Posts Tagged ‘50 states marathon’

I used to love the feeling of running, of running too far. It made my skin tingle.
– Larry Bird

Mike Sohaskey with DINO (Do INdiana Off-Road) truck

Ask any 50 States runner why they want to run a marathon (or half marathon) in every state, and one answer you’re unlikely to hear is “Indiana.”

Turns out those folks just don’t know where to look.

Admittedly, my visit to the Hoosier State started out more guns than roses. In fact, I was having second (and third) thoughts as I waited impatiently in a long line of cars trying to enter a construction-riddled section of highway that Indiana friends Jeff and Susan had, with exasperation, referred to as “The Pence.” Apparently this particular infrastructure project had begun as a public-private partnership under the not-so-watchful eye of former governor and current Vice President of the United States Mike Pence, who had awarded the I-69 extension project to a European Company with no experience in the U.S. and which Bloomberg in 2015 deemed “the riskiest company in the world.”

What happened next was as predictable as a Bobby Knight temper tantrum. With Mike Pence shelving his integrity and retreating to the swamplands of Washington DC, the state had dissolved the costly partnership, leaving the I-69 project far behind schedule and way over budget. The end result was the embarrassing clusterf*#k that now had many frustrated Hoosiers and one aggravated Californian sitting at a complete standstill on a rural byroad on a Friday night for no apparent reason.

After not advancing an inch in 20 minutes, I elected to exit the queue and turn back the way I’d come, following a more circuitous (yet faster) route to the college town of Bloomington. There my pal Jeff awaited, fresh off a lengthy drive from his hometown of Fort Wayne — or as he describes it, the “Riviera of the Midwest.”

Mike Sohaskey, Katie Ho, Jeff Rohleder & Susan S

Good times with Susan & Jeff in LA

I’d first met Jeff and his partner Susan way south of the Mason-Dixon Line in Antarctica in 2013. One of our favorite couples from the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, Katie and I had kept in touch with the two of them regularly since then, meeting up for two World Marathon Majors in Berlin and New York City and for their occasional visit to Southern California, as during 2016’s inaugural Desert Trip Festival (or in Jeff words, “old people’s Coachella”).

Since our first meeting at the bottom of the world, Jeff had encouraged me to come run the Tecumseh Trail Marathon, his favorite trail marathon in his home state. Calling it a “Great run in Hooterville,” his tongue-in-cheek RaceRaves review had referenced two of the toughest races on his running résumé, touting the course as a “scaled-down Machu Picchu or Pikes Peak outside of Bloomington Indiana,” and emphasizing that during the race you find yourself “so deep in the woods and seeing so many shacks, you expect to see the kid from ‘Deliverance’ playing ‘Dueling Banjos’ to keep you entertained.”

If even 50% of what Jeff said were true, I was 100% intrigued. Luckily Indiana wasn’t a state where I had my heart set on a particular race, as with Illinois (Chicago) or Massachusetts (Boston). And so for several years I’d tried to fit Tecumseh into my race schedule, until life had finally presented me with an opportunity I couldn’t refuse. With friends Pete and Faby having their first child in nearby Chicago in early October, Tecumseh in late October afforded the chance to visit two of my favorite couples plus my favorite newborn, all while adding Indiana to my 50 States map as state #18.

Indiana University entrance

Bloomington’s own house of higher learning, home of the Hoosiers

Unfortunately as it turned out, neither of our better halves would be able to join us in Bloomington, meaning Jeff and I would have a boy’s weekend all to ourselves in the home town of his alma mater, the University of Indiana.

And like the growed-up responsible adults we now are, that night we carbo-loaded at a local pizza parlor before heading straight back to our hotel room to watch my hometown Dodgers lose Game 3 of the World Series. Then we hit the sack for a 5:45am wakeup call. As a night owl coming from the West Coast I knew I’d struggle to fall asleep, and so the next day’s unusual 10:00am start time was much appreciated, a testament to the laid-back ethos of the trail running community.

Call me easy, but I was liking Tecumseh already. Hooterville, here we come.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon finish area around Yellowwood Lake

Finish area around Yellowwood Lake

Rolling out the red carpet
Saturday morning was a divergence from the usual pre-race routine. With hours to wait until race start and plenty of time to digest, Jeff and I took advantage of the free breakfast buffet at the hotel (Hampton Inn Bloomington), where we chatted with fellow Tecumseh runner Mike, a wiry gentleman in his 70s from Franklin, Tennessee, who’d run a paltry 360 marathons and ultramarathons in his life. It’s not often I’ll deviate from my usual pre-race breakfast of granola, non-dairy yogurt and peanut butter, but then again this wasn’t the usual road race with the usual butterflies — this was as chill as marathons get.

And speaking of chill, that’s exactly what awaited us after breakfast as we wished Mike good luck (he’d end up winning his age group, 70-99) and hopped in the car for the 30-minute drive to Yellowwood State Forest. With temperatures hovering in the mid-30s and no precipitation, it was shaping up to be a beautiful day for a trail run.

Mike Sohaskey and Jeff Rohleder at Tecumseh Trail Marathon

Jeff knows a good race — he’s run all 6 World Marathon Majors and on all 7 continents

Within an hour we’d parked in the dewy grass alongside Yellowwood Lake adjacent to the finish area, checked in at the DINO (Do INdiana Off-road) tent to collect my bib number and race sweatshirt, and boarded the bus that would transport us to the start line 30+ minutes north of us in Morgan-Monroe State Forest. To me buses are always welcome, since I’m a big fan of point-to-point courses and actively try to avoid running loops or out-and-backs. As we rolled along, two-time Tecumseh finisher Jeff recalled the year they’d run the race in ankle-deep snow, before the organizers had wisely moved the race from December to its current October time slot.

Truth is, if the race were still held in December, I probably wouldn’t have been so keen to run it. There’s a good reason I live in SoCal without skis or snowshoes — winter and I don’t really see eye to eye. Why swathe myself in several layers of heavy clothing in a desperate attempt to maintain body heat until eventually I can retreat to an artificially heated room and appreciate how nice it is, as a warm-blooded mammal, to stay warm? As awesome and intuitive as that sounds, I prefer to cut out the middleman and go straight to the part where I’m warm. I don’t have enough body fat for real winters.

As soon as we deboarded, I was reminded of another reason I love small trail races — just steps away awaited a group of porta-potties with short lines. (Though having run enough trail races to know better, I’d brought along my own roll of toilet paper, juuust in case.)

Tecumseh Trail Marathon start area

Almost “go” time in Morgan-Monroe State Forest

Ten minutes later I said goodbye and good luck to Jeff, who planned to take things smart and easy — after recent surgery for a torn meniscus in both knees, his sole focus was to reach the finish line. And as the reason I’d chosen Tecumseh in the first place, I knew he was here to graciously host me in his home state and at one of his favorite races. To me, cool kids like Jeff are what this 50 States quest is all about, and I was psyched he’d made the nearly 200-mile drive from Fort Wayne to join me.

I downed a 5-hour Energy, not only to cover the amount of time I’d likely be out here but to get the blood flowing, as a way to counter my shivering and offset the morning chill. Then it was “go” time as 175 marathoners stampeded across the start line and toward the forest en masse, like lost labradors trying to find our way home.

Immediately we were among the trees, as the short stretch of gravel trail transitioned to soft dirt. My mindset quickly morphed from “Damn, it’s cold” to “Damn, what a perfect day” — this felt good. A gazelle I’m not, but it had been a while since running on dirt had felt this effortless (certainly not in Colorado), and my love for the trails came flooding back. Because as much as I enjoy the faster pace and urban scenery of road races, there’s a serenity and a solitude to running in nature that soothes the mind, relaxes the body and lifts the spirit in a way that running on asphalt never can.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 1

What’s not to love when mile 1 looks like this?

Not that I’d done much trail running in 2017, with my primary focus being the Comrades Marathon. According to my training log, Tecumseh would be only the fourth time all year I’d worn my trail shoes (two of the first three being the Way Too Cool 50K in March and Run Rabbit Run 50 Miler in September). So it definitely felt good to be back on dirt.

At the same time, Colorado was still very much at the back — check that, front — of my mind. Seven weeks after a physically grueling effort and a nasty spill at Run Rabbit Run, my bruised rib cage and wrenched rotator cuff had yet to forgive and forget. And though both tissues had more or less healed, one awkward spill could easily undo seven weeks of painful — and painstaking — recovery.

So rather than chasing an arbitrary time goal on an unfamiliar course deep in the woods, my #1 goal today would be to reach the finish line without falling. Aim high, I know. Unfortunately that was easier said than done on a course with so much elevation change and so many potential pitfalls — roots, rocks, holes — lurking beneath the leafy carpet. And unlike a road marathon, I knew that watching my every step while also scanning three steps ahead for an entire 26.2 miles would be mentally exhausting. Luckily, with five hours of energy coursing through my bloodstream and nowhere else to be the rest of the day, I was in no hurry.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 3

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep… (mile 3)

I pulled off my right glove to allow for easier picture-taking, while leaving the left one on for warmth. Immediately the opening bars of “Thriller” played in my head. Luckily for the other runners around me, there’d be no moonwalking if I wanted to reach the finish line before everyone went home.

Coming from Southern California, I rarely see leaves in any color other than green or brown. So with the scantily clad forest exploding in eye-popping reds, oranges and golds, it was easy to get distracted and take my eyes off the trail — a trail which, given the Law of Conservation of Foliage (Newton’s Second Law of Botany, look it up!), was now largely concealed by those same leaves that until recently had adorned the half-naked trees all around us.

So with fall in full swing, the marathon course was essentially a multilayered carpet of leaves for miles at a time, interrupted by the occasional gravel connector between sections. Luckily, despite my heroic lack of directional sense and the uniformity of the leafy carpet (which made following the trail’s twists and turns a constant challenge), I was never in danger of a wrong turn thanks to frequent pink ribbons and white rectangles drawn on tree trunks to mark the course.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 12

Compared to the softer dirt, the gravel connectors were jarring to the legs (mile 12)

Unlike the Ice Age Trail 50 with its occasional open meadows, nearly all our time was spent running in forest or on gravel. The wide gravel roads offered a brief but much appreciated respite from having to focus on every step, though at the same time the gravel surface felt jarring compared to the softer, more forgiving trail.

Aid stations and good-natured volunteers were strategically placed along these gravel stretches to provide water, Gatorade, snacks or directions. In the cold weather and still satiated from breakfast, my aid station stops for the day amounted to two gulps of water and one gulp of Gatorade.

Cruising below the multihued canopy of oak, walnut and sycamore trees, the rhythmic {snap} of branches and {crunch} of dead leaves underfoot served as the morning’s soundtrack. With forest in all directions, this felt like a scene from “The Blair Witch Project,” minus the shaky camera work and panicked gasps.

Mile 9 featured one of the day’s highlights as the Tecumseh Trail rolled out its own red carpet for us with a uniform stretch of bright red leaves blanketing the ground. I’d never seen anything like it, and as I gazed around me in appreciation I nearly missed a turn and headed off into the trees in the wrong direction. Unfortunately for you, this recap would probably be a lot more interesting if I had.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 9

Green (and red) with envy: Rolling out the red carpet in mile 9

Hats off to Hooterville
Near the halfway point along the course’s longest stretch of gravel road, I passed a sign that read HIGH WATER AHEAD. “Better than Hell,” I joked to the two smiling spectators standing in front of the sign, cheering us on. Turns out the sign would have the last laugh, though, as I splashed through the standing water on the gravel footbridge, exposing my feet to their first dunking of the day.

And speaking of spectators, a few appeared sporadically along the gravel transitions, including one excitable woman who I saw more than once and who was dressed in costume, as though Halloween couldn’t come soon enough. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and luckily I had the chance to thank her at the post-race picnic.

Throughout the race I’d pass other runners on the uphills (my strength), only to have them pass me again on the downhills (my weakness). This is typical for me in trail races and kept me entertained for much of the day. Eventually, though, I managed to distance myself from most of my pursuers as I continued to climb hills at a steady pace, slowed in the second half not by fatigue as much as by the increased frequency of slick footing, rocks and roots.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon elevation profile

TTM is a net downhill, with not a lot of level footing

One note of exasperation here: not sure whether this is a “friendly Midwesterner” thing, but many of the runners at Tecumseh seemed to lack an understanding of personal space. In the first half in particular, there were stretches where I found myself moving faster than I wanted, propelled along by runners who for some reason felt the need to run in my back pocket. I half-expected my iPhone (stored in the Spibelt at the small of my back) to ring and for one of them to answer it. Yoda clinging to Luke’s shoulders on Dagobah thought they were too close.

Their proximity didn’t bother me so much during short stretches of conversation, but when we’d run in silence it quickly got on my nerves. And especially when one of them would inexplicably refuse my offer to let them pass. Fewer than 200 runners spread out along 26.2 miles of trail, and you have to run on my heels?

Luckily, as the miles passed and the runners spread out more, the gaps between us widened and I was able to reclaim my personal space. And at that point I felt like I could run all day — up and down, climbing and descending and switchbacking my way through the forest without a care in the world. I was in the zone and quickly lost track of my mileage. I was running for the sheer love of it, at a comfortable “Goldilocks” pace that never left me feeling tired or hungry — not too fast, not too slow, but juuust right.

Mike Sohaskey at Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 12

Pausing for a “Stand By Me” (or maybe “Stranger Things 2”?) moment in mile 12

And through it all, I managed to maintain my balance and stay upright. The increasingly slick, rocky and rooty trail demanded constant vigilance to avoid a nasty spill. Occasionally my foot would slide one way or the other, but still I managed not to fall. And I was careful to lift my feet — one lazy step and, before I could blurt out my favorite four-letter profanity, I’d be lurching face-forward into the leaves (or worse).

A babbling stream, a rustic cabin, the hush of a leaf-carpeted forest letting its silence speak for itself — this was all the stuff of a Robert Frost or Henry David Thoreau poem (or “Deliverance” without the banjos, if that’s your thing). Ask any runner what they think about when they think about trail running, and the mental picture probably looks a lot like Tecumseh. This was unlike anything I’d experienced on the West Coast, and I was basking in the quietude —

A yelp of pain jarred me out of my quiet place, and I glanced up to see one of the two fellows directly ahead of me hopping on one foot beside the trail. I paused to make sure he was ok, and he nodded. “Weak ankle,” he responded, “Keep re-twisting it.” I continued on, empathizing with his struggles — I’d been in his shoes myself, most recently at the 2013 ET Full Moon Midnight Marathon where I’d run/limped nine more miles to the finish after twisting my ankle at mile 17.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 19

Switchbacking uphill in mile 19

Moments later he passed me at an impressively eager pace, followed soon after by that same agonized yelp. A mile or so later, the same thing. With each cry I winced and gritted my teeth. At one point his companion also hit the ground ahead of me, apparently toppled by a rock or root. What a pair. After the third yelp I’d heard enough, and I leapfrogged him and his angry ankle for the final time as he called ahead to his buddy, “Right behind you!”

After this slapstick interlude, I happily ran by myself the rest of the way. Just as my Garmin chortled mile 22 (which may have been closer to mile 23, but being deep in the forest who knows), I heard the welcome voice of the PA announcer from across Yellowwood Lake, which we now were circling on our approach to the finish line.

Jeff had warned me to expect frequent stream crossings; fortunately we’d caught Yellowwood in a dry spell and I ended up with wet feet on only three occasions, the third and final time an avoidable slog through standing water in mile 23.

Finally, with no clue how long I’d been in the forest, I emerged onto the final stretch of gravel and turned onto the high grass leading to the finish alongside Yellowwood Lake. Still looking like a Michael Jackson tribute runner with one glove on, the lone representative from the state of California crossed under the finish banner in a personal worst marathon time of 5:03:22.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Tecumseh Trail Marathon

The other one-glove-wearing Michael from California (free photos courtesy of Do INdiana Off-Road)

It was admittedly longer than I’d expected, but at the same time a finish is a finish, and the day’s real victory had come in staying upright for the entire five hours. Salud, rib cage! You’re welcome, rotator cuff! And I felt invigorated, with enough gas left in the tank to complete the Tecumseh Trail 50K had it been offered (which as it turns out in 2018, it will be).

Unfortunately the finisher’s medal (available for an extra $8 at registration) would be engraved with our name and finish time and then mailed to us, and so wasn’t awarded at the finish line. But that fleeting moment of disappointment was quickly drowned in finish line endorphins and then vanquished by the excellent post-race spread, which featured a variety of soups, sandwiches and chips — including vegetarian and vegan options — as well as hot and cold drinks and two types of craft beer.

I thanked DINO Director Brian Holzhausen, then donned my pullover and wind pants and sat down alongside the lake to eat quickly while I waited for Jeff to finish. Between bites I chatted with a fellow finisher who’d been similarly twitterpated by the beauty and scenery of the marathon course. Then I glanced up to see Jeff standing beside me — apparently he’d conquered 18 miles or so before his knees had said no más, and he’d smartly chosen to retreat to the warm car and the Saturday sounds of college football on the radio.

Yellowwood State Forest sign at Tecumseh Trail Marathon

I finished up quickly and we said our goodbyes to Hollywood Yellowwood, driving back to Bloomington where we’d spend the afternoon/evening touring his alma mater and enjoying the college-town vibe. And now I need to get back to Bloomington because my #1 goal on the IU campus — to see a Big Ten basketball game at legendary Assembly Hall — is still out there.

As much as Tecumseh exceeded all expectations, the bulk of my appreciation goes to Jeff — for turning me on to this hidden gem tucked deep within the wilderness of Southern Indiana, for making the drive and sacrificing his weekend to host me when he certainly had no obligation to do so, and to him and Susan both for being the perfect living, breathing examples of why there’s no better way to see the world than 26.2 miles at a time. Because while the exhilaration of visiting a new city, state, country or continent is tough to beat, it’s the people I meet along the way that will always animate my memories — and especially when those people are as animated as Jeff and Susan.

So it was that on the lush green backdrop of Yellowwood State Forest in Brown County, I’d been treated to an autumn masterpiece from Mother Nature — a vibrant palette of reds, oranges and golds that awoke the mind, inspired the body and titillated the senses. Who knew that a boy from dark blue California could find so much to love about the deep red Midwest?

Color me impressed, Indiana.

Mike Sohaskey - Tecumseh Trail Marathon finish line selfie

A sadly Katie-free (and medal-free) finisher selfie

BOTTOM LINE: Close your eyes — what comes to mind when I say “trail running”? Odds are it looks an awful lot like Tecumseh. TTM is the quintessential “over the river and through the woods” type of experience, unlike most of the California trail races I’ve run which, while awesome in their own right, typically feature hard-packed dirt terrain in more exposed surroundings. And it’s a point-to-point course from one forest (Morgan-Monroe State Forest) to another (Yellowwood State Forest), always a bonus for those of us who try to avoid running loops and out-and-backs.

For weather reasons the organizers at Do INdiana Off-road (DINO) moved the race date from December to late October several years ago, giving Yellowwood State Forest the chance to fully flaunt its fiery fall colors. And aside from the brief gravel transitions, the entire trail for this year’s race was covered with a multilayered, multihued carpet of leaves cast aside by the surrounding forest.

Tecumseh feels like the middle of nowhere, to be sure — but what the course lacks in majestic mountain or expansive ocean views, it more than makes up for with rural Americana charm. Especially for us West Coast types who aren’t used to seeing leaves in any color other than green. My buddy Jeff, a Tecumseh veteran and the reason I decided to make TTM my first Indiana race, describes the course as “so deep in the woods… you expect to see the kid from ‘Deliverance’ playing ‘Dueling Banjos’ to keep you entertained.” Whether amusing or discomforting or maybe both, the truth is he’s not far off.

So whether you’re a road runner in search of something completely different, a trail runner seeking the best the Midwest off-road race scene has to offer, or a 50 Stater looking for a challenging change of pace in the Hoosier State, you’ll be hard-pressed to do better than this hidden gem tucked deep in the backwoods of Yellowwood State Forest. Banjo strictly optional, though you never know — you may just find a kindred spirit in Yellowwood.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon mile 8

Sometimes trail running simply means finding the path of least resistance

PRODUCTION: Brilliantly executed, with just enough production to ensure the day ran smoothly and efficiently while not interfering with the low-key ethos. The comfortable, warm 30-minute bus ride from the finish area (where we parked our car) to the start in Morgan-Monroe State Forest was a nice waker-upper to start the day. And the leaf-carpeted course interspersed with gravel connectors — a wrong turn waiting to happen — was expertly marked by pink ribbons and hand-drawn white rectangles, with volunteers positioned at aid stations and other strategic spots to point us in the right direction where necessary.

Fans of stale bagels and green bananas may be disappointed by the excellent post-race spread, which featured an assortment of food and beverages including several soups and sandwiches (with vegan vegetable and peanut butter & jelly as vegetarian options) plus chips and drinks such as lemonade, coffee and hot chocolate. Two types of beer, an IPA and an Octoberfest, were also available from newly tapped kegs. The post-race party wasn’t held indoors around a roaring fire as it has been in past years, but despite the chill I was perfectly happy to sit out alongside Yellowwood Lake and chat with my fellow finishers while we all refueled.

Tecumseh Trail Marathon sweatshirt and medal

SWAG: Tecumseh featured a couple of firsts for me on the swag side, as the first time 1) I’ve received a race sweatshirt and 2) the finisher’s medal has been mailed to me after the race — the latter to allow time for the organizers to engrave the medal with my name and finish time. The sweatshirt is reasonably nice and feels warm enough to stand up to the Indiana winter, but the truth is I’ll never wear it in Southern California — I’ve lived in LA for five years now, and the next time I wear a sweatshirt here will be the first. And while the engraving is a nice touch, I prefer to receive the medal immediately after crossing the finish line, with optional engraving available post-race. Unfortunately, whereas my TTM experience will always stand out in my mind, the uninspired finisher’s medal won’t stand out on my wall. In fact, my first thought on sliding it out of its brown manila envelope was of winning my 3rd grade spelling bee, because the generic-looking award has my name and finish time engraved on the front, above and below the less conspicuous TTM logo. Yes, I know trail races aren’t usually known for their bling… but if you’re going to do it, do it well. On the bright side, at least it’s a medal I can hang and not a coffee mug!

Updated 50 States Map:

Mike Sohaskey 50 States map

RaceRaves rating:

FINAL STATS:
Oct 28, 2017 (start time 10:00am)
25.17 miles (inaccurate due to loss of GPS signal in the forest) from Martinsville to Nashville, IN (state 18 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 5:03:22 (first time running the Tecumseh Trail Marathon), 12:03/mile
Finish place: 65 overall, 7/17 in M 45-49 age group
Number of finishers: 175 total (124 men, 51 women)
Race weather: cold & cloudy at the start (36°F) and finish (39°F)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 1,907 ft ascent, 2,234 ft descent
Elevation min, max: 563 ft, 956 ft

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Tough times never last, but tough people do.
– Dr. Robert H. Schuller

MIke Sohaskey & Katie Ho - Welcome to New Mexico sign

Some states are easier than others.

For the runner whose goal is to run a marathon or half marathon in all 50 states, one of the toughest tasks can be deciding which race to run in a particular state. Most states offer several appealing options — California, for instance, features at least a dozen highly rated marathons, not to mention all its excellent half marathons and ultras. Conversely, very few states boast one “must run” event that dwarfs the competition; as the oldest and most prestigious marathon in the country, the Boston Marathon in Massachusetts is certainly one of these.

You may be surprised, then, to hear that New Mexico is among the latter — because a short drive from the Texas/Mexico border, on the high desert plains of the White Sands Missile Range, awaits one of the most unique race weekends you’ll ever experience.

If you can’t trust online quizzes to set you straight, who CAN you trust?

The Bataan Death March (April, 1942)
On April 9, 1942, following the three-month Battle of Bataan and surrender of the Bataan Peninsula, 66,000 Filipino and 10,000 American soldiers were forced by their Japanese captors to march 69 grueling miles from Bataan to San Fernando in temperatures as high as 110°F. Starvation, disease, physical brutality and wanton killings characterized the five-day march, with many soldiers being bayoneted for being too weak to walk.

Though estimates of the death toll range widely, thousands of POWs died along the route from Bataan to San Fernando, with only 54,000 reaching the prison camps at Camp O’Donnell. There thousands more perished from starvation and disease and were buried in mass graves. After the war, an American military tribunal judged the march to be a Japanese war crime and executed the commander of the Japanese invasion forces in the Philippines.

Forty-eight years later, in the high desert of Southern New Mexico on the grounds of the White Sands Missile Range, a living patriotic tribute was created to honor the soldiers who were forced to endure — and who in many cases succumbed to — the atrocities of that march. In so doing, one of the nation’s most inspiring and memorable marathon experiences was born. Established in 1990, this year would mark the 29th annual Bataan Memorial Death March.

I didn’t want to wait for the 30th, and risk missing my opportunity to honor the heroes of Bataan before the sands of time run out on its few remaining survivors.

White Sands Missile Range sign pre-race

¡Hola, El Paso!
But first, our trip to the Land of Enchantment would start with a detour through my childhood.

In 1972 Frank Sohaskey, recently retired from the United States Air Force after 20 years, packed up the family (including his fleshy pink infant son) and moved from Michigan back to El Paso, TX. I say “back” because as an officer, Dad had been stationed there years earlier, during which time both my sister Sandy and brother Chuck had been born at ironically named Fort Bliss. El Paso offered a familiar and practical setting for the next three years, while our newly civilian father worked to complete his accounting degree at the University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP). From there, his first job offer led us across the state to Dallas. That was late 1975, and the rest as they say…

So West Texas had been home not only to our family for those three years, but to my earliest life memories, most of which involved being chased by man-eating tumbleweeds (underestimate them at your own risk!). I hadn’t been back since our move to Dallas over 42 years earlier; Chuck had returned once and then only briefly. With El Paso being the closest airport to Southern New Mexico and the White Sands Missile Range, we jumped on the chance to visit before making the 40-mile drive to Las Cruces.

And visit we did — our old duplex with its tiny current occupants playing in the driveway and its rock landscaping, a concession to the arid climate; the desert ravine at the end of our street where as a clueless toddler I’d followed my older siblings like the hero-worshiping little brother I was; the middle school they’d both attended; and the indoor mall at Bassett Place which Chuck told us used to be open-air, but which now seemed like so many suburban American malls clinging to the last vestiges of its brick-and-mortar glory.

Mike Sohaskey's playground in El Paso as a 4-year old

Behold! My El Paso playground as a 4-year-old… what could go wrong?

El Paso (population ~683,080 in 2016) shares much of its western border with Ciudad Juárez in Mexico, the Rio Grande forming a natural border between the two nations. It’s the second busiest international crossing point in the U.S. behind San Diego. But unlike San Diego with its high-priced beach communities, pro sports teams and year-round sunshine, El Paso feels distinctly laid-back and low-key, like a place that time — if not forgot, then at least deprioritized. Our brief visit brought to mind a true border town in the Old West, Cormac McCarthy sense of the word. And it reminded me why the Southwestern U.S. is one of my favorite regions of the country.

The city owes its demographics in large part to immigration, with Hispanics and Latinos accounting for over 80% of its population. At the same time, it’s consistently among the safest metro cities in the country, despite its high poverty and low median income — a fact that flies in the face of conventional wisdom on the role of socioeconomic status in crime.

As we drove north on I-10 toward New Mexico, I gazed across the border and shook my head at the thought of a physical wall separating our two nations — a multibillion-dollar testament to the racism, xenophobia and callous ignorance that, for now at least, wield an empowered megaphone in the one nation on earth that should be able to rise above its own inner demons.

“The drugs are pouring in at levels like nobody has ever seen,” claims our misinformed Commander-in-Chief. “We’ll be able to stop them once the wall is up.” Never mind that in 2015, 95% of drugs coming into the US entered via container ships and other vessels — and good luck stopping that access with a border wall. [Cue 45 tossing his page of prepared notes over his shoulder.]

As much as our leadership in 2018 may treat the truth like a soiled diaper, them’s the facts. And the only thing a wall would do is keep all Americans on the wrong side of history.

First view of White Sands Missile Range and the San Andres Mountains

Our first view of White Sands Missile Range and the San Andres Mountains

White Sands and a living history lesson
Chuck, Laura, Katie and I rolled into Las Cruces, NM on Friday evening, then drove 30 miles east to White Sands on Saturday for “In-Processing” and packet pickup. We’d been told to bring valid ID plus current registration and proof of insurance for our car, and to expect delays at In-Processing. Luckily our official Vehicle Pass (emailed by the organizers before the race) enabled us to enter the complex with minimal fanfare.

White Sands Missile Range (WSMR), which its logo calls “the birthplace of America’s missile and space activity,” is the largest military installation in the country. Established in 1945 as the White Sands Proving Ground, the first atomic bomb test — code named Trinity — was conducted near the range’s northern border, three weeks before the US detonated the first atomic bomb over Hiroshima, Japan. (Side note: the Trinity Site is open to visitors but only two days per year, one in April and the other in October. So plan accordingly and expect crowds.)

For the Memorial Death March, all race activities take place on the southern end of the range, closer to Las Cruces and some 100 miles from the Trinity Site. In-Processing happened at the MST Building adjacent to the Bataan Ceremony Field, where the race would begin the following day.

In-Processing was quick and easy, followed by a brief walk-through of the exhibitor booths, some of which were selling Bataan memorabilia while others (understandably) were targeted more toward military personnel and their families. On display along one wall were US and world maps that looked like paper pin cushions, their colored pins indicating each marcher’s self-reported country of origin. I didn’t take a magnifying glass to Delaware or Rhode Island, but every US state looked to be represented along with over two dozen other countries. Not surprisingly, the density of pins was particularly high in the Philippines.

Bataan marchers hailed from all 50 states

Bataan marchers hailed from all 50 states (and several countries)

Playing on a loop in the center of the room was a 6½-minute course video. And though its speed (26.2 miles/390 seconds = 1 mile/15 sec = 240 miles/hr) coupled with the lack of camera stabilization made me wish I’d taken Dramamine, the footage gave us a good sense of what lay ahead. So I’ve added the YouTube video to the RaceRaves Bataan race page.

From In-Processing we made the short drive to the White Sands Museum & (outdoor) Missile Park. There an assortment of missiles and rockets tested at White Sands stood proudly on display, an impressive testament to America’s mililtary might through the years. Walking among the weaponry pointed in different directions as if ready to dispense death and destruction at a moment’s notice, I felt like Ant-Man shrunk down to insect size and surrounded by the model rockets of my childhood (though admittedly mine had better paint jobs). Patriot, Pershing, Nike, they were all there — even a replica of Fat Man, the second nuclear weapon dropped on Japan and the last to be used in warfare.

Watching a frazzled mom try to regain control of her offspring, it hit me — there’s nothing more surreal than the giggles of two small children chasing each other around an atomic bomb that once killed 75,000 people.

Equal parts awe-inspiring, thought-provoking and unnerving, a visit to White Sands without touring the Missile Park would be like a trip to Yellowstone without seeing Old Faithful.

White Sands Missile Park

Scenes from the White Sands Missile Park (clockwise, from upper left): American firepower on display; Patriot Missile launcher; bomb casing for Fat Man, the atomic weapon dropped on Nagasaki; Katie finds the family jet?

Our final stop of the day at WSMR would be the highlight of the weekend, as we attended a “Meet the Bataan POWs” session where we listened to retired US Army Colonel, Professor Emeritus of English at Clemson University and Bataan survivor Ben Skardon. Remarkably, at 100 years of age Colonel Skardon is not only very much alive, but he still marches the first 8½ miles of the marathon course each year. (Go ahead and read that again, I’ll wait.)

Colonel Skardon injected some levity early when the wail of an ambulance siren outside interrupted his opening remarks — “I hope that’s not for me,” he quipped. He then recounted from prepared notes, with a clear voice and keen ear for detail, his recollections of the brutal march in which disease and hunger were his constant companions. With no hint of animosity toward his Japanese captors he emphasized survival, loyalty, faith and the importance of never giving up hope. His words and the humility with which he delivered them earned him a well-deserved standing ovation from the enthralled audience.

We decided against that evening’s pasta buffet, opting instead to eat closer to our hotel in Las Cruces. We certainly didn’t leave hungry, though, as the day had given us plenty of food for thought. Now we just needed plenty of carbohydrates to get us through the next morning.

Colonel Ben Skardon, USA, Ret. details his experience on the original Bataan Death March

Colonel Ben Skardon, USA, Ret. details his experience on the original Bataan Death March

The 29th Bataan Memorial Death March: Opening Ceremony
Sunday, 6:15am. Harsh electric lighting exploded the pre-dawn darkness as we pulled into the grass parking lot adjacent to the Bataan Ceremony Field. The looming silhouette of the San Andres Mountains provided a majestic backdrop for the day’s mission. Our 30-minute drive had been extended to over an hour by the slow yet steady crawl of traffic into the installation, our last four miles taking longer to cover than the first 28.

Despite my pullover, I shivered in the desert chill as we made our way toward the field for the opening ceremony. The morning’s schedule called for all marchers to report to their designated start corral on the field no later than 6:00am — wishful thinking given the traffic and the fact that this year’s 8,460 marchers would be the largest in the event’s 29-year history. As the opening ceremony got underway at 6:35am, we joined many of our fellow marchers — both civilian and military — in the time-honored marathon tradition of waiting in line for the porta-potties.

Bataan Memorial Death March opening ceremony

Laura and Chuck soak in the Opening Ceremony

And that would be our vantage point for most of the ceremony. As the first tinge of daybreak painted the edges of the sky, the Garrison Commander welcomed the crowd and reiterated our common goal: “to honor the heroes of Bataan in a living history lesson.”

The presentation of the Color Guard was followed by the singing of the Filipino and American national anthems. And that was when the goosebumps cascaded like dominos down my neck and arms, because this was the most powerful live performance of the national anthem I’d ever heard. In that moment, as the impassioned vocals seemed to usher in the sunrise and lift the remaining darkness, it was clear to me how patriotism can serve as a double-edged sword for both pride and prejudice.

Seven Bataan survivors (including Colonal Skardon) were in attendance to answer the Symbolic Roll Call. And for anyone reading this who’s interested in running or marching, I’d urge you to do so soon while these gentlemen are still alive to share their stories and bring the weekend to life. Though its objective may remain the same, BMDM will be a dramatically different event once they’re gone.

Bataan Memorial Death March opening ceremonies

The opening ceremony concluded with a flyover of twin F-16 Fighting Falcon jets as we entered the runners-only corral at the far end of the field, closest to the start line. As runners, we’d have the opportunity to start near the front, ahead of the corrals for the civilian and military marchers in both the “heavy” and “light” divisions.

A significant number of the nearly 8,500 marchers would be military personnel in full uniform. And as if marching in uniform weren’t enough of a challenge, a lot of these officers would be carrying a 35-pound rucksack on their back (its weight validated at In-Processing) to qualify them for the “heavy” division. Like their military counterparts, civilians could choose to march with (heavy) or without (light) a pack, with most of the packs carrying food to be donated at the end of the race.

Months before, when I’d first resolved to run Bataan, I’d briefly contemplated the notion of entering the heavy division and wearing a 35-lb pack, only to come to my senses soon after. No, I realized, I had zero desire to test my mettle with 8+ hours of nonstop core strengthening under the hot desert sun on sandy terrain a mile above sea level — fun as that may sound. And while I’m all in on helping to feed as many underserved people as possible, I’d rather not carry the food on my back during the race.

Bataan Memorial Death March weighing in of 35-lb packs

The official weighing of the 35-lb packs for the Heavy Division

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a masochist. But if I wanted to do a Spartan Race, I’d do a Spartan Race — and I’ll never do a Spartan Race. I’m a runner, not a marcher or obstacle course guy. For military personnel at Bataan, I understand and respect the solidarity of marching with a pack. But I don’t feel the need to prove my toughness by carrying extra weight or splashing through mud or crawling under chain-link fences or climbing over walls. Busting my ass to get from start to finish in the shortest time possible is enough for me. The rest is just silly distraction.

Back on the field we waited for several minutes while the seven Bataan survivors followed by the Wounded Warriors exited first to a round of applause. And finally, with the sun now above the horizon and the clock closing in on 7:30am, a cheer erupted as our corral began to move. Chuck, Laura and I said our goodbyes to Katie who would be our support crew for the day, and broke into a jog as we hit the paved surface leading to the main road.

Bataan Memorial Death March start line selfie

No better way to calm pre-race jitters than a goofy group selfie

My goal would be to maintain a four-hour (9:09/mile) pace for as long as possible — easier said than done after the previous weekend’s Los Angeles Marathon, where I’d pushed just hard enough to punish my quads and improve my corral seeding at June’s Comrades Marathon in South Africa.

We passed under a nondescript white metal structure equipped with a number of rectangular appendages, a framework that looked like something you might expect to see set up in the desert to detect radio waves from space. Was that the start arch? I wondered as we passed beneath it. Chuck seemed confident it was (apparently those “appendages” were timing sensors) and started his Garmin, so I did the same. Then I fell in step behind him as we headed out of the base, following the masses onto the main road and into the rising sun.

Who knew our first right turn would be so wrong…

Bataan Memorial Death March race start for Military Heavy Division

Forward, MARCH! Race start for the Military Heavy Division

When the going gets tough… (miles 1 – 14+)
Other than a brief and seemingly unnecessary stretch of running on the grass, the first three miles were on asphalt. Which would have been fine, if only the first three miles were supposed to be on asphalt. But as Chuck recalled from the course video the day before, we were supposed to transition onto dirt by mile two. Which could only mean one thing…

Continuing east with the sun in our eyes, we looked up in confusion to see the hazy silhouettes of runners ahead of us now approaching in the opposite direction, many of them moving slowly and looking — well, lost. And I knew this wasn’t an out-and-back course.

I would love to have had a bird’s-eye view of the course at that moment, as hundreds of runners made a U-turn en masse and headed back the way we’d come. My unease at realizing we’d come the wrong way was soon replaced by the frustration of not knowing which was the right one. To be sure, I’ve taken wrong turns at races before — but never so early, and never crowdsourced to this extent. How had this happened?

Chuck Sohaskey running Bataan Memorial Death March

Chuck heads toward the horizon after a brief detour

Turns out I may never know, but the why didn’t matter right now as much as the how — as in, How the hell do we get back on track? This year’s course — at least the start — was new, and clearly the organizers hadn’t worked out all the kinks. But how had there not been clear signage and plenty of orange pylons at that first critical turn?

Moments before I’d remarked on how nice it was, after Houston and Los Angeles where I’d started at or very close to the back of the pack, not to be weaving around other runners. And now here we were, trying to make up for lost time by… weaving around other runners. This was ironic in the most Alanis-like way. And the hordes of marchers streaming onto the main road ahead of us like a human tributary only added to our workload and frustration.

We passed Laura heading back the way we’d come, and I texted Katie to let her know what had happened. Spectators weren’t able to access the course, and I didn’t want her waiting at the finish line anxiously with no sense of timing.

I counted myself among the luckiest wrong-turners since a) I was in good enough shape that the bonus mileage didn’t bother me, and b) I wasn’t wearing a nylon/cotton uniform or carrying a 35-lb rucksack on my back {whew}. Admittedly, though, our 1.6-mile detour coupled with a 10+ minute mile 4 spent fighting through the crowds dashed my already slim hopes of reaching the finish in less than four hours.

That said, perspective was important — I hadn’t chosen the Bataan Memorial Death March to try for a personal best or to qualify for Boston. So instead of crying over spilled miles, I congratulated myself on being among the first to run the inaugural BMDM Ultramarathon.

Glancing off to the right, we saw several runners heading off into a field as if they knew where they were going, despite any apparent official course markings. Despite my confusion, I remained confident this would all get resolved soon. Fool me once, I thought. Won’t get fooled again, my brain finished, channeling its inner Dubya. Which seemed appropriate, what with White Sands being the test site for the first nu-cu-lar weapon.

Bataan Memorial Death March 2018 elevation profile

Thanks to a wrong turn early, this profile is off (long) by ~1.6 miles

Chuck and I continued ahead until soon the pack veered off the asphalt and on to the dirt. With great relief I saw a giant flour arrow on the ground, the first indication we were on the right track. Here the double-wide dirt trail stretched out ahead of us, and after passing the mile 3 marker I relaxed and settled in for a nice four-mile stretch of flat off-road running.

And I think I saw every mile marker after that.

The trail was largely hard-packed dirt with regular sections of shallow softer sand. Subtle to be sure, but insidious in making the legs — and especially the quads — work juuust a bit harder with every step. Assuming over 50,000 steps taken to complete a slower marathon like Bataan, this incremental extra work adds up in a hurry.

And speaking of extra work, I was wildly impressed to see so many soldiers moving swiftly and making great progress despite their 35-lb packs. Their arms swung stiffly at their sides, propelling them forward and presumably keeping their shoulders relaxed under the load. Their effort made me appreciate their resolve as well as my own decision to run light.

If I could have chosen a day to run in the southern New Mexico desert, this would have been it. A light breeze kept the air cool as the sun searched in vain for a break in the the clouds. And we fell into a rhythm of sorts, never easy on a dirt trail.

This would be the first time Chuck and I had raced together since the 2012 Brazen Diablo 50K, my first ultra and the historic race that had started this whole blogging thang. This had been a long time coming, though whether we’d be able to run the entire course together today, I had no idea. So I was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

Imagine a poorly drawn version of Massachusetts on its side wielding a lasso, and that’s what the map of the BMDM route looks like. The course is run counterclockwise starting at the bottom. Marathoners run up the right half of Massachusetts (eight miles), followed by the lasso (12 miles) and finally down the left half of Massachusetts (6.2 miles). By contrast, participants in the Honorary March (14.2 miles) cover only the Massachusetts loop. Make sense? This is one of those times when a picture is worth a thousand words:

Bataan Memorial Death March course route

(Click for a larger version)

I ducked into a porta-potty in mile 6 and then hustled to catch up to Chuck, all while managing to keep my mile time under nine minutes. Nice. Chuck then made a pitstop of his own in mile 8, veering off with a “See you at the finish!” Nonchalant as my pace felt, I assumed he’d catch up to me soon enough, at the next aid station if not before.

Unless it’s hot, I’ll normally disregard aid stations during a marathon — I don’t sweat much, I don’t eat much. But I still had vivid recollections of my struggles in Tucson two years earlier, and so I knew that in the high dry New Mexico desert, failure to stay hydrated could have dire consequences — even on a relatively temperate day like today. And anyone running 26.2+ miles in the desert has enough to worry about without doing their best camel impression. So I forced myself to take two or three sips of water at every aid station. And lo and behold, I never felt thirsty.

Bataan Memorial Death March mile 7

Scenery along the course was exactly as you might expect, with plenty of sand and low-lying vegetation including creosote bush, grasses, sagebrush and succulents. Very little of the vegetation was taller than me (six feet), so I could see significant distances in all directions. To the west, the San Andres Mountains dominated the skyline, their silent majesty lending gravitas to the scene and imparting a sense that the spirits were watching over us.

And yet my brain half-expected to hear a “Meep! Meep!” and see the Road Runner speed by with Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit on the back of an Acme rocket. So much for gravitas.

The downside to being taller than my surroundings was, of course, a lack of shade. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the persistent cloud cover, the only shade on the course would have been the US 70 underpass in mile 9 (and again on the return trip in mile 20). It was easy to imagine how brutal this course could be on a hot day.

Mike Sohaskey at Bataan Memorial Death March mile 9

A shady mile 9, even without the US 70 underpass straight ahead

At the mile 8 marker the course turned right onto the main road (in my route description, the spoke of the lasso) and began a steady climb of six miles to its high point. The runners were spread out by now, and the next 3+ uphill miles on asphalt along the side of the highway were more mentally than physically challenging, with little to distract or motivate. So I was relieved to catch up to and fall in step with three students from the University of Colorado, who were setting a nice consistent pace on the uphill.

We chatted a bit, one of them asking me my finish time goal. “Under 4:30 if possible,” I responded. “How about you?” “Four hours,” he answered. I glanced at my watch, the current pace showing just over ten minutes per mile. Four hours — an average pace of 9:09/mile — would require a bit more effort on their part, and I wondered how realistic their goal was. With miles of downhill awaiting us, though, it could still be done.

Up, up, up we went.

Ahead of us I saw what looked like a cloud of smoke spanning the road, and my first thought was of someone grilling. Uh-oh. As we got closer, though, I realized the “smoke” was actually mist from sprayers set up on the side of the road to cool the runners. I was reluctant to run through the mist, not wanting to get my feet wet and risk blisters. But in the end, rather than swerve to avoid them I yielded, and as it turned out the mist was so light I barely felt it — a far cry from the dense cloud they’d projected from afar.

Up, up, up.

At last we saw signs of life as some low-lying buildings appeared in the distance — administrative buildings? barracks? Nearing aid station #5 and the end of the asphalt (for now), I pulled ahead of my three young pacers. I was more focused on the woman who’d just passed us moving with the resolve of a heat-seeking (or maybe finish line-seeking) missile.

Bataan Memorial Death March mile 11

Pacing off my CU Buffs buddies in mile 11

Given the alternating stretches on asphalt and dirt, each new segment at Bataan felt like its own “mini race.” Back on the dirt now for the next mini race, the course continued its seemingly endless uphill trajectory as I struggled to keep my female hare in sight. Only two more miles of climbing, I promised my legs by way of motivation. I was looking forward to some much-deserved ”down” time.

Despite feeling increasingly sluggish, I passed a couple of runners who’d pulled ahead of me earlier but who now looked to be fading after the extended ascent. And at last we reached the high point of the course (5,400 ft) just past the midway point — oh, sweet downhill.

Aid station #6 signaled 14 miles down, and I ducked into a porta-potty to relieve the tension building in my stomach. My brief pitstop worked wonders, and I exited with renewed energy, ready to reclaim some momentum on the long descent.

Before setting off again I activated the Share My Run app on my phone, which would notify Katie and allow her to track my progress in real time for the last 12 miles. That way she wouldn’t be standing around waiting at the finish line any longer than necessary.

Onward and downward!

Bataan Memorial Death March mile 13

What goes up: Approaching the high point (5,400 ft) in mile 13

Marchers and sand pits and wind, oh my! (miles 15 – finish)
I refocused on making up time on the downhill, notching sub-9:00 times in two of the next four miles. Mile 16 in the marathon has always been a psychological boost for me — sure, ten miles is still a long way to go, but being able to count down the remaining mileage into single digits is always a pick-me-up. When you’re running 26.2 miles at a time, it helps to celebrate every little victory along the way. And to take nothing for granted.

Bataan isn’t your typical urban marathon, and there would be no pithy spectator signs or musical performers along the course. In fact, most of the music I heard came courtesy of runners/marchers carrying portable speakers in their packs — a bit annoying, since that’s what earbuds are for. The only memorable melody was the timely “Steady As She Goes” by the Raconteurs, with Jack White’s muffled voice blasting from one fellow’s pack as I hustled to pass him in the later miles.

Bataan Memorial Death March mile 15

… must come down: Picking up the pace in mile 15

I paused as we passed the oddly ramshackle remains of the Hal Cox Ranch Headquarters, a cluster of dilapidated buildings that looked very much out of place here. I guessed — and the sign confirmed — that the ranch had been around and operating in the years before the land was annexed as part of the White Sands Missile Range.

Mile 19 signaled our return to asphalt, followed by a brief moment of confusion as a parade of marchers passed me going in the opposite direction. With my subpar sense of direction, it took me a minute to gather my wits and realize these folks were following the uphill route I’d already run, meaning I was nine miles ahead of them. But what really threw me off were their sheer numbers — the density of marchers here was similar to the crowds in mile one.

In that moment it struck me just how many Bataan participants take the word “march” seriously, and why the average finish times are so much slower than even other trail marathons. (Case in point, for my own Civilian Male Light Division, this year’s average finish time was 8:22:09, an average pace of 19:09/mile; for the Heavy Division, it was 9:25:59 or 21:36/mile.)

Bataan Memorial Death March – Hal Cox Ranch at mile 19

The ramshackle remains of Hal Cox Ranch, mile 19

Having completed the lasso loop of the course, I felt good as I let gravity pull me back down the spoke of the lasso on the shoulder of the highway. I’d earned these next two miles and planned to enjoy them. Several of the marchers heading uphill cheered me as I passed, and I returned the favor. “Man, I wish I was you right now!” yelled one fellow with a smile. I laughed and gave him a thumbs-up; I couldn’t help but agree.

You won’t often catch me saying this in mile 19 of a marathon, but this was fun.

Normally my legs will protest the hardness of asphalt after miles on dirt, but here they seemed to welcome the change of pace and respond well. It helped that I wasn’t pushing my body to its limit thanks to my Comrades Marathon qualifier run in Los Angeles seven days earlier, after which my thrashed quads had recovered just in time to board a plane to El Paso. All things considered, it was a beautiful day for a marathon.

Bataan Memorial Death March aid station in mile 19

All business at Aid Station #8 in mile 19

Back through the Hwy 70 underpass with its momentary shade, then past the mile 20 marker where I sucked down my first and only GU of the day as I approached aid station #9. Here the course rejoined the lower loop and merged with the Honorary Marchers for the last 6.2 miles. Just in time for the infamous Sand Pit.

To (mis)quote Mark Twain, the rumors of the Bataan Sand Pit have been greatly exaggerated — and especially if you’re a trail runner. The Sand Pit awaits marchers almost immediately after the transition back to dirt in mile 21 and feels much like walking through a sandbox, minus the small shovels and pails. Without any signs to signal its beginning, its end or even its existence, it’s difficult to estimate its exact duration, but based on my Garmin I’d say the toughest footing persists for ½ to ¾ of a mile.

Admittedly the soft sand wasn’t the easiest running surface. More than anything, though, it was the slow-moving pack of Honorary Marchers together with a suddenly fierce headwind that slowed me to a march for stretches of the next two miles, before I’d quickly remember I didn’t have the patience for marching and start running again.

And though the Buff I’d worn around my neck in case of a sandstorm turned out to be unnecessary, I was glad I’d worn gaiters over my trail shoes to keep the soft sand out of my shoes and socks. If you plan to run or march Bataan, I’d recommend you do the same.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that, of the three Sohaskey siblings, the only one who couldn’t be here this weekend had been our sister — Sandy.

Bataan Memorial Death March mile 25

In the home stretch, mile 25

While it’s true the two miles including and immediately after the Sand Pit were my slowest of the day, I never really felt like the wheels were in danger of coming off. Which sadly couldn’t be said for the poor fellow sitting off to one side of the course being watched over by two race officials on ATVs — he wore a racing singlet and short shorts and looked like he may well have been on his way to winning this thing before his Ferrari ran out of gas.

At aid station #12, the last of the day, I grabbed two sips of water along with two sips of Gatorade and an orange slice — one last sugar kick for the home stretch. And I made sure to thank the volunteers, all 2,000 of whom had been at the top of their game all weekend. Because without the volunteers, there is no Bataan Memorial Death March.

Passing the mile 25 marker meant the end was in sight, though the finish line couldn’t come soon enough for the University of Minnesota runner whose team members — dressed in matching cross-country unis — helped to steady him as he looked ready to collapse.

The last mile leveled out nicely on smooth gravel, the tradeoff being a stiff headwind that was too little too late to keep me from almost enjoying this home stretch. I hadn’t looked at the time on my wrist in hours and had no idea if I was closer to four or five hours. And I didn’t care. All I knew was that I was about to complete one of the toughest marathons in the United States, thanks in part to 75,000 soldiers who 76 years earlier had endured more in six days than many people endure in a lifetime. And why? To guarantee all of us, marchers and non-marchers alike, the inalienable freedom to do what we love doing.

One last turn onto asphalt brought the final white metal timing “arch” into view, and with a wave to Katie state #20 was history in an official time of 4:35:04.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Bataan Memorial Death March 2018

Katie sighting! Making the final turn to the finish

Shaking hands with history
Unlike other races, we’d already received our finisher’s medal — in this case, dog tags — in our goodie bag before the race. So the finish itself felt a bit anti-climactic without the ceremonial bestowing of the bling. That is, until…

Seated with his daughter in the tent just beyond the finish line sat Mr James J. Bollich, a Bataan survivor and geologist from Lafayette, Louisiana. Mr. Bollich seemed to be enjoying himself as he sat upright in his chair, greeting finishers. Still exhausted but trying to seem coherent, I struggled to find my voice as I shook his gloved hand. Then I thanked him for his service, for the opportunity and for everything he’d done to make this moment possible.

“How’d you do?” he asked. “Great day for a run,” I managed. I wasn’t about to admit to any kind of hardship or fatigue — not to a WWII veteran who had marched 69 miles in 110°F heat with a bayonet at his back, and then spent the rest of the war in a Japanese POW camp.

Mr. Bollich’s daughter (who’d driven out with him from Mobile, Alabama via Louisiana) told me he’d been blown away by the opportunity and the support, and I assured her the feeling was mutual. She too seemed to appreciate the outpouring of recognition and support that her father and his fellow soldiers had received from civilians and military personnel alike. This was their weekend, and we were all fortunate to be part of it.

Moving through the finish chute to the sidelines, I wrapped my arms around Katie in a happy finisher’s embrace. Then I set about trying to get comfortable — sit down, stand up, lean back, lean forward, repeat — while waiting for Chuck and Laura to finish. With the sun now directly overhead, the dry desert heat and altitude were having an impact and I sipped constantly at a bottle of water to stay hydrated, my mouth drying out quickly between sips.

Chuck and Laura Sohaskey finishing Bataan Memorial Death March 2018

Chuck and Laura show off their finishing kick

I was surprised I hadn’t seen Chuck again after his mile 8 pitstop, though I’d glanced back several times in the hopes he’d be right behind me. No such luck. Turns out he’d hit a rough patch around the midway point and had struggled from there. But he looked good as he turned the final corner with the mountains behind him, coming home in 5:28:45 with Laura three minutes behind (and third in her age group!). Why he’d struggled so mightily he couldn’t be sure, but then again that’s the marathon — always a humbling experience, and some days more than others. Particularly in a place like White Sands.

We sat on the curb and then under the shade of the tents for a while, basking in our accomplishment. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in the post-race area, not that we were looking for a dance floor or bounce house. And with none of us having an appetite, we were unable to take advantage of the impressive post-race spread in the adjacent Frontier Club, where finishers feasted on hot dogs, veggie burgers, side dishes and drinks including soft drinks and canned beer.

Many marchers would be out on the course for several hours yet. But the day was still young, and so we limped back to the car for the 30-mile drive north to the White Sands National Monument, which more than lived up to its name as one of the few natural wonders in the nation more pale than me. And walking on the hard-packed sand dunes reminded me that yeah, the footing that morning could have been much worse.

My own trip into the New Mexico desert hadn’t been quite as life-changing as another doctor’s 56 years earlier, when gamma rays from an experimental bomb had tranformed Bruce Banner into the destructive superhero known as the Incredible Hulk. But to be able to experience 76 years of history through the eyes of those who lived it — that’s not something I’ll soon forget. And though my Marvel-loving younger self may not have understood, the reality — and one we can all live by — is that the strongest heroes among us aren’t always the largest or the loudest. Sorry, Hulk.

Glancing down at Google Maps on our drive back to Las Cruces, I had to smile as one name jumped out at me, a destination just north of us on I-25 that, unfortunately, we’d have to leave for another visit.

But what better state than New Mexico for a town called Truth or Consequences?

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho - Bataan Memorial Death March finish line selfie

BOTTOM LINE: Are you a traveling runner in search of a uniquely inspiring (and patriotic) race experience? Or a 50 States runner looking for more than the usual race weekend of “fly in, collect t-shirt and medal, fly out”? Or maybe a recreational hiker looking to experience history through the eyes of those who lived it? All three opportunities await you on the White Sands Missile Range in the high desert of Southern New Mexico.

Bataan is a race with a purpose, and the marathon itself feels almost anticlimactic in the grand scheme of the weekend. In the words of one of the officers who spoke at the Opening Ceremony, race weekend is an opportunity “to honor the heroes of Bataan in a living history lesson.” If you aren’t familiar with the history of the event, I’d suggest you check out the race website for details.

This year, the 76th anniversary of the Bataan Death March in the Philippines during World War II, seven survivors remained on the Symbolic Roll Call. With each of them approaching or exceeding 100 years of age, soon there will be none. Bataan will always be a special event for what it represents and what it honors, but being able to hear one survivor tell his story and to shake another’s hand at the finish line was incredibly special. And I’d urge any runner reading this to register for next year’s race while there are still Bataan survivors among us. Survivors like centenarian Ben Skardon of South Carolina, who shared an extraordinary narrative of the horrors and humanity he experienced as a POW, forced by his Japanese captors to march 69 miles over five days in tropical heat of 110°F. Along the way, with the help of his fellow POWs he conquered hunger and disease without ever giving up hope. And yet years later, he was able to visit Japan as a free man who harbored no ill will toward his former captors or the Japanese people. That feels like heroism to me.

In a country and a time when few of us will ever be asked to make any real sacrifices in our lives, Bataan is an opportunity to pay our respects to those who did and to whom we owe the freedom and the comfortable lifestyle we readily take for granted.

And speaking of comfort, one suggestion for race day: you don’t necessarily need trail shoes (the course is ~25% asphalt, ~75% dirt/sand), but do consider wearing gaiters to prevent any sand or small rocks from finding their way into your shoes and forcing you to either run in discomfort or stop to shake out your shoes along the course.

The upshot? Road shoes, trail shoes, marching boots or bare feet, it doesn’t matter — run/march Bataan and do it soon, before our nation’s last living connections to World War II are gone forever.

Mike Sohaskey at White Sands National Monument

Looking SoCal-tan at the White Sands National Monument

PRODUCTION: Throw out the first two miles, and the weekend ran with almost military precision. The most conspicuous race-day error was an apparent lack of signage in mile 2, resulting in a wrong turn that led hundreds of runners astray and added ~1.6 miles to my own total. Had this been most other races the fallout might have been loud and belligerent, but Bataan isn’t most other races — no one is there to set a personal best or qualify for Boston, and so instead I congratulated myself on my 4:34 finish in the inaugurual Bataan Memorial Death March Ultramarathon.

A couple of other race-day suggestions: 1) increase the number of porta-potties at the start, and especially if the event continues to increase its participant cap as it did this year with a record 8,460 marchers — unable or unwilling to fight the call of nature, many military personnel and civilians (like me) experienced the Opening Ceremony from our place in the long porta-potty lines; 2) create an actual start arch, or at least add clear signage to the existing “arch” (i.e. first timing station) to give runners and marchers a better sense for the start line.

Based on my Garmin the 26.2 miles of the official course were well measured, and after missing the first three mile markers due to the crowds, I saw every marker from mile 4 on. On the dirt portions once the runners spread out, there were a couple of side roads and potential detours off the main trail that could have been more clearly marked as “Wrong Way,” but even my own questionable sense of direction didn’t lead me down any of them.

Every one of the 2,000 volunteers, comprising both civilian and military personnel, was amazing. With 100% focus on the marchers and their needs, there was no drama and no distractions. I never had to waste valuable energy guessing who had water and who had Gatorade — that was made clear as I approached each aid station. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all the volunteers whose selfless hard work made Bataan weekend in White Sands a huge success.

As usual my appetite abandoned me after the race, despite an impressive selection of post-race food. The organizers did a nice job of refueling their marchers, offering all participants an entrée (including hot dogs and veggie burgers) plus three side dishes and a drink, with soft drinks and canned beer available. It all added up to one of the better post-race spreads I’ve seen at a marathon.

One last recommendation for the organizers would be to post the 6½-minute high-speed course video — shown on a loop at the expo — on the race website, to give all prospective runners a better sense for the terrain. (I’ve added it to the Bataan race page on RaceRaves). I knew to expect hot dry weather on race day, so course layout and terrain were the biggest wild cards. And preparation is the cornerstone of a good soldier!

Bataan Memorial Death March dog tags

SWAG: Nobody runs Bataan for the swag, and in fact it almost feels like an afterthought with all runners/marchers receiving their swag in a reusable goodie bag before the race. And though I missed the pomp and circumstance of receiving a medal after crossing the finish, thumbs up to the organizers for the appropriate choice of dog tags rather than finisher medals. (The only problem with dog tags is they’re relatively small and, when hung on a wall alongside larger finisher medals, easily overshadowed.) Another cool touch would have been for the event to offer engraving services (e.g. name and finish time) à la actual dog tags at the post-race festival. At any rate, the dog tags are definitely one of my more unique and memorable pieces of swag.

Sadly I can’t say the same for the shirt, a neon green Gildan cotton tee with “bataan” printed in thin, unimpressive blue letters on the front and which I can’t see myself wearing among my collection of race tees.

Along with their bib number all marchers received a full-color “Certificate of Participation,” which the WSMR Arts & Crafts Center would custom frame — along with your dog tags and challenge coin — for $65 at the expo/In-Processing while you waited. This service wasn’t available at the post-race festival, so if you’re interested in a cool keepsake you should jump on this opportunity before the race.

Updated 50 States Map:

Mike Sohaskey's 50 States map
RaceRaves rating:

FINAL STATS:
Mar 25, 2018 (start time 7:30am)
27.81 miles in White Sands Missile Range, NM (state 20 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 4:35:04 (first time running the Bataan Memorial Death March), 9:53/mile
Finish place: 41 overall in Individual Civilian Light Division, 14/313 in M 40-49 age group
Number of finishers: 8,460 total (66% men, 34% women); 2,393 in Individual Civilian Light Division (1,362 men, 1,031 women)
Race weather: cool (57°F) & partly cloudy at the start, warm (72°F) and partly cloudy at the finish, breezy early & gusty later
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 1,944 ft ascent, 1,900 ft descent
Elevation min, max: 4,052 ft, 5,411 ft

 

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.

Whoops.

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
GOTTA RUN…
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 CharityNavigator.com, 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


FINAL STATS:
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)

You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.
– Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men

View of Rabbit Ears in the distance, mile 24


(If you’ve not yet contributed to my Houston Marathon fundraiser for Hurricane Harvey relief — and this ain’t no ordinary fundraiser — please check out the details here and consider doing so. Every dollar feeds a child, adult or senior for an entire day. Thanks!)

If you think running sounds tough, try running a marathon.
If you think running a marathon sounds tough, try running 50 miles.
If you think running 50 miles sounds tough, try running ‘em on technical terrain at high altitude.
And if you think running 50 miles on technical terrain at high altitude sounds tough, try doing it half-blind.

Start to Mt Werner (mile 6.4) — 3,600ft gain
There had to be an easier way to notch state #17.

The thought crossed my mind more than once as Ken and I doggedly hiked our way up the dirt road toward our first major landmark of the day, the Mt. Werner aid station at mile 6.4. With an elevation gain of ~ 3,600 feet, this first 10K would be the toughest start to any of the 85+ races I’d run. This included the 2010 Pikes Peak Ascent, with its starting elevation of 6,300 feet compared to today’s 6,800 feet. And once we reached the aid station at 10,400 feet, we’d have only 44 miles between us and the inflatable red finish arch emblazoned with the Altra logo.

Yeah, there were definitely easier paths to a finish line, even in a state with 53 peaks over 14,000 feet tall. Then again, “easy” hadn’t been my criteria when I’d let Ken — with little persuading — talk me into joining him for his first 50-miler, conveniently held in his hometown of Steamboat Springs. After all, I’d known him and his wife Jenny since our days of living together at Rice University, and we’d run together at two memorable races before this, the 2012 Moab Trail Half and last November’s Golden Gate Half. And as anyone who reads this blog knows, dangle the right challenge in front of me and I’m an easy target for peer pressure.

Run Rabbit Run elevation profile

Even with paid registration in hand, I hadn’t expected to be here after a tough summer, highlighted by an epic 54 miles at the Comrades Marathon in South Africa. That had been followed by two “just barely” sub-4-hour marathons in Victoria Falls (Zimbabwe) and Missoula, Montana. I’d given everything I had in all three races, and by the time I crossed the finish line in Missoula I wanted nothing more than to bury my running shoes and sleep for three months.

But after a week off from running and a gradual return to my normal routine, I realized that hey, my body actually felt pretty good. Not good enough to hop, skip and jump my way though a forested 50 miles at high altitude, but if I were being perfectly honest with myself, my only goal anyway coming from sea level would be to play it safe and reach the finish line before nightfall, roughly 13.5 hours after we’d started in the dark.

That remained my goal now as we switchbacked our way up the mountain in the early morning chill, my nose dripping into my mouth like a nasal faucet. (Note to evolution: nose right above the mouth? Really?) Ken and I were both in good spirits, though I was understandably anxious given my uncertainty as to how my “sea-level sissy” body would handle the high altitude. For Ken this was home, but for me…. In any case this would be an adventure, and isn’t that what Colorado’s all about?

This being Colorado, Mt. Werner is the physical and economic focus of ski season for Steamboat Springs. Hiking purposefully uphill we passed the Thunderhead Lodge and Four Points Lodge as well as several signs pointing us to various ski runs. I was heartened by the relative ease with which we moved uphill, the increasingly thin air having minimal effect on my breathing and heart rate.

View of Steamboat Springs (Run Rabbit Run, mile 3)

Looking out over Steamboat Springs in mile 3

As if the altitude weren’t enough to make my lungs cower in their pleura, in the week leading up to the race unpredictable smoke caused by local wildfires had threatened to sideline those with asthma or other pulmonary conditions, while giving the rest of us yet another reason to question our sanity. Poor air quality — just what I needed at 10,000 feet. This was shaping up to be one of Mother Nature’s more cruel and absurd jokes.

Luckily by race day the smoke had dissipated, causing me to (literally) breath a sigh of relief.

There are two schools of thought on how to tackle a high-altitude race while living at lower elevation, in my case sea level. The first suggests you arrive at least a couple of weeks before the race, to allow your body time to acclimate to the change in altitude. Which is great if you’re a professional runner or independently wealthy, but for the rest of us who can’t afford the luxury of early arrival, there’s the opposite approach — that is, show up immediately before the race, then get in and get out before your body realizes where it is.

Our flight had touched down in Denver on Friday shortly after noon, 18 hours before we found ourselves shivering with just over 100 other 50-mile hopefuls in the predawn cold outside the Steamboat Ski Resort. The national anthem was highlighted by the young singer’s voice cracking badly on “freeeee,” as though puberty had arrived in mid-note. The gathered crowd offered encouragement and cheered him to the end, but the performance certainly didn’t help to relax my already jumpy nerves.

Run Rabbit Run 50-miler start line

Lights, camera, action!

Then, looking like a swarm of fireflies with our headlamps cutting electric swaths of light though the lingering darkness, we’d taken an immediate uphill trajectory on the gravel path. I’d followed close behind Ken as I focused on my footing under the hypnotic electric glow of the headlamp — it was way too early to take a careless tumble.

A couple of minutes passed before I realized I’d forgotten to start my Garmin. Dammit. On the bright side I’d conserved a bit of battery life, though I’d have to consult Ken’s Garmin data for the complete story.

Gravel had transitioned to the wide dirt fire road on which we now found ourselves making steady progress. As we ascended, Ken explained that the towering aspens all around us were not independent trees; rather, they were members of a clonal colony derived from a single seedling and sharing a common root system. This evolutionary advantage enables colonies of aspens to survive forest fires that might kill other trees. Looking around at the expansive aspen grove, I tried to imagine what must be going on beneath us. Party on top, business down below, I thought wryly.

The saving grace of this climb was its position at the beginning of the race while our legs were still fresh, rather than at the end.

Upward we hiked, the shadows retreating and the day growing brighter with every step. With each turn we gained ever more panoramic views of Steamboat Springs, the town nestled among the evergreens far below us and the air relatively clear despite the recent rash of wildfires.

Run Rabbit Run 50, mile 4

Ken works his way up the mountain in mile 4

The 100-mile runners, who had started their race the previous morning before we’d even boarded our plane in Los Angeles, passed us coming downhill with increasing frequency as we climbed. Their faces revealed a mix of exhaustion, relief and appreciation at the realization that their long hard journey was coming to an end.

The lead woman (and eventual winner) slowly passed us looking like she’d seen a ghost. It was a frightening sight, her eyes glazed over and face literally expressionless, with a companion seemingly propping her up as she shuffled her way down the mountain. I’d later learn she’d been running virtually blind for several miles due to corneal edema apparently caused by the altitude, which had resulted in her crossing the finish line bruised and bloodied from numerous falls and with a likely concussion. The good news? Her iron-willed perseverance earned her the winner’s purse of $12,500 along with a trip to the hospital.

How is she still going? we wondered, amazed and unnerved by her blank stare. Had I known my own demons awaited me on the mountain, I might have called it a day right then.

After mile 5 we transitioned onto the steeper and rockier Storm Peak Challenge Trail, our pace slowing even more as we negotiated the looser dirt and larger rocks underfoot until finally…

We reached the peak at 10,400 feet, thrilled to see the friendly volunteers of the Mt. Werner aid station. We dropped our headlamps in the box provided, and I forged on while Ken paused for sustenance. I was eager to speed things up, stretch my legs and see how they’d perform on more runnable terrain at high altitude. The name of the race, after all, was Run Rabbit Run — not Trek Tortoise Trek.

Spectator at Run Rabbit Run finish line

The altitude can play tricks on your eyes


Mt. Werner to Long Lake (mile 13.2) — 700ft gain, 1,200ft loss
Tenatively I followed the runnable dirt single-track, my legs adjusting to the undulating terrain. Normally at sea level I’d be able to maintain a pace between 11:00 and 12:00 minutes per mile on similar terrain. Up here, though, I had no such expectations. My goal was to sustain a smart, steady pace while not doing anything stupid. Which seemed reasonable.

It was time to settle in and chew up some miles — I had a long way to go and was in no hurry to get there. And as I had at last year’s Ice Age Trail 50, I broke down the course mentally into five 10-mile segments:

Miles 1–10: Get off to a good start and set a positive tone on the toughest part of the course, with its 3,600ft ascent in the first 6.4 miles

Miles 11–20: Settle in, find my rhythm and enjoy the scenery

Miles 21–30: See Katie and Jenny at the Dumont Lake aid station where they would be volunteering, then visit Rabbit Ears and start counting down the miles to the finish

Miles 31–40: Dig deep, stay focused and keep moving forward as boredom and fatigue rear their heads — these would be the real “grind ‘em out” miles

Miles 41–50: Almost home, so try to enjoy and appreciate what amounts to a victory lap — remember, the last 10K is all downhill to the finish!

I chose my footing carefully, my eyes darting continuously over the shadows created by the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree canopy. After a couple of miles Ken caught up to me as I let faster runners pass me on the downhills. He and I had agreed we’d each run at our own pace, and if that meant running together then all the better. I was hoping my slightly faster finish times would offset his living at high altitude, so that we’d be within spitting distance of each other for much if not all of the race.

I’m more of an ocean than a mountains guy, but any breath left over at two miles high was taken away by the pristine alpine scenery. This was Colorado at its finest and the reason we were here: lush forested landscapes bursting with aspen groves, willows and evergreens. Fir, pine and spruce trees watched over us as we moved along the trail, our eyes and ears peeled for animal life. The last thing we wanted was to surprise an elk, moose or bear out foraging for food. If that happened, the thin air would be the least of our worries.

For the most part, the trails at Run Rabbit Run are dusty single-track strewn with prominent rocks and roots. In this way they resemble the less forgiving, technically challenging trails in California more than the softer, pine needle-carpeted tracks in Wisconsin on which I’d run my first 50-miler. At times, flanked by either packed dirt walls or high grasses, the trail narrowed for short stretches so that it was only wide enough to accommodate one foot at a time. Add to that the shadows dancing underfoot, and it’s easy to understand why someone might occasionally misstep and find themselves on the ground (That’s called “foreshadowing”).

Though I knew this second segment of the course to be a net downhill of nearly 600 feet, the key word here is “net” since there was plenty of uphill to work the legs. Rolling hills would be a recurring motif throughout the day — as with most trail races, the shortest distance between two points would never be a straight line.

A hungry neighbor grazes outside Ken and Jenny’s window


Long Lake to Base Camp (mile 18.4) — 550ft gain, 450ft loss
Long Lake would be the first body of water we’d encounter on our journey. Here the aid station was stocked with the usual assortment of sweet & salty goodies, including favorite options such as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, banana bites, oranges and watermelon. Liquid options included Coke, ginger ale and water along with overdiluted Tailwind. I carried my own Tailwind in my hydration pack along with several baby food pouches, my usual go-to ultramarathon nutrition.

After about three minutes spent refueling, Ken and I headed out on our way to Base Camp. We chatted where the single-track allowed, pausing at Long Lake for a quick selfie. Along the way we encountered several shallow stream crossings that were easily negotiated by hopping from rock to rock, without the need to get our feet wet.

Mike Sohaskey and Ken Spruell at Long Lake (Run Rabbit Run, mile 14)

Thumbs up for Long Lake, mile 14

Breathing in the crisp alpine air, it was tough to believe that air quality warnings and health advisories had been the order of the day here just 48 hours earlier. And we couldn’t have asked for more ideal weather, with moderate temperatures and partly cloudly skies that prevented the sun from ever gaining a serious foothold.

We were surrounded on all sides by the great outdoors, and I tried to balance the need to make steady progress with my desire to look up and admire the scenery — not easy to do when you’re running on narrow, technical trails. Finally, though, I was starting to feel comfortable, like I was settling in.

The feeling was short-lived. Ken had put about 40 yards between us, and as I glanced up to see him disappear around the next turn, I slammed my left foot into a partially buried rock and pitched forward onto the grassy trail. Fortunately, no blood no foul and no one else had been around to witness my dance moves, so my ego sustained only minimal injury. I hopped up, dusted myself off and continued on my way, my bloodstream now coursing with newly released adrenaline.

Lake Elmo (Run Rabbit Run 50, mile 16)

Lake Elmo, mile 16


Base Camp to Dumont Lake (mile 22.3) — 100ft gain, 550ft loss
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice…

My first real indication that the altitude was taking its toll arrived in mile 22. With Ken following close behind I again stubbed my left foot hard and tumbled forward. Instinctively I threw out my left arm to catch myself, the sudden motion sending a bolt of pain shooting through the arm as I landed jarringly on my right side.

Well now, that was embarrassing. The landing on packed dirt was rougher than the grass had been, and gingerly I pulled myself to my feet, cursing under my breath. I assured Ken I was fine and we continued on, my head pounding and my body tired of wasting adrenaline reserves. Though as I’d later discover, that adrenaline was likely the reason I didn’t realize at the time the extent of the damage to my right side. With help from Dr. Google the next day I’d self-diagnose bruised ribs, and for the next week any sudden movement involving my right abdomen would be a painful impossibility. Luckily breathing wouldn’t be a problem, but lying down and sitting up in bed suddenly became a 12-step program.

Back on the trail, I hoped the pain in my arm would subside soon and that the limb would be none the worse for wear — though I hated to think what might happen if I fell again. Fortunately I’d somehow manage to stay upright for the next 28 miles, a minor miracle given what else awaited me.

Dumont Lake aid station (Run Rabbit Run)

With ears a-flutter, Jenny greets Ken at the Dumont Lake aid station

Finally we reached the Dumont Lake aid station where Katie, Jenny and Mandy — our new bad-ass ultrarunner friend who’d graciously hosted us all for an amazing pre-race dinner — greeted us. This would be the largest aid station of the day, and several groups of spectators sat in lawn chairs cheering on runners leaving for and returning from Rabbit Ears. Young kids played in the dirt at their parents’ feet. The scene felt like a company picnic.

Katie checked up on me as I grabbed a bite of peanut butter and jelly, nibbled on a banana and drank some water. Then I slowly removed my pack (superfluous weight) and grabbed a bottle of water in preparation for the hike up to Rabbit Ears and back.

I noticed a pile of playing cards sitting on Katie’s chair and asked about them. “You have to pick up a card from the top of Rabbit Ears and bring it back, as proof you reached the top,” she told me. I was lucky I’d asked this off-the-cuff question; otherwise I’d have had no idea of the rule. And the idea of a second round trip to Rabbit Ears was grossly unappealing.

I wondered how everyone else would know to collect a card — maybe this had been mentioned at the “mandatory” pre-race briefing we’d arrived at late and left early the evening before. In any case it should have been made clear on race day with signage at the Dumont Lake aid station, or at the very least up on Rabbit Ears.

Note to race directors: never assume a runner’s brain or memory will function properly at mile 25, especially at 10,000 feet in the air.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie at Dumont Lake Station (Run Rabbit Run)

All smiles before the trek up to Rabbit Ears


Dumont Lake to Rabbit Ears and back again (mile 27.7) — 1,000ft gain, 1,000ft loss
Water bottles in hand, Ken and I ascended toward Rabbit Ears 1,000 feet above us and 2.5 miles away. Here the dirt trail was wide and inviting, and we power-hiked for the most part while briefly running some of the flatter stretches. In the distance we could see the familiar outline of Rabbit Ears rising prominently on a background of crisp blue sky. This would be the only section of the course that lacked shade, though luckily the benevolent sun offered comforting warmth with intermittent cloud cover.

Up we climbed, the trail getting progressively steeper before culminating in the steepest section of the course, the final ¼ mile to the top. This I’d been expecting from the course elevation profile and from 2016 finisher WonderJess’s own race report. The soft sand in places made steady progress difficult, and with each step forward I’d slide half a step back. It certainly didn’t help my balance that I was carrying my bottle in one hand and my camera in the other, leaving myself no free hand with which to stabilize myself. Thankfully this would be a short-lived challenge, and my quads were up to the task.

Hike to Rabbit Ears (Run Rabbit Run 50, mile 25)

Almost… to the… top… (mile 25)

Reaching the summit and the high point of the course at 10,566 feet, we looked around to see the turnaround point — wait, where was the turnaround point? There were no signs, no indicators, no instructions on where to collect the all-important playing card we’d need to prove our worth upon our return to the Dumont Lake aid station. I glanced around, seeing a group of runners to one side gazing out over the valley far below.

I was about to ask them for guidance when I saw her — a volunteer sporting bunny ears and seated several yards above us on Rabbit Ears. Really? Reluctantly we scrambled upwards in the soft sand to where she sat, perched precariously. There we collected our cards and posed for a quick picture, taking care not to fall back down the slope we’d just climbed. The hopeful voice of a fellow runner yelled up at us from below: “Could you just throw me down a card?” He seemed to be only partially joking.

I slid back down and lingered for a couple more minutes to appreciate the view from the top of the world — after all the work we’d done to get here, damn right I was going to bask in the moment. Then we headed back down the way we’d come, that first ¼ mile of steep downhill being the most precarious of the day. As I sidled down the trail sideways to check my momentum, it reminded me of the almost identical footing we’d encountered at last year’s aptly named Toughest 10K in the USA.

I glanced down at my Garmin as we reached the 26.2-mile mark — 6:43:37, my slowest marathon ever by a long shot.

Rabbit Ears turnaround (Run Rabbit Run 50)

Atop the Rabbit Ears turnaround, the highest point on the course (10,654 ft)

We were making reasonable progress on the way back to Dumont Lake, when about a mile or so from the aid station I suddenly realized my left eye was fogging over. I blinked a few times to try to clear it. No change. I rubbed it gently and blinked again. Nope. I opened my eyes as widely as I could and rolled them in all directions, trying to clear my vision. Nada. I even smacked the back of my head as if to literally knock some sense into myself. Nothing helped. Luckily the trail here was wide and smooth, and I felt confident the veil would lift momentarily.

When we arrived back at the Dumont Lake aid station, however, my eye still hadn’t cleared. Many of the spectators were gone, as were most of the runners. We relinquished our cards, collected our packs, quickly snacked and re-hydrated (sip of Coke, sip of ginger ale, sip of water) and thanked our fluffy-tailed spouses. I told Katie I’d see her at the finish — Jenny, on the other hand, I’d see sooner as she’d agreed to shepherd us the last four miles down the mountain.

Then we headed back toward Base Camp, leaving Rabbit Ears and the toughest climbs of the day in our rearview mirror. Less than 23 miles to go. As we exited the aid station, a young girl cheered us on waving her pompoms. Or maybe the altitude was getting to me…

Dumont Lake to Base Camp (mile 31.6) — 550ft gain, 100ft loss
I moved more slowly on our return trip to Base Camp, my injured arm loosening but my left eye still fogged over. I felt as though I were seeing the world through frosted glass.

Luckily the next two miles covered relatively level ground, but as my eye remained cloudy I started to consider worst-case scenarios. Had the trauma of my two falls, and especially the second with its whiplash-like landing, detached my retina? I recalled the horror of friends who’d had to undergo retinal reattachment surgery, and how it had essentially put their lives on hold for several months. I cringed at the thought, and a sudden wave of appreciation washed over me. Don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, I thought. Luckily I’d yet to see any floaters or sudden flashes of light, so my retina seemed intact. But at this point I couldn’t be sure.

In the meantime, I did what I could to keep Ken within view of my one good eye, and tried to appreciate the sweeping beauty around me — easier said than done, as I was understandably a bit distracted.

With relief we turned onto the wider, more runnable Base Camp Road and, half a mile later, I pulled into the Base Camp aid station just behind Ken and a woman from Boulder with whom he’d been chatting. Suddenly her phone rang — and as any focused runner would do in the middle of a 50-mile trail race at high altitude, she answered it. Apparently she was a property manager renting out a property in the Caribbean, and the renter had refused to leave with Hurricane Irma bearing down on the island. As the renter hunkered down inside the property the wind had blown the roof off, while the fridge door had likewise been blown off its hinges and out the door.

And that, kids, is why you don’t answer your phone during a race.

Base Camp aid station (Run Rabbit Run 50)

Cooling down at the Base Camp aid station

At Base Camp I quickly removed, rinsed and reinserted my contact lens to see if that would defog my vision. No such luck, so apparently it wasn’t a contact issue. A friendly volunteer handed me a large damp towel which I draped over my head appreciatively, the chill reviving my frazzled and weary nerves. Maybe lowering my body temperature would help my vision.

I felt my body cooling as I nibbled on a banana. Ken texted Jenny to arrange our meeting at the 46-mile mark, the point at which non-runners were allowed (per race regulations) to meet their rabbits or tortoises and run with them the rest of the way down the mountain.

“Longview” by Green Day was playing on the sound system behind the aid tables and I sang along, amused by the timely lyrics: I got no motivation, where is my motivation…. One of the volunteers laughed. “Probably not the best song to be playing right now,” she acknowledged and changed it.

Whether the chilled towel or rather Billie Joe and the boys were to thank, my eye finally defogged enough to be useful again. And so with ~80% use of my left eye we continued on our journey toward Long Lake, a newfound spring in my step. Hopefully the clouds had finally lifted on my vision.

As Ernest Hemingway wrote in The Sun Also Rises, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

The Rabbit Ears Motel, a Steamboat Springs landmark (photo credit)


Base Camp to Long Lake (mile 36.8) — 450ft gain, 550ft loss
Shortly after leaving Base Camp my Garmin beeped to signal 32 miles down, and I yelled to Ken just ahead of me, congratulating him on the farthest distance he’d ever run (eclipsing the 50K he’d run just two weeks earlier). We exchanged high-fives and he shot ahead, quickly putting 20 yards between us. As I turned to follow him I realized my right eye was now badly fogged over. Are you f@*#ing kidding me?

This truly sucked. With my lack of depth perception I couldn’t run fast at all, much less catch up to Ken who was quickly escaping my view ahead. I was reduced to painstakingly picking my way along the rocky and rooty trail, and whenever I lost patience and tried to speed up I’d inevitably slam my toe into another of nature’s speed bumps and lose my balance, each time managing to catch myself before I fell. With my arm still giving me the cold shoulder, the last thing I wanted was to hit the ground again.

This was an eerie and frustrating feeling, this lack of depth perception. And suddenly I was reminded of how much I take my eyesight for granted. At stream crossings I found myself stopping in my tracks to gauge the position of each stepping stone, before cautiously moving forward. Shadows created by the dappled sun didn’t help my cause as I struggled for equilibrium.

Downhills were particularly tricky with 80% vision in one eye and significantly less in the other. And in some places where the trail narrowed, I even had trouble running a straight line without stepping off the trail. One wrong step and my day could end quickly and painfully, 33 miles farther and 3,000 feet higher than it had begun.


I was running alone, running through a fog and really not even running anymore. And like the scientist I am, I reached a conclusion based on all the facts available to me: this wasn’t fun at all.

Doubt briefly crossed my mind — could I make it another 17 miles with one “good” eye? And could I even count on that one eye, which had already failed me once? What if both eyes fogged over at the same time, here between aid stations? On the bright side, the fact that my eyes had taken turns clouding over meant the odds of having detached one or both retinas were very low. So that cheered me up a bit.

Sadly, the Rocky Mountain scenery was now lost on me. A black bear dressed as Ronald McDonald could have been juggling 3 moose off to one side and I likely wouldn’t have noticed. And looking back at my splits, it’s unclear how I maintained what amounted to a very reasonable pace under the circumstances.

As much as my situation sucked, though, this wasn’t Mars and I wasn’t Mark Watney, and eventually we reached the Long Lake aid station where I exhaled deeply and reminded myself that only a half marathon’s distance remained between us and the finish. The next 13 miles may be slower than I wanted, but assuming both eyes didn’t fog up simultaneously, I could do this. And hadn’t reaching the finish line always been my “A” goal anyway?

Mandy volunteering at Dumont Lake (Run Rabbit Run 50)

Mandy livin’ the high life as a Dumont Lake volunteer – thanks for being your awesome self, Mandy!


Long Lake to Mt Werner (mile 43.6) — 1,200ft gain, 700ft loss
At Long Lake I caught up to Ken and took my time refueling while he texted with Jenny, the two of them working out the logistics of meeting at mile 46 on our way down the mountain. I put a Frito in my mouth and immediately spit it out. Even on the warmest days, and this certainly wasn’t one of them, my body rarely if ever craves salt during a race.

Luckily my right eye seemed to be clearing a bit, enough to regain some semblance of depth perception. This took the edge off, and with eyesight that was decidely below average but above expectations, Ken and I made good progress on our way to the final aid station stop at Mt Werner.

Even with my vision cooperating, this final section atop the mountain truly sucked as the climbing felt nonstop. I sure didn’t remember this much downhill on the way out. Up and up and up we seemed to climb through the forest, only to level out or descend briefly and then climb again. At this point in the race, these slow climbs were more psychologically exhausting than the first six uphill miles had been.

“Oh look, another uphill,” I found myself muttering sarcastically. I was good and ready to reach Werner, and I kept assuring myself we couldn’t possibly climb much higher. The good news was that both eyes were now operating at > 80% clarity, while the soreness in my arm offered a constant reminder to stay focused on my footing, especially on the downs.

Where is that damn aid station? Did they move it? I kept asking myself, craning my neck to look ahead. I felt so sure we should have reached it by now… then again I’d blown by it so fast the first time, maybe it had all been an altitude-induced mirage?

Finally it came into view, like the wise old hermit perched high atop the mountain. I collapsed in a chair with a pouch of barely palatable baby food while an attentive volunteer brought me ginger ale. Meanwhile, Ken texted Jenny to let her know we’d reached Werner and to ensure she’d be waiting for us at at Rainbow Saddle, just below Thunderhead Lodge. Just over six miles to go, omg omg omg…

Run Rabbit Run finish area

The finish area awaits


Mt Werner to finish — 3,600ft loss
After taking nearly six minutes to fully appreciate this last aid station of the day (did I mention we were in no hurry?), we headed back down the mountain to reclaim that initial 3,600 feet of ascent. After all, we’d earned it.

As we started down, I noticed — YEP, the left eye was again fogged over. Luckily we still had plenty of sunlight, and the road home was wide and runnable. So after carefully navigating the Storm Peak Challenge Trail over loose rocks and gravel (and reminding myself to do nothing stupid), I no longer needed the benefit of depth perception. From here on, I could stampede down the mountain like a bull in a china shop.

Storm Peak Challenge Trail (Run Rabbit Run)

Storm Peak Challenge Trail

We passed Thunderhead Lodge where a wedding reception was in full swing. And per our strategery, there was Jenny waiting for us at Rainbow Saddle. Seeing her was a nice psychological boost and she led us down the mountain at a pace that felt right on the cusp of do-able, if not comfortable.

As we descended we continued to pick up speed, the all-consuming urge to get this over with — the race and this blog post — taking control. We were like iron filings being pulled downhill by an increasingly powerful magnet. There would be minimal nature-gazing on the way down — I’d seen all the aspen groves and evergreens I needed to see for one day. The finish line was calling.

Run Rabbit Run, mile 46

🎵 She’ll be comin’ down the mountain when she comes… 🎶 (mile 46)

Plus, the vegetarian in me really wanted to beat the lady in the “Team Beef” tanktop who we’d passed on our way down. Don’t judge…

Miles 48 and 49 were our fastest (and only sub-10) miles of the day as we pounded downhill on what was left of our legs. We then slowed as the course transitioned back to the narrow gravel path — after treading so carefully for the past six hours, I wasn’t about to trip and fall on my face less than a mile from the finish.

As my Garmin’s mile indicator beeped for the 50th time with the finish line nowhere in sight, I glanced down to see that we’d just passed hour 13. Which sounded like a very lucky number to me.

Jenny peeled off to let Ken and me finish the last half mile by ourselves. Five minutes later, as the sun approached the horizon, the two of us passed under the familiar red inflatable arch in a respectable time of 13:07:35. With that Ken was a proud 50-miler finisher, and I immediately embraced him in a congratulatory hug — after all, he’d made it look easy. Then I turned my attention (and affections) to Katie, who had stories of her own to tell from her day spent volunteering at Dumont Lake.

Mike Sohaskey and Ken Spruell finishing Run Rabbit Run 50

After 50 miles, a photo(genic) finish

For my part, I’d completed the most challenging race of my life and colored in Colorado on my 50 States Map. And most importantly my eyes, which like the evening sky remained partially cloudy at the finish, would clear for good soon after the race. Admittedly I haven’t done much research to figure out what happened up there on the mountain, but presumably I experienced a lesser case of the altitude–induced corneal edema that afflicted the women’s winner. And if that’s the case I consider myself lucky, because it could have been much worse.

Vision aside, I wouldn’t escape my Rocky Mountain run unscathed. My injured arm would remain out of sorts for several days, while my painfully bruised ribs would be the real villains, sidelining me from running for the next two weeks — an almost unheard-of sabbatical from the sport. And as I would discover later that night when the fever kicked in, my immune system had been beaten down pretty thoroughly as well. Once I stopped moving and allowed my body to relax, the floodgates of fatigue opened and the effort of the day coupled with the altitude finally took their toll.

Run Rabbit Run finish line shot

🎵 Reunited, and it feels so good… 🎶

Admittedly, a 50-miler at high altitude hadn’t been the easiest way to notch state #17. But at the same time if I’d wanted “easy” I would’ve chosen to spend my Saturday gardening or collecting stamps. No, this was a medal well earned…

Speaking of which — after sharing hugs all around (including one with the bunny-eared race director), I grabbed a chocolate milk and looked for the volunteer(s) handing out finisher medals or belt buckles. It was then my euphoria yielded to dismay, as instead of shiny artistic race bling we were each handed a Run Rabbit Run… beer mug. A nice ceramic beer mug to be sure, but a beer mug nevertheless.

With post-race endorphins coursing through my system I couldn’t be bitter, but I was definitely disappointed. What American adult needs a beer mug? I rarely drink beer, and even then we have too many mugs at home. So now I have as a memento of state #17 an oversized mug that takes up too much of my already limited desk space. I realize the stereotypical trail runner is supposed to embrace the glory of nature and shun medals and trophies of any kind, but then why a mug? It was a puzzling and disappointing reward for 13 hours on the mountain, and especially for a race that boasts “the highest purse of any trail ultra marathon in the world.”

But to turn lemons into lemonade, I now have a reason to return to Colorado to run the Leadville Trail Marathon, a race I’ve been eyeing since 2012 when injury made it the first — and so far only — DNS (Did Not Start) on my running résumé.

As darkness fell like a curtain across the staging area and the last of the 50- and 100-mile finishers trickled in, we said our goodbyes to the Steamboat Ski Resort and took our leave. Pizza awaited, though I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to stomach. Besides, the promise of a hot shower was all the motivation I needed at the moment. And unlike my new mug, the shower wouldn’t disappoint as Ken and Jenny’s hot water heater proved up to the challenge, even if I did move like a robot in need of WD-40.

Then, with great difficulty thanks to my aching arm and bruised ribs, I settled into bed for a long and restless night of feverish wishes and sea-level dreams.

Man, the lengths I’ll go to for that elusive runner’s high.

Mike Sohaskey & Katie Ho at Run Rabbit Run finish line

BOTTOM LINE: Looking for an epic adventure in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, one that’s (literally) above and beyond the usual ultramarathon? You’ve found it in Run Rabbit Run. Steamboat Springs is a charming, low-key destination town and especially in early September, which is the calm before the storm of ski season. Case in point the weather, which was perfect on race day and which made our 13 hours of essentially fast hiking (with a 15-hour time limit) a lot more pleasant than it otherwise might have been.

Trying to get up and down the mountain before my body wised up to the altitude, I flew into Colorado and arrived in Steamboat Springs the day before the race. Surprisingly I had no difficulty with my breathing at any point during the race — not even on the initial 3,600 foot climb to the summit of Mount Werner. No, the real manifestation of the high altitude was that I moved at a much slower clip than I do at sea level, even taking into account the steady diet of rocks and roots. And having my eyes take turns fogging over certainly didn’t help my progress.

(On that note, a word of warning if you’re considering this race: beware the unlikely possibility of altitude-induced vision problems such as corneal edema, which nearly blinded the eventual winner of the women’s 100-mile race).

Run Rabbit Run is a challenging course, yes. And at times I became frustrated with the seemingly endless climbing and my glacial rate of progress. But Mother Nature offers her rabbits plenty of rewards for all their hard work — this may well be the most picturesque course you’ll ever run. And if a sea-level sissy like me can get ‘er done, so can you.

Mike Sohaskey and Ken Spruell at Run Rabbit Run finish

PRODUCTION: Well done, for the most part. Packet pickup doubled as a pre-race pep talk and an opportunity for the race director to share guidelines, warnings and cautionary tales for race day. We arrived late as he was relating a joke about runners wearing bear bells on the course, the punchline being that bear scat can be distinguished from other animal scat by the fact it has bear bells in it. Comedic interludes aside, the RD also raffled off a bunch of sponsor swag to hold the audience’s interest, which was cool — and my friend Ken and I each scored a lightweight Ultimate Direction running vest, a nice take-home prize.

Race day logistics were smooth overall with a couple of annoying hitches. This year, apparently for the first time, the organizers decided to make runners retrieve a playing card from a volunteer stationed at the top of Rabbit Ears, to confirm they’d made it all the way to the top (mile 25). I wouldn’t have realized this, though, if I hadn’t happened to notice the playing cards sitting on a chair at the Dumont Lake aid station and asked Katie. Nor were there any signs or indicators up on Rabbit Ears as to where the turnaround point was, much less a warning about the cards. So I’m not sure how everyone else learned of the cards, and I wonder if anyone failed to retrieve one. Maybe I missed those instructions at the pre-race meeting, but on race day they should be clearly communicated to any exhausted runner who may be 10,000+ feet above his comfort zone and not thinking straight. And it was oddly unnecessary, at the top of Rabbit Ears, to make each runner scamper up the last 20 feet of loose dirt to where the volunteer sat precariously handing out cards — she could just as easily have waited below to enable a more agile turnaround.

A huge shout-out to the amazing volunteers who all day long were friendly, attentive and competent. And rumor has it there was a nice post-race spread; unfortunately the sun was setting and a chill was descending by the time we finished, so we were eager to get back to our friends’ place, get cleaned up and grab dinner.

Run Rabbit Run mug + Rabbit Ears view

A toast to Rabbit Ears, visible in the distance

SWAG: Aside from my vision failing me at times, the swag was my only real disappointment of the day. Yes, I understand this is a trail race and trail runners are supposed to eschew medals and material possessions. But for a race of this length and difficulty — and one that boasts the “highest purse of any trail ultra marathon in the world” — I’d expect a finisher’s buckle (apparently the 100-milers received one) or at least a medal, something I can proudly display on my wall alongside my other blingy shiny souvenirs. Instead, our reward for 13+ hours of running, hiking and stumbling was a ceramic beer mug to accompany the short-sleeve cotton race tee we’d received at registration (no more shirts, please…). What non-college-age adult needs another f#*@ing mug? I felt like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” sitting in his bathroom frantically decoding with his Little Orphan Annie secret decoder pin, only to discover he’s been duped by corporate America. “A crummy commercial? Son of a bitch!”

Many thanks to Jess T. for her awesome pre-race advice and excellent blog post that I’d recommend to anyone thinking of tackling Run Rabbit Run!

Updated 50 States Map:

Mike Sohaskey's 50 States map (after Run Rabbit Run)

RaceRaves rating:

Run Rabbit Run review summary for RaceRaves

FINAL STATS:
Sept 9, 2017 (start time 6:00am)
50.63 miles in Routt National Forest in Steamboat Springs, CO (state 17 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 13:07:35 (first time running the Run Rabbit Run 50 Miler), 15:33 min/mile
Finish place: 96 overall, 25/30 in M40–49
Number of finishers: 117 (78 men, 39 women)
Race weather: cool & cloudy at the start (temp 46°F), warm and cloudy at the finish (70°F), partly sunny throughout
Elevation change (Garmin Connect, from Ken): 7,963 ft ascent, 7,966 ft descent

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 RaceRaves.com.

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:


FINAL STATS:
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

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

BOTTOM LINE:
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!

#GeauxRunLA

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
FINAL STATS:

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

louisiana-splits

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:

BE HAPPY!
THIS!
GOT
YOU

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.

run-for-the-border_bch

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.

bread-slice

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
RaceRaves
rating:

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FINAL STATS:

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
omaha-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
PRODUCTION:
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
FINAL STATS:

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

Boston-splits_BCH

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

FINAL STATS:
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

LAM-splits_BCH

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