F heat, making hot dogs & hamburgers available to hungry finishers. It being 2016 and all, a veggie option would have been a nice addition to the post-race spread, though in fairness my own stomach wasn’t ready to tackle solid food anyway.

SWAG: The finisher medal is unique in being shaped like a mason jar, even if it is an odd milky gray color (maybe that’s the white lightning?). And rather than the cheaply made, unflattering race tee I’ve come to expect from smaller races, the white HMM tee with stylish mesh side panels fits beautifully. As a complement to the standard shirt-&-medal combo provided at every road race, all finishers even received a nifty mason jar adorned with the race logo — another cool hometown detail that sets the Hatfield McCoy Marathon apart.

Muhammad Ali tee + Hatfield McCoy Marathon medal
RaceRaves rating:
RaceRaves review

June 11, 2016 (start time 7:00am)
26.37 miles from South Williamson, KY to Williamson, WV (state 13 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:53:23 (first time running the Hatfield McCoy Marathon), 8:51/mile
Finish place: 28 overall, 4/19 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 298 (159 men, 139 women)
Race weather: cool & sunny at the start (temp 63°F), hot & sunny at the finish (temp 86°F)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 1,881 ft ascent, 1,888 ft descent

Hatfield McCoy splits

The “Marathon” race from Ashland to this city, held under the auspices of the Boston athletic association yesterday… proved a great success and is an assurance of an annual fixture of the same kind.
The Boston Globe, 20 April 1897

Boston Marathon finish line

I’d made it to Mecca.

Not the Holy Land to which devout Muslims make their annual pilgrimage, but the one to which devout runners make theirs. I’d made it to Boston.

Ok, so technically that wasn’t true — not yet. As Katie’s childhood buddy Paul and I meandered through the Athlete’s Village awaiting the start of the world’s most prestigious marathon, the truth was that I’d made it to Hopkinton, a town conveniently located 26.2 miles west of the finish line in Boston. Now that the hardest part — the months of high-mileage weeks, long training runs and marathon-pace workouts required to get here — was over, the long-anticipated last step in my journey to Boston Marathoner was about to begin.

As sacred as Mecca is to Muslims, I’m not sure many would eagerly run the last 26.2 miles to get there.

Boston Marathon course elevation profile

But eager was just one of the raw emotions crackling like unseen currents of electricity through the Athletes’ Village — unseen yet unmistakable, like the metallic scent of ozone before an electrical storm. And all of us good conductors. Eager. Nervous. Cheerful. Stoic. Adrenalized. Ready. In some corners, a dash of nauseous and a smidgen of scared. Some runners chatted as they waited in line for the porta-potties; others splayed out on the shaded grass under the tents, conserving energy; still others sat absentmindedly reading the ingredients on their race-day packets of yummy GU.

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and first on the bus. — Benjamin Franklin, philosopher, politician, Boston Marathoner
Katie’s and my iPhone alarms had chimed simultaneously at 5:45am, nearly two hours after I’d first bolted awake, my mind instantly alert to the fact it was Marathon Monday. Feeling cold, I’d realized I was drenched in sweat thanks to our hotel room’s faulty thermostat. Bad omen #1 on a day when my hydration needed to be dialed in.

I’d dressed & packed quickly, donning the Goodwill hoodie & pants I’d brought in anticipation of a comfortably cool wait in Hopkinton. Unfortunately the weather had other ideas, and like an excitable runner on the first downhill, it too had started too fast. By the time Paul and I deboarded at the Athletes’ Village after the easy 45-minute bus ride from the Boston Common, sunny skies and temperatures in the mid-60s greeted us. Ideal weather for watching the Boston Marathon, not so much for running it. Coming from SoCal though, where I regularly train in 70+ degree temps, I wasn’t overly concerned. Maybe we’d still get lucky as in 2011, when an epic tailwind propelled Geoffrey Mutai of Kenya to a course record 2:03:02 and Ryan Hall to an American record 2:04:58.

Mike Sohaskey & Paul Ishimine at Boston Marathon Athletes Village

Paul & I kill time at the Athletes’ Village in Hopkinton

Though teeming with runners, the smartly laid-out Athletes’ Village offered plenty of elbow room compared with the crush & sensory overload of the pre-race expo, which was the most jam-packed expo I’ve ever attended (with Berlin a close second). Though conveniently located adjacent to the finish line on Boylston, the Hynes Convention Center is a smaller space than either McCormick Place in Chicago or the Javits Convention Center in New York. Definitely not a place for claustrophobics. Luckily bib pickup was in a separate & much less crowded hall than the exhibitor booths, leaving each runner to decide whether & for how long they’d brave the expo itself.

This year’s race would be unusual in its dearth of big names on the American side. Rather than competing at Boston, our country’s best marathoners will instead be representing the U.S. at the Summer Olympics in Rio. For that reason, sightings of Meb, Shalane, Desi & Amy were limited to weekend expo appearances and — for those of us who’d planned ahead and snagged tickets — throwing out the first pitch before Saturday’s Red Sox game at Fenway Park.

Fenway Park panoramic view

Welcome to historic Fenway Park, only 16 years younger than the Boston Marathon

U.S. elites (Shalane, Meb, Desi & Amy) throwing out first pitch at Fenway

Shalane, Meb, Desi & Amy prepare to throw out the first pitch(es) (photo: Shalane Flanagan)

Group carbo-loading at Mike's Pastry in Boston's North End

The all-important Sunday night group carbo-loading session (L to R: Paul, me, Sandy, Katie, Jenny)

Adding to the festive atmosphere of the race, the B.A.A. would be celebrating 50 years of women running the Boston Marathon — 50 years since Bobbi Gibb (this year’s Grand Marshal) made history in 1966 by banditing the race, six years before women were officially allowed to run. This year’s women’s winner, Atsede Baysa of Ethiopia, would later recognize this landmark occasion by presenting Gibb with her trophy after the race — a classy microcosm of the entire weekend.

50 Years of Women logo at Boston Marathon

Showtime! The PA in the Athletes’ Village called on all runners in Wave 2 (our wave) to line up for the stroll to the start line. Dormant butterflies in uneasy stomachs fluttered to life. Our qualifying times — which this year needed to be 2 minutes, 28 seconds faster than the official B.A.A. standards for acceptance — placed Paul and me squarely in Wave 2, though in different corrals. So after exchanging “good luck”s, we joined our respective corrals for the 0.7-mile trek to the start, me chatting all the while with a 3x Boston finisher from Cincinnati who’d qualified this time around at the Indy Monumental Marathon.

Volunteers were handing out cups of water near the start, and with the sun now high in the sky I was already sweating as I approached Corral 5. Bad omen #2.

Heading to Boston Marathon start corrals

The anticipation builds during the 10-minute walk to the start line

As I stretched my calves, I took a moment to reassess my time goals. On a warm day and on a rolling course like Boston which I’d never seen much less run, sub-3:30 would be a jog well done. More than anything, though, I wanted to seize the day as much as possible — who knew if or when I’d make it back. Which was one reason I’d chosen to carry my iPhone to take pictures, the other reason being the handy Share My Run app I’d be using so Katie and my sister Sandy (in her first visit to Boston) could follow my progress in real-time.

Before my excitement had time to crescendo, the 120th running of the world’s oldest continuous marathon had begun. Carried inexorably across the start line in a parade of brightly clad bodies, I settled in with the other 27,486 runners bound for Boston, bracing myself for the opening salvo I’d heard so much about — the fast downhill out of Hopkinton.

Boston Marathon start in Hopkinton

The streets of Hopkinton were hoppin’ on Patriots Day

Rarely do I Garmin-gaze like I did during those first three miles. Based on past experience and the warnings I’d heard all weekend, I was determined to stay in my shoes and not start too fast. I’d noted on a wristband my desired pace-per-mile — 7:54, 7:49, 7:25 — so when my Garmin chimed in with a 7:52 followed by a 7:49 followed by a 7:33, I was feeling good.

Except I wasn’t. By mile 3 in Ashland, I could already tell my breathing was labored and my heart rate elevated — on a largely downhill stretch. And I’d yet to find the easy rhythm I typically fall into by mile 3. Too much of my attention was focused, not on the cheering spectators already lining both sides of the course, but on checking my pace and not stepping on/elbowing others in this 26.2-mile caravan. On the narrow suburban streets, running a straight line proved impossible as other runners frequently cut in front of me trying to find personal space or access the aid stations.

Boston Marathon finish line sign

(Left) Go fo(u)rth & conquer: Boston was also World Marathon Major #4; (Right) Fellow Antarctica finisher & French RaceRaves evangelist Didier notched his 5th WMM in Boston

I have not yet begun to fight. — John Paul Jones, naval war hero & runner
Despite my own issues, the locals lining the course did everything they could to verbally propel us forward, with their unflagging cheers and personal touches that make Boston the one-of-a-kind event it is. I heard no fewer than half a dozen cheers for RaceRaves (the shirt I was wearing) throughout the day, and though I neither saw nor met her I know I was running near Molly for the better part of a mile.

Several groups were clearly out to make a day of it, with smoke billowing from their grills and sprinklers set up to help cool overheated runners. Both kids and adults cheered while simultaneously bouncing on mini-trampolines. And the musical highlight of the course was Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” — embraced & adopted by Red Sox fans for their 8th-inning singalong — twice in the first seven miles, making me wonder just how many times we’d be hearing it in the span of 26.2. Luckily, twice would be enough.

Most of the course is distinctly and charmingly suburban New England. Granted, Hopkinton looks like Ashland looks like Framingham looks like Natick — but running Boston isn’t about the scenery, and I scarcely noticed the unchanging backdrop of white picket fences and calligraphic trees still in search of spring’s first kiss.

Somewhere along the way I caught up with the unmistakable duo of Team Hoyt. After Rick Hoyt was born with cerebral palsy, he and his father Dick began racing in 1977 and completed every Boston Marathon together — with Dick pushing Rick in his wheelchair the full 26.2 miles — until Dick hung up his racing shoes for good following the 2014 race. Team Hoyt member Bryan Lyons accepted the mantle from Dick and now continues the tradition of pushing Rick in his wheelchair. I applauded and cheered them on as I passed, feeling distinctly humbled to be running alongside such inspiring & beloved icons.

Team Hoyt in Newton at mile 16 of Boston Marathon

Team Hoyt rolls through Newton

As my pace slowed gradually over the next several miles and I realized sub-3:30 would be an epic struggle, I exchanged more high-fives with spectators, including one tiny fellow whose dad called out a “Thank you” to me for my detour. Spectators, supporters and volunteers thanking me for running their marathon — this was a theme repeated all weekend and one that gave me goosebumps pretty much every time I heard it.

Tom Grilk, Executive Director of the Boston Athletic Association, said it best in the title of his 2014 TEDx talkIn Boston, everyone owns the marathon.

As I neared the 13.1-mile mark in Wellesley, I found myself solidly wishing I’d qualified for the Boston Half Marathon. Though I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, my breathing was ragged and my energy levels were fading fast. So Wellesley College couldn’t have come at a better time.

The Wellesley Scream Tunnel, which lines the right side of the course in mile 13, is the hands-down highlight of the Boston Marathon. As vociferous as the rest of the course is, Wellesley makes the other 26 miles feel almost monastic. Donald Trump and Captain America could have been exchanging punches on the left side of the road and I doubt anyone would have noticed. Awesomely and profanely raucous, if anything could make you forget you’re running a marathon, it’s the women of Wellesley. Where else in the world can you ever get free kisses from strangers you might actually want to kiss??

I opted to stay left of the double-yellow line to soak up the scene and avoid any overexuberant runners dive-bombing into the screaming throngs of coeds. I wasn’t disappointed — not only by the volume, but by the signage. Like Ulysses to the song of the Sirens, I nearly found myself drawn irresistibly to two signs that read “KISS ME I’M GAY” and “KISS ME OR I’LL VOTE FOR TRUMP”. Not to mention the handful of signs — “CHECK THAT ASS AS YOU PASS” may have been the tamest — suggesting that someone’s parents weren’t running this year’s marathon.

“BOSTON STRONG” and “RUN WICKED FAST” signs filled the rest of the course, complemented by the occasional other memorable sign like “DO EPIC SHIT” and “RUN! THE KENYANS ARE DRINKING YOUR BEER!”

Sandy Pitcher & Mike Sohaskey at Boston Marathon finish

Ironically, the missing sibling is our 2x Boston Marathoner brother

These are the times that try men’s souls. — Thomas Paine, statesman & marathoner
After Wellesley every mile became a struggle. So I was much relieved to reach Sandy, Katie and our friend Albion waiting at mile 16 in Newton, at the bottom of the steep downhill that empties into Newton Lower Falls. There they waited less than ¼ mile from my Dad’s boyhood home. I checked in briefly, stretched my legs and pushed onward, warning Katie it would be a while before I rejoined them at the finish.

Mike Sohaskey at Mile 16 in Newton at Boston Marathon

Looking better than I felt in Newton Lower Falls

Even the psychological lift of counting down single-digit miles from 16 provided little (if any) physical boost. I wasn’t hungry, having eaten my usual meal before the race — plus I’d run plenty of 16+ mile training runs at marathon pace with minimal nutrition. I wasn’t thirsty, having made frequent use of the aid stations. And my quads & hip flexors weren’t hurting, still feeling strong without any apparent tightness. I simply had… no… energy. And a body that didn’t want to cooperate.

I tried to take solace in the fact that, since Boston doesn’t have pacers, at least I didn’t have to watch each successive pace group pass me.

Trying to draw inspiration from the tireless crowds, I shuffled up each of the four Newton Hills, which culminate at mile 20 in the most infamous hill in all of road racing, Heartbreak Hill. An increasingly stiff headwind greeted us as we climbed, though luckily the mercury had progressively dipped since Hopkinton.

(If you don’t know the story of how Heartbreak Hill got its name, turns out it had nothing to do with the hill’s steepness — read all about it HERE.)

The Boston course includes only five turns along its entire 26.2 miles, and here we made the first of these, a sharp right turn by the firehouse in mile 18 just before the second of the Newton Hills.

View from Boston Marriott Cambridge

View across the Charles River from our hotel room at the Boston Marriott Cambridge

On any other day I would have been bent but not broken by this 5-mile stretch, with four successive inclines of moderate but not intimidating steepness (most trail runners would scoff at the use of the term “hills” to describe them). Unfortunately, this wasn’t any other day. Even with the sheer wall of spectator noise pushing runners up Heartbreak, by the time I reached the mile 21 marker I was moving so slowly that the wheels were in danger of falling off if I didn’t take a walk break. And suddenly, the thought of running the Big Sur International Marathon (as part of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge) in six days left me queasy. One race at a time, one step at a time…

It was like an out-of-body experience, and I felt like a first-timer in this my 20th marathon. In fact, Boston was the first time since Crazy Horse 2011 — my second marathon — that I’d stopped to walk during a road race, that’s how bizarre this day was. I hadn’t even stopped to walk after twisting my ankle at mile 17 of the E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon. By the time I crested Heartbreak Hill, though, I had no choice. So for the next few miles, as the course followed a downhill-yet-still-rolling trajectory — past the screaming Eagles of Boston College, through Brookline and into Boston at last — I walked briefly at each mile marker, high-fiving spectators and regaining my momentum in short bursts.

Through all the misery of those last ten miles, I kept flexing the one set of muscles I could still control — I refused to stop smiling, even as I passed an increasing number of cramped-up runners trying desperately to stretch out their failing calves & locked-up quads. And was it just me, or was the number of medical tents increasing as well?

Citgo sign at mile 25 of Boston Marathon

The Citgo sign high in the sky signals you don’t have much fahthah to go

The finish is coming! The finish is coming! — Paul Revere, patriot & Boston Marathon finisher
At mile 25, with the beckoning Citgo sign now dominating the skyline and the roars from the onlookers intensifying, both mind & body sensed the finish line within reach. The “ONE MILE TO GO” marker painted on the ground in Kenmore Square provided one last shot of adrenaline, and I glanced up to see the familiar green outer walls and light towers of historic Fenway Park off to our right.

Mike Sohaskey with one mile to go at Boston Marathon

One mile to go in Kenmore Square!

Even in my exhausted state, I recognized the moment when it arrived. I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but if I ever get one I know exactly what it will say — right on Hereford, left on Boylston. The final two directions every Boston runner hears, and the six celebrated words that tell you, I am this close to finishing the freaking Boston Marathon.

As I made the left turn onto Boylston, I glanced off to my right to see my buddy Neil from Minnesota, whose wife Jody had run a great race, cheering me on. I gave him a euphoric thumbs-up and turned my attention directly ahead of me, to the blue & gold pearly gates finish line arch 300 yards in the distance. Ironically, this home stretch was the only time all day when I legitimately wanted to slow down, and I took the time to bask in the moment and to soak up every last cheer from the thunderous walls of human sound urging us toward the finish. And I seriously would have high-fived every person on Boylston if I could have.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 26 of Boston Marathon

Feelin’ the magic of Boylston Street (photo: Neil Hetherington)

Eventually I ran out of room and had to cross the finish line into Copley Square, finishing my first Boston Marathon and my best worst marathon ever in 3:48:36. Even as competitive as I am, I can live with that result — because Boston (especially the first time) is all about the experience, and luckily I hadn’t set my sights on requalifying this year.

Clearly I still owe the course my best shot — though not immediately, as I’d like to step back and let the magic of this year’s experience sink in before I chase another BQ. And I have other racing goals to pursue in the meantime. But boy, it’s easy to understand how chasing (and re-chasing) the high of that qualifier year after year could easily become a full-fledged addiction. Heroin ain’t got nothin’ on the Boston Marathon.

Boston Marathon finish line shot

Mission accomplished — looking back on Boylston from under the finish arch

Turns out even the elite times were slower than usual, with no men breaking the 2:12 mark and only one woman cracking 2:30. And I heard more than a few horror stories of runners ending up in the medical tents with cramps or worse. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who’d misplaced my running mojo this year.

And yet I’m still puzzled by the fact that my day went south so quickly, and with so little help from the course itself. I would say it’s something I need to figure out and correct pronto, but then again I may never know exactly what went wrong on Marathon Monday. After all the solid training, preparation & tapering that preceded Boston, how could I have begun the day with an elevated heart rate? I have my suspicions — maybe filling every waking moment in the two days before the race wasn’t a great idea. Or maybe waking up in a cold sweat on race day was an even worse omen than I knew.

Boston Common post-Boston Marathon

The Boston Common after a very uncommon day

In any case, Boston reinforced the lesson I continue to learn time and time again: the marathon is the ultimate “tough love” teacher, and the lessons it teaches are humility, adaptability and don’t you dare give up-ity. Anyone can finish a race when they’re feeling good & running strong — but if you have a weakness the marathon will find it, exploit it and beat on it until you’re ready to throw in the towel. And then kick you in the gut a couple more times, just for good measure. It’s like a bully who turns you upside-down, shakes all the money out of your pockets and then takes your clothes just because, leaving you out in the middle of nowhere naked in the dead of winter. Laughing all the way.

As I shuffled triumphantly through the finish chute, Dad’s smiling voice — Boston born & bred — filled my head: Can’t do any bettah than that. And I could feel his hand on my shoulder, proudly confirming what my depleted body already knew and what I’d worked so hard to hear.

At Boston Marathon Expo

Post-race drinks are on me! — Samuel Adams, brewer & patriot
Sheer exhaustion was probably all that prevented me from tearing up as yet another smiling B.A.A. volunteer hung the coveted unicorn medal around my neck. I’d honestly never given much thought to the unicorn as the universally recognized symbol of the Boston Marathon, but it’s perfect — wild & ferocious, forever elusive yet endlessly pursued by man for its mythical power, beauty and ability to heal sickness.

Paul had run an excellent race (3:18:07), and he and his wife Jenny were already headed back to their hotel when I texted them, in between posing for the MarathonFoto minions. Reveling in the slow, deliberate stroll out of the finisher’s area, where volunteers continued to thank us for running Boston, I eventually reached the perimeter of the Boston Common where Sandy and Katie were waiting.

Boston Marathon finish line family hug
En route I was greeted by a group of four college-age fellows in Red Sox and Patriots gear, one of whom embraced me while another proclaimed loudly how totally awesome I was. Much as I would have loved to respond with a rapid & witty retort, all my fatigue & surprise would allow was a weak “No, YOU guys are awesome.” Anyone else, anywhere else, on any other day and I would’ve assumed I was the victim of a practical joke or hazing stunt. But on Marathon Monday in Copley Square, these guys were 100% sincere — and I was 200% appreciative.

Mike Sohaskey & Paul Ishimine at Mile 27 sign

Tapering for Big Sur

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho with Red Sox World Series trophies

Still plenty of room on that table for a 4th (and 5th) World Series trophy

The post-race party that night at Fenway Park (sponsored by Samuel Adams, of course) was the perfect nightcap to a Patriots Day that I wish I could bottle and share with every runner & non-runner I meet. Feeling down? Stressed? Overwhelmed? Overworked? Insecure? Crack open a bottle of Marathon Monday, breathe deeply and let one of life’s most amazing experiences wash away all negativity.

Hear the cheers. See the high-fives. Feel the gratitude. Everyone, from the most hardcore runner to the most sedentary bystander, coming together with a common purpose — to celebrate, support and inspire everyone else. A common humanity you have to feel & see to believe, shaped by 120 years of history and two bombs that showed the world — with all eyes watching — what it means to be Boston Strong. In this town, everyone takes this day to heart.

Because in Boston, everyone owns the marathon.

Mike Sohaskey with Boston Marathon medal 2016

Tips & Tricks for Boston Marathon weekend:

  • You can score a discount on Adidas official Boston Marathon gear by signing up for their email list as a first-timer, and they’ll probably send you another coupon with your first order (e.g. $30 off $100 or more). I signed up for their email list back in January and have yet to receive a marketing email from them.
  • If you can, wait until Sunday late morning/early afternoon to hit the expo — it’s SO much easier & more time-efficient than braving the Saturday madness (I can’t vouch for Friday).
  • No matter when you hit the expo, take a few minutes to watch the street-view video of the course with elevation profile and expert analysis from elites, past champions, and others.
  • At least 100 additional porta-potties with minimal wait times await you in the corrals at the start line, so if you can wait I’d think twice before standing in the long, slow lines at the Athletes’ Village.
  • The Marathon Sports retail store on Boylston typically offers free medal engraving the day after the race (this year the time slot was 10:30am – 2:30pm).
  • For more helpful tips from a 12-time Boston finisher, check out Scott Dunlap’s post, “Running The Boston Marathon? Here Are Some Tips and Things To Do”.
8 towns of the Boston Marathon

Click on image for a larger version, sun streaks and all (source: Adidas RunBase, Boston)

BOTTOM LINE: Boston is a pretty cool race. And Tyrannosaurus rex was a pretty cool lizard. I’m flattered and appreciative that you’re reading this, but if you’re scanning blog posts & reviews to decide whether or not to run the Boston Marathon, we need to talk. Boston is hands-down (and it’s not close) the coolest race in the country, if not the world. Chicago has a similar feel in terms of race magnitude, community support/civic pride and an historic sports venue in Wrigley Field, but Boston is without rival. And unfortunately, the Cubs’ season typically ends well before race day in early October (oh no he di’int!).

So if you’re fast enough to run Boston, do it — early & often. If you’re on the cusp of being fast enough to qualify, train your butt off now before they tighten the qualifying standards again. And if you’re simply counting on attrition to qualify when you’re 80, hit up some family/friends/unguarded piggy banks and raise the $5,000 minimum needed to enter as a charity runner. No matter how you get to Boston (short of cheating the system and calling attention to yourself on Facebook), you won’t regret the effort.

Not surprisingly, Race Director Dave McGillivray said it best when asked what he does for a living: “I help raise the level of self-esteem and self-confidence of tens of thousands of people across America every year.” Now there’s an elevator pitch.

Boston Marathon finish line selfie
Spot-on flawless, from start to finish. Every race of any size could learn a lot simply by standing on the sidelines observing Boston Marathon weekend. McGillivray and his team are master choreographers, and it’s almost laughable (& unfair) to compare any other marathon to Boston. The genius of the production is that it’s airtight and yet never in your face to spoil the experience. And unlike Berlin, the porta-potties in Boston had toilet paper! The only potential downside to race weekend was the overcrowded expo… but even that can be avoided by waiting until Sunday afternoon to attend. Four thumbs up (I’m borrowing Katie’s) on a job masterfully done.

SWAG: No finisher’s medal outside the Olympics is more coveted or more instantly recognizable than the unicorn earned by Boston Marathon finishers. I was awestruck as the friendly B.A.A. volunteer hung the blue-&-gold ribbon around my neck, and that was when the reality of my achievement really hit home.

In addition, the official Adidas long-sleeve race shirt isn’t your typical wear-once-and-donate race tee, but like the medal itself a classic blue & gold that fits well and which I can imagine wearing until the sleeves fall off. Everything about this marathon screams “attention to detail”, even if Adidas has (for better or worse) boldly steered away from the classic color scheme and gotten a bit sassier with the colors of its celebration jackets in recent years. I definitely didn’t envy the women their teal-&-pink jacket this year (look it up if you don’t believe me).

2016 Boston Marathon medal, finisher's shirt & bib

RaceRaves rating:RaceRaves-rating

April 18, 2016 (start time 10:25am)
26.41 miles from Hopkinton to Boston, MA (state 11 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:48:36 (first time running the Boston Marathon), 8:39/mile
Finish place: 13,459 overall, 1693/2504 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 26,639 (14,471 men, 12,168 women)
Race weather: warm & sunny at the start (temp 69°F), cool & sunny at the finish
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 539 ft ascent, 983 ft descent


As one went to Europe to see the living past, so one must visit Southern California to observe the future.
– Alison Lurie

Mike Sohaskey with Skechers Los Angeles Marathon bus wrap
I do believe I owe my hometown race an apology.

Sure I’ve cheated on her, time & again (17 times in fact, but who’s counting?) since we first started seeing each other in March 2012. But that’s not it – after all, I’m a serial marathoner targeting all 50 states and all 7 continents, so no one could honestly expect this leopard to change its spots. And it’s not like she hasn’t been entertaining plenty of other runners in my absence.

And not to say I’ve taken her for granted, but I definitely underestimated her. It’s not every race in every major city that could deftly host an epic Olympic Marathon Qualifying Trials the day before its own 20,000+ person event. In fact, this year’s Los Angeles Marathon was moved up a month specifically to accommodate the Trials. As a runner, the thought of all this happening in my hometown without me would have been like Bernie Sanders suddenly coming out as a fascist. So after three years apart, it was time for my hometown race and me to start seeing each other again.

Saturday’s Olympic Trials were the perfect start to our reunion weekend. Admittedly the location of the finish line could have been better, as its positioning 100 yards beyond the start line arch/official clock caused several finishers – including women’s champion Amy Cragg and men’s third-place finisher Jared Ward – to mistakenly slow down or even stop prematurely, as screaming spectators urged them to finish (#runnersbrain). Luckily, none of the top three finishes came down to the wire, or cooler heads might not have prevailed on the hottest day in Olympic Trials history.

U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials 2016 in Los Angeles - start before finish line

There’s no arch and it’s tough to see, but the finish is ~100 yards beyond the start line

But WOW, what a jaw-dropping debut for 29-year-old Galen Rupp (2:11:12), the 2012 Olympics silver medalist in the 10,000m who was taking his first crack not only at the Marathon Trials but at the marathon distance. And are there any superlatives left to describe 40-year-old runner-up Meb Keflezighi, the ageless crowd favorite who’s spoiled us with so many thrills in his career, that the only surprise on this day would have been if he hadn’t placed in the top three?

The women’s race, though dominated by familiar faces, was no less exhilarating, highlighted by some spirited teamwork from training partners Cragg and Shalane Flanagan. As Flanagan began to succumb to the heat in the final miles, Cragg did everything she could – short of piggybacking her to the finish – to help her teammate fight through The Wall. As eventual second-place finisher Desi Linden came charging from behind, Cragg was eventually forced to pull away from Flanagan at mile 25. But in the aftermath of the race, after hanging on to third place and collapsing at the finish line, Flanagan made clear her appreciation for her teammate’s selfless support.

“Sweet baby Jesus I’m so thankful for her,” she said of Cragg.

Olympic Marathon Trials 2016 in Los Angeles collage

Scenes from the Olympic Marathon Trials (clockwise, from top left): Stampede start to the women’s race; leaders Amy Cragg & Shalane Flanagan run stride for stride at mile 20; runner-up Meb Keflezighi celebrates in the final turn; the strain shows on Chris Frias’ face

And while I’m dishing out apologies, I should probably offer one to Kara Goucher, whose fourth-place/first alternate finish (after a relatively ho-hum qualifying time of 2:37:03 at NYC 2014) honestly surprised me, despite two impressive 2015 wins at the Big Sur Half and San Antonio Rock ‘n’ Roll Half. She’s clearly been working her Skechers off to get back to her 2012 Olympic form, and she deserves huge kudos for her effort in LA.

From my front-row seat near the start and finish lines, I cheered as elite marathoners with apt surnames like Payne, Fog, Comfort & Deatherage passed several times on the multi-loop course, the twin demons of heat & fatigue playing out on many faces thanks to an unusually late (10:06 am) start. And as the midday SoCal sun beat down, I reflected gratefully on the fact that we slow-footed runners would be starting our own 26.2-mile journey just after sunrise the next morning.

Mike Sohaskey spectating at the Olympic Marathon Trials in Los Angeles 2016

Next up was the always inconvenient pre-race expo, located in the heart of downtown LA. Though I understand the need to placate the sponsors, I wish someone would re-invent the expo into something that makes sense for runners who can’t or don’t want to commit a large chunk of Friday or Saturday to preparing for the race. One side benefit of the Olympic Trials was that after the race, we were able to stroll next door into the Los Angeles Convention Center and pick up my race-day bib and other materials; otherwise I would have had to make the unpalatable hour drive into downtown LA.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m a huge fan of both Clif Bars and Dean Karnazes, but at this point the Clif Bar buffet o’ samples and the Ultramarathon Man have become such ubiquitous expo staples that I’d suggest they join forces in one booth, if for no other reason than to make the expo more efficient for the rest of us.

But if pre-race expos are here to stay, then for LA in particular I’d recommend the floor layout follow a more systematic flow. This could have the dual benefit of a) ensuring runners pass all sponsor booths, and b) introducing runners to the marathon course, with faux mile markers set up along the expo “course” along with visual highlights of what runners can expect to see in that mile of the actual marathon. This would familiarize participants with the course and build anticipation for the race ahead – all while avoiding the situation I encountered after the 2012 LA Marathon, when I read down the list of attractions listed on the race shirt and thought, “Really, I ran past all of these?”

Mural at Los Angeles Marathon Expo 2016

Like the city itself, the pre-race expo had its own cool mural

Sunday began unlike any of the 18 marathon race days before it – with me waking up in my own bed. And I took my time doing it – having spent most of the previous four days on my feet and sleeping poorly, I was in no hurry to hop out of bed for what promised to be more of a “long training run for Boston” than “race”. Seven hours after my head hit the pillow (a luxurious night’s sleep by pre-race standards), I rolled out of bed and we rolled out of our garage into a bizarre coastal fog – check that, marine layer – that enveloped the predawn sky like a scene from a Stephen King novel.

Heading east we quickly left the marine layer in our rearview mirror, and arrived at Dodger Stadium (a seriously great place for a staging area) just in time to park, make a quick pitstop and join the anxiously waiting congregation. The start “corrals” were aptly named, a mass of 20,000 brightly colored human cattle packed nose-to-neck, and I arrived just as Randy Newman’s “I Love LA” erupted over the PA, signaling the start of the stampede toward Santa Monica. With no chance to reach my designated “B” corral near the front, I let myself be swept along like a beach ball atop a department store fan.

Start to mile 12: Dodger Stadium, Chinatown, Little Tokyo, Sunset Blvd, Hollywood
Los Angeles, much like Boston, begins with a steep and almost immediate downhill. Part of my strategy required me to ride the brakes to avoid the rookie mistake of flying down this first descent, only to pay for my zeal later. Fly now, drag later. It’s way too easy to start a marathon way too fast when your legs are fresh, your blood sugar levels are high and your myopic mind is telling you to “Go ahead and bank a few fast miles early, while you’re feeling good!” Take its advice, and that same voice will be cursing you three hours later for your arrogance.

Luckily, finding myself trapped in the throng exiting Dodger Stadium was the perfect muzzle for the impatient voice in my head.

Rolling downhill out of Dodger Stadium into the mottled morning sunlight, the course leveled out as we passed under the Golden Dragon Gateway that spans North Broadway and which serves as the de facto entrance to Chinatown. The impressively ornate Chinatown Gate soon followed, and as quickly as we’d entered…

… we were leaving, past City Hall & the Los Angeles Times offices before transitioning into Little Tokyo, with its distinctive orange Watchtower looking out over the largest Japanese-American population in the country (plus, I noticed, a significant number of Korean shops & restaurants).

Los Angeles Marathon mile 2 - Chinatown's Golden Dragon Gateway

Chinatown’s Golden Dragon Gateway spans Broadway at mile 2 of the marathon course (Google Maps)

My pacing plan for the day was relatively simple, at least in theory: start slow and pick up the pace. In all 18 of my previous marathons I’d posted positive splits, meaning I’d run the first 13.1 miles faster than the second 13.1. To non-runners and even newbie runners, positive splits sound like an inevitable fact of life when you’re running 26.2 miles: you slow down as you get tired. DUH.

But marathons are like meals – you want to save the best for last. Meaning negative splits (a faster second half than first half) should be the goal for any marathoner looking to run their best race. Case in point, current marathon world-record holder Dennis Kimetto of Kenya. In posting his world record 2:02:57 at Berlin in 2014 (and we were there), Kimetto actually ran the second half 33 seconds faster than the first half (61:45 vs 61:12).

And a more recent example from the weekend’s Olympic Trials: seven runners achieved negative splits, with five of them ultimately making the team (Shalane Flanagan was the lone exception among Olympic Qualifiers, posting a 19-second positive split).

Not surprisingly, women tend to be better at marathon pacing than men, with a less significant dropoff in the final 13.1 miles than their impatient male counterparts. By extension, maybe it’s time we let the more patient gender try running the country…?

Mike Sohaskey at Mile 7 of Los Angeles Marathon 2016

All thumbs at mile 7 in Silver Lake

If you can stay patient, giving your muscles & joints time to warm up before the endorphins kick in and you hit your stride, then you’ll enjoy the second half of your race a whole lot more than the shuffling zombies you’ll pass at mile 22. Problem is, patience can be tough to come by at the start line of a marathon, when your gut feels like a playground for over-caffeinated butterflies and the adrenaline coursing through your system could wake a dead buffalo. Throw in the fact that for most of us, race day is the culmination of 16+ weeks of blood sweat & tears focused training, and it’s no surprise so many recreational runners (and even a few professionals) end up singin’ the “Start Too Fast” blues.

So then my pacing strategy was: start slow (8:15-8:30/mile in miles 1-10), pick up the pace (8:00-8:15/mile in miles 11-20) and finish fast (sub-8:00/mile from mile 21 to the end). All while enjoying every step of the way – not hard on LA’s awesome “Stadium to the Sea” course.

Miles 5 & 6 were punctuated by two nasty hills, the first up 1st Street and the next up West Temple, with the Disney Concert Hall (unmistakably a Frank Gehry creation) awaiting at the top of 1st Street for winded runners able to glance up from their shoetops. I wouldn’t call LA a “flat” marathon by any stretch, but once you pass mile 9 life gets easier… and the second half, with two notable downhills, feels faster than the first.

Past Echo Lake, a quick uphill jag began a two-mile stretch along Sunset Blvd through hipsterrific Silver Lake (Katie sighting #1!), highlighted by a postcard-perfect view of the iconic Hollywood sign overlooking its kingdom in mile 7.

LAM official program_Sunset&Benton

(photo Los Angeles Marathon official race program)

Miles 9-12: Hollywood Blvd
In mile 9 the route detoured from Sunset for a course highlight, the three-mile sightseeing tour of Hollywood Blvd. Bright pink banners for the musical version of “Dirty Dancing” adorned signposts on both sides of the street. Like Vegas, though not so dramatically, Hollywood Blvd is a very different setting by day than by night – and without their brightly lit marquees to catch the eye, popular destinations like the Pantages Theatre, El Capitan Theatre and TCL Chinese Theatre are easy to miss. Passing the Pantages also serves as an immediate cue to steal a glance up Vine St to your right, where you’ll glimpse the Capitol Records building with its distinctive tower resembling a stack of vinyl records on a spindle.

If this will be your only visit to Hollywood Blvd, don’t forget to sneak a peek at the 1.3-mile-long Hollywood Walk of Fame, with its almost 2,600 terrazzo and brass stars dedicated to celebrities past & present.

Los Angeles Marathon course - view of Capitol Records Building from Hollywood & Vine

View of the Capitol Records Building from Hollywood & Vine (Google Maps)

This being Valentine’s Day in LA, couples were encouraged to either marry or renew their vows in a ceremony at mile 10 sponsored by Universal Pictures and “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2”. And although Katie are I are perfectly happy with our 12-year-old vows, this seems like the type of marketing gimmick more studios in LA should take advantage of with a captive audience on marathon day.

As if all this weren’t enough distraction, Ken Nwadike – Race Director for the Hollywood Half and USA Half Marathon – was greeting runners with (literally) open arms at mile 11 as part of his Free Hugs Project. Unfortunately I was running on the opposite side of the street, and by the time I realized Ken was on the scene I’d missed my opportunity. On the plus side, I did benefit from Katie’s own “Free Smiles Project” a mile later.

Mike Sohaskey at Mile 12 of Los Angeles Marathon 2016

Just past mile 12, on the sunny part of the course near the palm trees

Miles 13-20: Sunset Strip, West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica Blvd, Century City
Transitioning into West Hollywood we re-joined Sunset Blvd on the Sunset Strip, home to famous (and infamous) nightclubs like the Whisky a Go Go, Viper Room and Roxy Theatre – venues where musical bad boys like Van Halen, Mötley Crüe & Guns N’ Roses cut their teeth before dominating the world stage. With a nostalgic nod to the Whisky on one side of the street and the Viper Room on the other, I said my goodbyes to Sunset and let my momentum carry me down the steepest descent of the day, the 0.4-mile drop down San Vicente to Santa Monica Blvd.

There the course detoured briefly away from Santa Monica Blvd and through Beverly Hills’ high-priced Golden Triangle shopping district, where most of us could barely afford to window-shop and where I was careful not to sweat on any of the well-to-do clientele who frequent Rodeo Drive. Nor did I sweat on Katie, whose ubiquitous smile soon after was the highlight of mile 18.

With my tiring brain struggling to sort out course highlights, I recalled a genius touch from the 2009 San Francisco Marathon, where signs had been posted along the course with questions & interesting factoids about the city and its history. I remember thinking at the time, what a cool way to learn about the city we’re running through. The LAM organizers should take a page out of SF’s playbook and do something similar, or even something as simple as posting signs that call attention to course highlights. Because any runner can tell you: the more focused you are on the race itself, the less brainpower you have to soak in your surroundings. But if on-course highlights were pointed out in real time – now that would be a welcome distraction.

Similarly, we passed the occasional musical act/DJ along the course, but honestly unless I recognize the song or the musicians are very distinctive – say, a jug band with banjo, washboard and kazoo – I hardly notice music on race day. I tend to engage with music rather than let it wash over me, so the typical on-course music – unfamiliar & deafening – does nothing for me.

Los Angeles Marathon course runs by Latter Day Saints temple on Santa Monica

More money, Mormons at mile 20 – the Los Angeles LDS Temple on Santa Monica Blvd (Google Maps)

Speaking of doing nothing for me, all races have their “dead zones”, i.e. stretches of the course where there’s not much to see and little in the way of distraction (in some races, this dead zone covers most of the course). At LA the dead zone is miles 19 & 20 through Century City. This despite the massive LDS temple on the north side of Santa Monica Blvd that, with its perfectly manicured lawn, feels more like Beverly Hills mansion or expansive movie studio lot than legit house of worship.

These sun-exposed miles also contrast with the rest of the course, which offers frequent opportunities for shade. Luckily the 80-degree temperatures that were predicted for race day never materialized, and even this two-mile stretch o’ ennui passed quickly.

Miles 21-finish: VA Medical Center, Brentwood, Santa Monica & the Pacific Ocean
Due to federal regulations, the organizers this year were forced to do us all a favor and re-route mile 21 around the Veterans Affairs (VA) Medical Center, which effectively excluded LA’s equivalent of Heartbreak Hill. As the quads began to tighten, my Garmin chimed to signal mile 21 and I mentally readied for a voyage into unchartered waters: time to speed things up and finish strong. Easier said than done, though I knew if I could just make it to mile 24, it’d be (literally) downhill from there.

After the VA, the course makes a straight shot down San Vicente Blvd through posh Brentwood (think OJ Simpson). Here we entered the first real residential section of the day with its gated homes, pretty people & prettier lawns.

On both sides along this stretch, running clubs & charities had pitched tents to cheer on their runners as they struggled through The Wall. And it struck me – despite the LAM’s reputation for limited spectator support, there was no shortage of bystanders lining the course this year. Sure it’s no Chicago or New York, but in LA’s defense its sprawling, point-to-point course (with minimal public transit) is designed for runners, not spectators. And maybe the crowds were largely friends & family, or local running clubs, or even volunteers assigned to designated cheer zones. But no matter – throughout the race I was surprised and motivated by the frequency of spectators cheering loudly and waving signs from the sidelines.

Los Angeles Marathon 2016 finish line view

Exhausted (& ecstatic) finishers soak up the fog in Santa Monica

Speaking of signage, there was a lot more than I’d expected, including at least 20 “Touch Here for Energy/Power” signs. Seeing yet another of these late in the race, I chose instead to slap palms with a fellow on the opposite side of the street sporting a Boston Marathon tee – my kind of power!

Three memorable signs that stuck in my addled, endorphin-soaked brain:

  • “You’ve got great stamina – call me!” (also saw this at Surf City 2011… it was clever then and it’s still clever now)
  • My favorite of the day: “If Jeb can keep running, so can you!”
  • And the Tony Robbins tribute of the day: “The task ahead of you is never as great as the power behind you” (ouch my brain, ouch my brain…)

Despite taking in only 300 calories (via Clif Shot Bloks) during the race, my training – which focused on burning fat rather than sugar – coupled with my measured start ensured I’d avoid the energy crash that usually precedes the downward spiral of miles 20-26. Instead, I was able to ignore my stiffening quads and focus on clocking sub-8:00 miles, fueled by the screams and cheers from the raucous tents lining San Vicente.

Then, like a high-five from the heavens, two things happened as we crossed 26th Street: the course began its final 2+ mile descent, and we re-entered the cool marine layer we’d left behind four hours earlier. That was my cue to step on the gas, and blissfully I cruised downhill toward the ocean, every step feeling stronger than the last. I even took the opportunity to leapfrog another fast-moving runner who clearly had reserves left in his tank as well.

With just under a mile to go we banked left onto the home stretch of Ocean Ave and spied, dead ahead – nothing but fog. Santa Monica was eerily unrecognizable, its trademark palm trees and distant pier swathed in gray. I continued to accelerate, trusting the finish line would soon appear straight ahead, right where it had every year since the Stadium-to-the-Sea course was unveiled in 2010. I wasn’t disappointed. As cheering onlookers materialized like spirits out of the haze, lining the home stretch on the left side, so too did the dark blue finish arch.

Mike Sohaskey leading the pack down the Los Angeles Marathon homestretch

Down the stretch they come!

With one final surge I hit the finish mat in a time of 3:34:39, posting my first-ever negative splits (1:50:07/1:44:32) in my 19th marathon. My first and last mile splits told the tale, with mile 1 being my slowest of the day (8:58) and mile 26 my fastest (7:27). I’d even covered the final 0.42 miles at roughly the same pace (6:30/mile) as my 5K PR. Clearly I should have kicked in the afterburners a bit earlier.

All in all, my Sunday long run had been a great success, as it had allowed me to train for the last 10K of the marathon in the best way possible – by running the last 10K of a marathon.

Barely feeling the chill coastal air on my skin, I ambled through the finish chute past the food offerings and exuberant MarathonFoto minions to where Katie and our friend Paul were waiting. Paul always makes the annual pilgrimage up from San Diego to run LA, and he and I will be running Boston together next month. So an earlier-than-usual Los Angeles Marathon was a timely warmup for both of us.

Mike Sohaskey with Paul & Laura at Los Angeles Marathon Finish Festival

All smiles at the suddenly sunny Finish Festival with sister-in-law Laura & Paul

Together we wandered over to the post-race festival, held in a nearby parking lot where local favorite Angel City Brewery was hosting a free beer garden for finishers. I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ll never refuse a post-race beer – and in fact, the Goose Island IPA I enjoyed in Chicago remains a vivid memory from my first World Marathon Major.

Speaking of World Marathon Majors, the honest truth is that LA is a better race than any of the three Majors I’ve run ­­– better than Berlin, better than Chicago, better even than (blasphemy!) New York City. There’s more to see along its point-to-point course, more hilly bits to keep things interesting, and more natural beauty throughout – mountain views en route, beach and Pacific Ocean awaiting at the finish. And though it tends to fall on the hot side, particularly in March, the weather is always SoCal reliable.

Reunited and it feels so good – so consider this a heartfelt apology to my hometown race, having not experienced it for myself since LA became our hometown in 2013. I’d forgotten all that its scenic Stadium-to-the-Sea course has to offer. Big Sur may be California’s classic “must run” road marathon; San Francisco may be the most stunning city in the country; but Los Angeles has its own underestimated race that I’d recommend to any marathoner seeking the quintessential California experience. You probably won’t run a personal best here, but you probably won’t care either.

Sipping our beers as the sun at last cleaved a path through the stubborn morning fog, it struck me (again) how lucky I am to live in a place where cutting-edge creativity is a way of life, and where I can run alongside the ocean for 20 miles at a time, 12 months a year. So it was that the same refrain which had started the morning’s journey was still stuck in my head at the end.

I love LA!

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho at Los Angeles Marathon finish line

BOTTOM LINE: Los Angeles should be high on any serial marathoner’s list. California has something for every road runner – the breathtaking beauty of the California coastline in Big Sur, the classic SoCal beach vibe of Surf City, the enchanting allure of San Francisco. LA in turn shines with its unique mix of big-city energy, iconic attractions and laid-back SoCal ambience. If preconceived notions of smog and plastic people are all you know of LA, then you don’t know LA.

Aside from San Francisco, Los Angeles is start-to-finish the most interesting road marathon course I’ve run. Don’t let the net downhill profile (789 ft up, 1,192 ft down) fool you though – most of that downhill is at the very beginning and very end. Nor is the rest of the course particularly flat, so be prepared for several uphills, particularly in the first half.

Another positive note from this year’s race: the number of spectators seemed much greater than I recall from 2012. So if spectator support is important to you, don’t let the LAM’s reputation as a spectator-sparse event dissuade you from running. Sure it’s no Boston, Chicago or New York, but then again not every race can be a World Marathon Major.

LA isn’t a cheap race (I paid $160 on opening day of registration), but it’s reasonable relative to other big-city marathons, and you definitely get what you pay for. And weather-wise, the year-round warmth that draws so many visitors to SoCal is a double-edged sword for runners, since it means temperatures on race day tend toward hot. Just a word of warming warning for those hoping to chase a personal best at LA.

Los Angeles Marathon 2016 elevation course profile

Net downhill yes, but the shortest distance between Dodger Stadium & Santa Monica is not a straight line

PRODUCTION: Aside from the usual expo chaos in downtown LA (with suggestions for its improvement noted above), the entire weekend – from the Olympic Trials to the marathon itself – was a seamless production. As staging areas go Dodger Stadium is among the best, and parking there is relatively easy. Post-race snacks were abundant, and any post-race festival with a free beer garden (+ short lines!) is a sure winner.

That said, I was admittedly disappointed by several aspects of the production & marketing:

1) that on a course with so many iconic landmarks, the organizers didn’t do a better job of calling attention to those landmarks during the race;

2) that pre-race emails lacked personality and were used primarily for sponsor messaging, rather than taking the opportunity to highlight the Stadium-to-the-Sea course

3) that the organizers haven’t done more to #UniteLA, to embrace the community and rally the locals around their event – the truth is that the LAM simply doesn’t resonate with many Angelenos.

4) that the organizers don’t seem to treat their race with the respect that it deserves. Case in point: rather than pre-race communications focused on the course and getting me excited for the marathon, one dedicated email let me know that by running both the LAM and another SoCal relay race, I’d earn a kitschy-looking double medal in the shape of the state of California. How this odd partnership stands to benefit the LAM or its brand is unclear.

Watching mural near Downtown Los Angeles

I always feel like, some building’s watching me (and I have no privacy, woh)

Plus, no other heavyweight race would move its date up a month for no good reason, much less for an event like the Olympic Trials which few recreational runners even notice. In 2012 when Houston hosted the Trials, the Houston Marathon didn’t budge from its traditional mid-January weekend slot. By moving this year’s race so it fell a week after the nearby Surf City Marathon (which is always run on Super Bowl Sunday), the LAM organizers cannibalized their own audience, including runners who usually run Surf City as a warmup for LA. And that’s not just my opinion – the race failed to sell out this year, and with just 20,627 finishers, this was the first year since its inception in 2010 that the Stadium-to-the-Sea course boasted fewer than 21,000 finishers. That number is down 6% from just one year ago.

So let’s hope the organizers stop treating their marathon like a small-town race and start marketing it like the world-class event it is – you’re Los Angeles, not Omaha!

All that said, these are behind-the-scenes details that don’t affect the actual runner experience, and overall race production was impressive by any standard – so much so that I happily used the discount from my virtual event bag to buy a pair of Skechers LAM model running shoes after the race. Turns out Skechers makes a comfy running shoe!

SWAG: Keeping with the Valentine’s Day theme, both the short-sleeve tech tee and finisher’s medal are a nice shade of red. The shirt lists course highlights on the front, though in small dark font that sort of defeats the purpose. The medal, though, is the real keeper ­– it’s a shiny round keepsake with the year & downtown LA skyline emblazoned on one side, along with the race logo & iconic LA scenery on the other. It’s among the most substantial medals in my collection, with a heft similar to Chicago or New York.

Los Angeles Marathon 2016 medal

RaceRaves rating:

RaceRaves review_LAM

February 14, 2016 (start time 6:55am)
26.42 miles in Los Angeles, CA
Finish time & pace: 3:34:39 (second time running the Los Angeles Marathon), 8:07/mile
Finish place: 1,170 overall, 128/1,301 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 20,627 (11,499 men, 9,128 women)
Race weather: cool & clear at the start (temp 52°F), cool & foggy at the finish
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 789 ft ascent, 1,192 ft descent


The only real negative to the 2016 Los Angeles Marathon was my splits

I often lose motivation, but it’s something I accept as normal.
– Bill Rodgers

Cactus silhouette

Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka – the three sister stars of Orion’s Belt twinkled in their full glory, as if all vying for the same celestial suitor. Untouched by the electric glow of urbania, the predawn sky tantalized. And I stood awestruck by its vastness, its grandeur, its silent promise of infinite secrets and infinite truths –

“… get up at the ass crack of dawn to wait in line for a bus,” a voice behind me cleaved the silence.

Instinctively I glanced over at the speaker & her companions, their focus clearly on more terrestrial matters. And I smiled wryly, amused that anyone who runs 26.2 miles for fun would be so discomforted by a common race-day ritual. This likely wasn’t the first time she’d stood in line on a chill morning, awaiting the buses that would shuttle her and her fellow runners to the marathon start line. With the starter’s pistol primed to fire at 7:00am, a 30-mile bus ride uphill meant an early wake-up call even by typical runner’s standards.

Unfortunately my own wake-up call had come courtesy of my traitorous mind. I’d fallen asleep around 10:00pm, only to awaken inexplicably sometime later, wide awake and unable to fall back to sleep. Katie’s soft, regular breathing shaped the darkness beside me. Convinced my alarm (set for 4:15am) would chime soon enough, I lay in bed resting and waiting… and resting… and waiting…

Finally I rolled over, squinted through sleepy eyes at my iPhone’s home screen and braced myself for the bad news.

3:05am. Crikey, I thought (in my dreams I’m a crocodile hunter). State #10 was off to a rough start, and I wasn’t even out of bed. Here’s to the pre-race power nap.

Mike Sohaskey at Tuscon Marathon Expo

This one’s a shoe-in for my favorite race expo picture

So I used the 50-minute bus ride to the start line to conserve my energy, consume my breakfast and compare travelers tales with the 50-stater from Missouri sitting next to me. Modern remakes of classic holiday tunes filled the air, the bus driver apparently of the mindset that if he loved holiday music at 5:30am, well then who didn’t love holiday music at 5:30am?

Clearly a morning person, our bus driver.

Luckily for me the Tucson Marathon wouldn’t be a Boston Qualifer try, or a PR attempt, or really anything more than a conveniently timed excuse for a quick visit to a nearby state before the end of the year. So it was that as our bus pulled to a stop just before 6:30am in the dusty town of Oracle, I felt none of the pre-race nerves that typically accompany me to the start line of a marathon. In retrospect now I know: this was, if not a bad sign, definitely not a good sign.

The periwinkle sky brightened as I cycled through my warmup routine, listening to the familiar buzz of pre-race rituals around me. And I realized that cool breeze notwithstanding, the desert was warming up about as fast as I was.

Maybe I missed the National Anthem while handing off my drop bag, but the next thing I knew a female voice (presumably Race Director and ultrarunning legend Pam Reed) was declaring over the PA, “We’ll get started in 10-9-8…” Her count reached zero, an airhorn blew and the sun peeked over the horizon just in time to spy a swarm of runners begin their 26-mile journey toward Tucson.

Mile one rolled a bit before its first steep descent. This initial descent is clearly shown on the course elevation profile available on the race website, though a warning about that official profile: compare it to my Garmin’s own GPS tracing, and it’s like someone injected botox into the official elevation profile to smooth out the wrinkles, i.e. the less conspicuous bumps and dips on the course. Those bumps & dips may look insignificant to the untrained eye, but your trained legs will tell you otherwise.

Tucson elevation profile_official

Tucson elevation profile_Mike Sohaskey Garmin

The official course elevation profile (top) and my own Garmin course profile (bottom)

Cautiously I held myself in check as runners shot past me, as if chased by angry wasps. If I was going to blow out my quads, I hoped to wait until at least mile 20. After a steep ¾-mile descent the course continued to roll for the next several miles with little to see other than a few mom-and-pop businesses and a couple of Circle K convenience stores. In true small-town fashion, every building in Oracle seemed to bear the same first name: Oracle Public Library, Oracle Ridge School, Oracle Union Church, Oracle Ford, Oracle Inn Steakhouse & Lounge.

The highlight of this nondescript stretch was my pausing to retrieve sunglasses for a runner ahead of me who slingshotted them off her head while doffing her sweatshirt.

After 30 minutes I popped my first Shot Blok in my mouth, and was immediately reminded of my desert surroundings as my salivary glands worked feverishly to produce enough liquid to break it down. It was a slow and arduous process, and I resolved to limit my Shot Blok intake rather than risk dehydrating myself trying to get 33 calories at a time into my system.

Corporate America greeted us in the form of the Oracle Ford dealership as we turned onto Hwy 77, and the next 3 miles continued their gradual descent along the left shoulder of Hwy 77. At this point, after the first five miles of Oracle, the realization struck me that the recurring theme of the Tucson Marathon would be its largely uninspiring course. True, we could see semi-impressive peaks in the distance ahead of us… but those peaks never seemed to get any closer, and running alongside the flow of highway traffic felt more “outskirts of the city” than “one with Nature”.

Tooth sculpture in Oracle

9 out of 10 dentists surveyed recommend your teeth not look like this

The most inspiring points of the course were easily miles 5.5, 7, 14.5 and 19 – but then again, you’ll probably not have Katie waiting to cheer you on at those points.

Despite the sameness of my surroundings I was feeling good, logging miles in the 7:25-7:45 range, and two brief snippets of conversation kept me entertained as we approached mile 10:

Conversation #1:
Fellow 1: He had a 3.0 last semester, so I told him I’d buy him a car if he hit 3.5 next semester.
Fellow 2: That sounds like a pretty fair deal.
(You think? Wanna be my dad?)

Conversation #2:
Runner 1: How’s the calf?
Runner 2: It was tightening up pretty bad on Friday so I went to Massage Envy, and all they had was this chubby guy working, Friday night 8:00pm and all. (Editor’s note: Not sure what the masseuse’s body type had to do with the story or the shift he was working). It was pretty touch-and-go at the start, being naked in front of another guy and all, but he was ok.
(I wanted to suggest that “Touch and Go” would be another great name for a massage studio, but with over 16 miles still ahead of us I chose to conserve my energy.)


At mile 10 we swung a left turn off Hwy 77 and headed east directly into the rising sun, on a two-mile out-and-back to the Biosphere – no, not the Pauly Shore movie (that would be “Biodome” for you lucky enough not to remember), but rather the University of Arizona’s Earth systems science research facility dedicated to addressing “grand challenges that affect the quality of life and the understanding of our place in the universe.”

Speaking of quality of life, mine was slowly diminishing as I worked my way along rolling hills toward the Biosphere. While the official course profile shows miles 10-12 as smoothly uphill and miles 12-14 as smoothly downhill, again my Garmin tracing reveals the truth – a rolling profile that, given the energy needed to switch regularly between “up” and “down” gears, made for a tougher four miles than expected.

As we approached the Biosphere and the mile 12 turnaround, “Born To Run” by Springsteen – the only pre-recorded musical entertainment on the course – blasted from the PA, together with the voice of someone’s young (I’m guessing 5-year-old?) daughter, who held forth on how runners should go about running and drinking water at the same time. Yes, this was the highlight of the Biosphere out-and-back.

Passing the midway point, I glanced down at my Garmin to see a time of 1:42:xx. Not good enough to inspire, knowing I wasn’t about to negative-split this course, but not bad enough to give up on either. In a wicked bit of foreshadowing, my first-half time left me feeling a whole lot o’ nothing.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 21 of Tuscon Marathon 2015

I take solace in the fact I’m ahead of the fellow in the “Pikes Peak Road Runners” shirt

Turning back onto Hwy 77, I wasn’t looking forward to six more downhill miles on the shoulder of the road, with only the distant unchanging hills for distraction. After all, a succulent is a succulent is a succulent, and neither sagebrush nor chaparral make good running partners.

Maybe it was the fact that I could see practically into Mexico, with nothing left to the imagination and nothing to distract from my mounting fatigue. Maybe it was the second-hand exhaust of passing cars (it’s true that running behind cars will leave you exhausted) Maybe it was the 3+ hours of sleep. Or maybe – and I’d never considered this possibility – maybe without a well-defined race goal, I’d left myself with no compelling reason to dig deep once fatigue inevitably set in. After all, what did it matter whether I finished in 3:25 or 3:45? Without the BQ goal that brings so many runners to Tucson in December, both numbers felt essentially the same.

Whatever the reason, by mile 16 I was ready to call it a day. With the rumble strips (i.e. those grooves in the road that wake you up pronto when you fall asleep at the wheel and float onto the shoulder) as my constant companion, I kept my head down and simply followed the Running 101 textbook – one foot in front of the other.

I ran through the desert on a course all the same…

Mike Sohaskey at Mile 19 (91) of Tuscon Marathon 2015

Dyslexic runners unite! at mile 19

During a marathon I usually try to direct my focus outward, toward something other than my own suffering. Miles 16-21 at Tucson, though, were truly a No Man’s Land of mind-numbing same-itude – a monotonous grind highlighted by the rumble strips to my right and the sun now staking its claim overhead. The 3:30 pacer breezed past me at mile 20, his small group of disciples hanging on his every stride. I resolved to take more frequent advantage of the aid stations, as I continued to pop a Shot Blok every 30 minutes or so despite feeling nutritionally sated.

Honestly, the best way to describe the last ten miles at Tucson was that I just… lost… interest. Admittedly much of the blame falls squarely on my shoulders – my training had been on cruise control for several months, and my near-PR performance at November’s inaugural USA Half Marathon had felt like the cherry atop my 2015 racing sundae. But rather than end the year on that high note, I’d opted to squeeze in one more nearby state before the holidays. And so in the absence of external motivation (cheering spectators, rousing scenery etc.), I found myself digging deep into my well of internal motivation, only to discover it was bone dry. As though I were running in a desert.

Even the sparse spectator signage seemed to share my ennui, with oft-recycled messages like “One day you will fail. Today is NOT that day!” and “Nice job, random stranger!” And around mile 19, in one last nod to the uniformity of our surroundings, Hwy 77 turned into – what else? – Oracle Road.

Taiko drummers at mile 21 of Tuscon Marathon 2015

Taiko performers beat the drum slowly at mile 21

The fast-approaching, rhythmic beat of taiko drummers was (literally) music to my ears, signaling as it did the end of mile 21 and our escape from the unremitting downhill of Oracle Road. Turning left at the drummers, we entered our first residential neighborhood of the day and my mind relaxed almost immediately, as though the relentless drip, drip, drip that had been striking the same spot on my forehead for the past 7 miles had finally ceased. The course leveled out underfoot, and despite the glare of the eastern sun, even tract housing in various shades of desert brown was a sight for sore eyes.

Mile 23, and turning left onto Edwin Road, I immediately spied the steep uphill jag that stands out like a spotted zebra on the course elevation map. Sadly my pace didn’t slow much as I shuffled up the hill, where I was rewarded with the best view of the day all around me. You know when you’re riding in the front car of a roller coaster that reaches the top of a steep climb (clack, clack, clack) and then hesitates briefly, just long enough so you sense the freefall to come? I felt that same moment of anticipation before letting gravity and my remaining adrenaline carry me down the other side of the hill.

Mile 23 hill on Edwin Road - Tuscon Marathon 2015

A hill with a view – mile 23 and the psychological high point of the course

Curiously, as sluggish as I was in the last 5 miles, very few runners passed me. Apparently my misery had plenty of company.

My mind wandered back to the night before, when Katie had flipped open the hotel’s Guest Services book to the page that described the spa. “Ooh, they have a craniosacral thing,” she reported. “It utilizes light touch therapy that enhances the flow of cerebral spinal fluid through your head and spine. You may experience an easing of the restrictions in the nervous system and more mobility.” I’d laughed at the time but now, shuffling through mile 24, more mobility sounded awfully appealing – bring on the craniosacral thing!

Entering the death march of mile 25, I noticed a couple of runners alternating between running and walking a few feet at a time. And I resolved that my one victory on this day – aside from simply finishing – would be to run every step from start to finish. And not due to some misguided sense of pride or purpose, but because walking would have meant being out on the course even longer.

When at last I crossed under the finish arch at the Golder Ranch Fire Station after 3 hours 37 minutes 52 seconds, the word that best described me was depleted. As grateful as I was to the firefighter who hung the medal around my neck, I was even more grateful for the bottle of water offered by a friendly volunteer. I chugged it and looked around for another. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d felt this thirsty after a marathon… and it dawned on me just how much of a physical toll the dry air & desert heat had exacted.

Mike Sohaskey high-fiving a Tuscon cactus?

Race-day lesson #73: Not all spectators want or need a high-five

I met up with Katie and diffused around the finish line, my legs tightening quickly and the muscles of my middle back sore from breathing the thin air. I wasn’t sure whether to sprawl out on the ground or keep moving – neither seemed a comfortable option. I made several visits to the well-stocked food tent for oranges, bananas and water, again not something I typically do after a marathon. But it wouldn’t be until I got out of the sun and collapsed on the bed in our hotel room that I’d really start to feel like myself again.

In the end, no well-defined race goal + an uninspiring course = a race that will live in infamy, and another addition to my ever-growing list of marathon lessons learned.

The highlight of my day was meeting Race Director Pam Reed, who was buzzing with energy around the finish area – restocking supplies, emptying trash cans and seemingly doing whatever was needed to take care of her runners. I thanked her for overseeing a well-produced race, and marveled at the fact that a two-time overall winner of “the world’s toughest foot race” – the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon in Death Valley – and one of the planet’s greatest endurance athletes was working her butt off to ensure I had everything I needed after running 26 miles in 60-70°F heat.

The post-race afternoon was spent decompressing, me exploring the grounds of the Hilton Tucson El Conquistador Golf & Tennis Resort where we were staying, while the finest support crew in the land treated herself to a well-deserved massage.

Checking out of the hotel the next morning, I noticed a small heart tattooed on the inside of the front desk agent’s right arm, with a pink swath of tissue across the heart where a name once lived. A once-promising relationship reduced to scar tissue, I thought. Relationships come, relationships go, and when it happens I guess the healthiest response is to dust ourselves off, learn from our mistakes and move on as quickly as possible.

And in this case, not a moment Tuc-soon.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho at Tuscon Marathon finish

BOTTOM LINE: If you’re a focused downhill runner seeking that elusive Boston Qualifier, then dry desert air and barren scenery aside, Tucson may be your ideal marathon. But if you’re like me and much more comfortable going up (or staying flat) than coming down, you may want to think twice before committing to this one. And if you are looking for a late-season BQ-friendly course that’s significantly easier on the quads, I’d recommend the California International Marathon which happens to fall on the same weekend as Tucson.

Beware too the artificially smooth course elevation profile on the race website, which omits many of the smaller rolling hills that will drain the life incrementally from your legs.

On the other hand, mile 23 hill aside, Tucson is much more intriguing as a speedy half marathon, where quads be damned you can throw caution to the wind and use the first 9+ miles of downhill to your PR’ing advantage. For those considering the 13.1 distance, I’d suggest you check out Dan’s excellent post on his own Tucson Half experience.

And if you’re looking for race weekend lodging, look no further than the first-class host hotel. The Hilton Tucson El Conquistador Golf & Tennis Resort offers reasonable rates and quiet, comfortable rooms, with the added convenience that the pre-race expo is held in one of the hotel conference rooms.

Sunset on grounds of Hilton Tuscon El Conquistador resort

Sunset on the grounds of the Hilton Tucson El Conquistador

PRODUCTION: Race Director Pam Reed ensured that everything about marathon weekend operated like a well-oiled machine. Speaking of which, any event that uses buses to transport runners to the start – and does so with nary a glitch – earns extra points on my scorecard. This is no Rock ‘n’ Roll event, and that’s a good thing – the course lacked spectators and entertainment for the most part, while oncoming traffic provided the only consistent white noise along with the occasional waft of exhaust fumes. The expo was quick to navigate and had a small-town feel, including a wild-haired Doc Brown-looking fellow peddling “Magic Stuff” ointment at the corner booth. And the post-race spread, which included local sponsor Damascus Bakeries flatbread roll-ups, seemed sufficient to satisfy any but the most epicurean finisher’s palate.

SWAG: The official 2015 Tucson race shirt is an attractive (albeit bright) royal blue short-sleeve tech tee, while the finisher’s medal is a small and cartoonishly rendered red cactus that, if I were to learn had been designed by the local 3rd grade class, I’d think was really cool. Instead, it strikes me as more afterthought than thoughtfully considered keepsake.

Tucson Marathon 2015 medal

RaceRaves rating:

RaceRaves rating_Tucson

December 6, 2015 (start time 7:00am)
26.28 miles from Oracle to Tucson, AZ (state 10 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:37:52 (first time running the Tucson Marathon), 8:17/mile
Finish place: 147 overall, 27/60 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 669 (378 men, 291 women)
Race weather: cool & clear at the start (temp 54°F), warm & sunny at the finish
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 436 ft ascent, 2,140 ft descent

Tucson Marathon splits

These are referred to as positive splits, as in “I’m positive these splits are terrible”