10,000 Miles: 2016 Chicago Lakefront 50k

Note: It took me longer than usual to write and upload this post. Let’s just say I’m happy to write a story about a race that ended well.

Sunrise in Chicago

Sunrise in Chicago

In the fall of 2009, with my legs still reeling from my first marathon, I was stunned to discover that there was an even longer race that took place just three weeks afterward. A colleague who worked in the mailroom told me he had been walking along the lake front path and seen people running with bibs, up and down the path, all day. I had never heard of it and no one seemed to talk about it. If the Chicago Marathon attracted 40,000 runners and over a million spectators, why did this race, which was 4.9 miles longer, not attract just as many, or even more?

Start / Mile 10.37 / Mile 20.7 / Finish

Start / Mile 10.37 / Mile 20.7 / Finish

Year after year, I was quietly taunted by this timid race. The Chicago Lakefront 50/50, as it is known, takes place every year on the city’s beautiful park paths that line Lake Michigan, usually three weeks after the city’s marquee race. This might be a strategic move, as it not only takes advantage of the typical drop in temperature, but also allows diehard locals to use Carey Pinkowski’s world class event as the start of a mega-taper, culminating in a 50k or 50-mile race. Every year I considered giving it a shot, but I would always end up signing up for an out-of-state race, or opt to run a shorter distance instead, a decision usually forced by a late season injury.

But the 2016 race season was turning out to be an interesting one. It began with my second attempt at the 50-mile distance, which sucked the speed out of my legs in favor of endurance, and then continued into the summer with some unremarkable marathon performances. Upon finishing the Newport Marathon in a time I might have considered fast six years ago, part of me wanted to end the year on a higher note. Ice Age had added a bright sheen of success to my race exploits, which had started to quickly fade.

Lakeshore & Fullerton; Chicago skyline

Lakeshore & Fullerton; Chicago skyline

It wasn’t until my buddy Otter told me he was checking the weather for the Lakefront 50/50 just days before the event that I decided to register. Of course, the day after I did, the weekend forecast immediately jumped ten degrees.

Although it might sound like I’m prepping the reader for another disastrous race beset by heat, I was lucky to avoid that. In fact, the day was near perfect for a long, meditative run crisscrossing paths that have become intimately familiar to me. The race began in characteristically quiet fashion just south of Foster Beach on the lakefront trail. The 50-milers had started an hour earlier, so we were left to mingle with an incredibly diverse group of 50k runners. Long distance running, especially in large cities, is a mostly white sport, but I would have never guessed that as I listened to the sounds of pre-race jitters in several languages.

The course would trace a five-mile path south to Castaways, a bar and event space modeled after a marooned ship, whose crew decided to surround with beach volleyball courts. From there, we would turn around and retrace our exact steps back to the start, and then repeat the process two more times for a total distance of 31.1-miles. Aid stations would greet us every 2.5 miles, whose assortment of cookies, potato chips, Nutella, and fluids held us in place for longer than the standard 10-second visit.

A sample aid station spread

A sample aid station spread

The lakefront trail is never closed, even for races. This meant that at any point, we were running alongside casual runners, cyclists, walkers, and families. Under normal circumstances, this would bug me. You expect race officials to clear the course for runners so you’re not faced with unexpected weaving or dodging. But having run thousands of miles on this path, I wouldn’t have wanted to clear it. Chicago is a city that loves its parks and knows to enjoy beautiful weather while it’s an option. Despite bibbed runners having to take a more serpentine approach to the path to avoid weekend warriors, we felt like we were blending in, again, ever so quietly.

Right around where I ran my 10,000th mile

Right around where I ran my 10,000th mile

It was warm for late October, but perfect for a long run. Although the sun had been shining just over the horizon as we began, a grey screen was eventually pulled across the sky. Autumn leaves crunched below us, often brushed aside by a reliable eastward breeze.

As with any race that repeats certain sections, each iteration was a completely different experience. The first lap was meant to develop an impression, the second challenged you to stay strong, and the third dragged you home. I ran the first twenty miles comfortably, but began to lose speed right around mile 25. I reached the marathon mark in 3:49, right at the last turnaround, with five north-facing miles separating me from the finish. My phone buzzed in my hands three times and I glanced to find out that Otter had dropped out with IT band issues.

I gave myself a moment to shake my head in solidarity as I know how the dogged the struggle can be to vanquish IT band pain. But he knew it was the smart thing to do. I continued on the path, whose many turns, splits, ponds, landmarks, and recreational areas have become almost sacred territory. These were the roads that made me a runner, that pulled me farther from my comfort zone and built the foundation for what I hope will be lifelong endurance. It was almost transcendental when I learned that somewhere between that last turnaround and the finish line, after almost eight years of running and meticulously tracking every step, I ran my 10,000th mile. There, on the path that gave me my runner’s legs, the trail that has allowed me to cover paths in almost every state, I was back where it all started.

Fourth ultra in the books

Fourth ultra in the books

I ran into Steph’s uncle Jim at mile 29. He biked alongside me for a quarter mile and seeing a familiar face allowed me to speed up ever so slightly. It wasn’t just theatrics, as I wasn’t completely dead. But the bottoms of my feet were so beat that my insoles felt like they were made of sandpaper and nails, and my calves were one kick away from a harsh cramp. But I kept a workmanlike pace through the dirt path around Cricket Hill and toward Foster Beach. There were no large crowds, just a handful of spectators and even fewer fatigued runners beneath a rapidly thinning orange ceiling. In just my fifth ultramarathon, I crossed the finish line in 4 hours and 40 minutes, a half hour faster than my 50k PR.

I stayed for a few minutes to let my legs rest and watch runners trickle in, about one every five minutes. It was quiet, as if everyone were keeping a secret. Like most other ultras I have run, the event felt clandestine, almost forbidden. Runners were blending into their surroundings, focused and happy in their isolation. They weren’t there for the crowds, thunderous applause, or the deep bass thuds of the year’s most popular single. The Lakefront 50/50 and its faithful handful don’t really care about any of that.

You see, the Chicago Marathon is a spectacle; the handsome quarterback who parades down the halls and beams a cover-worthy smile to everyone who sees him. The floor clears ahead of him and his posse fawns from the sidelines, ready to do whatever it takes to get or stay on his good side. He points at you and you point back, but you don’t always know why. He’s the one destined for greatness and can do no wrong. The Lakefront 50/50 though, watches him walk by and moves on with his day. The 50/50 plays in an intramural rugby league after school with a small group of rebels, usually sharing the field with soccer drills. He doesn’t have a uniform or use expensive gear, but he makes up for the glitz in blood, sweat, and the occasional cracked bone. His legs are bruised, his shoes leave behind him a speckled mudpath, and very few people come out to see him play.

But they both love their sport and go home happy.

The lake front path, my winding home away from home

The lake front path, my winding home away from home

 

Rhode Runner: 2016 Newport Marathon (State #46)

Like someone who accidentally drinks a cocktail laced with kryptonite, I feel like I’m losing my superpowers.

2016-10-09-06-53-14For years, I was able to control the weather. If I wanted to ensure a dry morning for thousands, even millions of people, all I would have to do is sign up for a race on that date. Weather forecasts were impotent against my talents. Even hours before sunrise, charlatan clairvoyants would augur the coming of tempests, and I would dash them with a simple wave of my hand. They called me the Diviner of Dryness, the Denier of Drizzle, Prohibitor of Precipitation.

But then I ran the Mad Marathon in July, whose pristine wooded hills were beset by rain for most of the race. However, it felt like a refreshing mist, an almost welcome addition to an already beautiful journey. It turned an otherwise rural path into a fey peregrination through mystic lands. It was almost as if I had refused to concede my powers, and instead pretend as if I had, just for a moment, allowed the rain to join me for a run in an act of peaceful communion.

I must have angered the cosmic forces whose joint abilities hold sway over the gathering of clouds with this impudent display, because they decided to make an example of me during the 2016 Newport Marathon. Five days before race day, the seaside city of Newport, Rhode Island, was in the potential path of Hurricane Matthew. But though its path would eventually move east into the Atlantic, much to the delight of many people with actual concerns for their well-being, the rains stayed staunchly in the forecast.

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And they stayed, resolutely, for the entire day. Even as I flew back to Chicago that night, it was still raining in the area. I would later learn that locals were thrilled with the prolonged downpour, as it certainly helped many parts of New England that had been suffering an unusually harsh summer drought. It was a slight consolation for enduring the wettest race I’ve ever run.

2016-10-09-07-43-26The race started at Easton’s Beach, a thin strip of land separating its eponymous Bay and Pond under grey skies that threatened to spoil the area’s beautiful coastline and quaint commercial streets. Before the starter’s pistol, runners were either huddled in an empty parking structure or shivering in line for the bathroom, tiptoeing around the rapidly growing puddles, only delaying the inevitable. As the opening notes of the National Anthem rang, we oozed reluctantly out of our concrete shelter and into the shower.

The race course is divided between the towns of Newport and Middletown, which together make up the largest island tucked in the Ocean State’s many bays and inlets. For the first four miles, we ran through Newport’s picturesque town center and neighborhoods, almost on our toes to avoid any splashing. We eventually reached the shore and began skirting the island’s perimeter, where we beheld several massive homes. Moneyed tycoons of the Gilded Age built mansions in the area that rivaled European palaces, which today are open to the public as museums to excess and profligacy. I would have taken several pictures of them but my phone was too wet to respond to swipes.

2016-10-09-07-52-30Our path took us alongside several of these impressive estates, from Marble House to Rosecliff and the Breakers. Along the way, even the roads themselves felt prestigious. It was a remarkably beautiful course and for most of it, I had almost forgotten about my sagging clothes and waterlogged shoes.

I was brought back to reality by the awful realization that the marathon course was going to literally run right next to the half marathon finish line. There’s something inherently difficult about watching four out of five runners stop what they’re doing, rest their hands on their legs, and march towards the buffet tables, beaming and proud, while you’re only halfway done. It’s not the distance itself, but the psychology of knowing most everyone else is breathing a sigh of relief. Even diverting the half marathon at mile 12.5 would make the rest of the race easier. But even if you divert your attention and defiantly look away, you can still hear the announcer congratulate them on their accomplishment. And honestly, a tiny voice in your head definitely wishes the accolades were for you.

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That nagging voice grew much louder just a minute later. Marathoners run past the finish line and then loop around the parking lot and back onto the road connecting Newport and Middletown, heading east. Right at that moment, as if someone had pulled a lever, we were struck by a fierce headwind. The second half had begun.

newport-marathon-02The rain pattered against my shirt and shorts, ricocheting off the soaked fabric as if I were wearing a tarp. Long ago, I had taken my energy gels out of my pockets and clenched them in my swinging fists. They were weighing down on my shorts and I was tired of pulling them up every thirty seconds. The next two miles covered an uninspiring stretch toward the Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge. Just before reaching it, we turned around and enjoyed a brief tailwind, which would escort us toward seaside neighborhoods.

I had run about eighteen miles and I was starting to slow down considerably. I blamed the wind, which had been pushing aggressively against me for four miles. But underneath the cold exterior, I was worried that I was hitting the same gruesome wall I faced in Omaha just three weeks earlier. One disastrous bonk is an outlier, but two can be an indicator of something real. Was there something happening with my fitness and training that had gone wrong in recent months? Or was I literally just being held back by the gales and gusts of the northeast Atlantic? I kept reminding myself that if I were to suffer a similar adrenal halt, I’d face a serious drop in body temperature. It felt melodramatic, but I knew I couldn’t afford walking more than a mile of this race if I wanted to leave the state in good health.

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As I ran along mostly empty streets, the answer was clear. I wasn’t in the kind of shape to threaten or even goad my PR, but I could still hammer out a marathon. Somewhere around mile 20, I was still keeping a running cadence, enjoying the gentle climbs and the occasional pocket of spectators. The rain and wind had predictably kept many people in their homes, but every now and then I would get a quick injection of motivation from a friendly Rhode Islander braving the elements from their front yard. It was a quiet second half, marked only by the sound of winds, and the squishing of shoes.

newport-marathon-08I was back in familiar territory; those last, long miles that seem to stretch on forever, conquered seemingly only by the slow passage of time and lethargic swinging of arms. I was used to this, this was my element. Though each of those last miles was a little slower than the one before it, the fact that I was still running through them certainly helped me smile. I was hoping to finish the year with a picturesque romp through a historical town, perhaps even with a fast time for the books. But given the unbalanced year I’ve had with training, any confident, forward progress was a cause for celebration.

We returned to Easton’s beach, to the parking lot where we had started the race, now filled with umbrellas and ponchos. The winds were roaring across the waters and no amount of last-minute sprinting effort could warm me up enough to stay and enjoy the sights. I crossed the finish line in 3:44, snatched a Mylar blanket, and sought shelter. There were two large vats of chili and lentil soup being offered by the gear check. Were I not so focused on finding dry clothing and protection from the winds, I would have happily joined my fellow runners and let these delicious broths warm my hands and spirits.

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Truth be told, this race earned me very little surface area on the map. But on the road to fifty statehood, it is just as meaningful as Montana or Texas. I won’t cross off the four remaining states soon, but I can still taste the finish. Slowly but resolutely, the journey continues, one unpredictable story at a time.

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The Wind-Up Hurt Chronicle: 2016 Omaha Marathon (State #45)

I woke up very early, as usual, and sauntered to the hotel mini fridge to grind a Clif Bar like a camel chewing cud, washing it down a Blue Machine smoothie. The 2016 Omaha Marathon was almost three hours away, and I didn’t want to wake up Mike in the next room by turning on the TV, so I put on some headphones and let the finger-tapped gothic musings of Katatonia wash over me. After four songs, I went back to sleep.

(left to right): Mike, me

(left to right): Mike, me

Hours later, Mike and I were following the crowds to the TD Ameritrade Arena. Within minutes of arriving, the speakers cracked alive with the sound of a nervous official who told us that there had been a nearby shooting, shocking the crowd into silence. We waited, slack-jawed and a little on edge, for the rest of the report. But even before reassuring us that our personal safety was not in jeopardy, he broke the news that the race start would be postponed by an hour. To make matters worse for many runners, the delay would also mean a last-minute course change.

The collective groan spread across the crowd faster than a 400-meter repeat. In that moment, I merely shrugged at the delay, though I was fully aware that it meant it’d be four to five degrees warmer than expected. Mike and I had walked around Omaha the day before under a cloudless sky in hopes of finding a local gem. We found Bob, a pedestrian bridge named after Bob Kerrey, former Governor and Senator from Nebraska, and I came home with a slight sunburn on my forehead.

But despite the sunburn, the delay, and the warm weather, I let no nerves invade my morning. It was another marathon, just like the thirty-three others I had run before, in a new state. Unlike many runners around me, who were loudly bemoaning the possibility that their times today wouldn’t be honored by the Boston Athletic Association, I had no time expectations. I was there to run 26.2 miles in whatever time I could.

Mile 1

Mile 1

An hour late, we were on the road. Two miles later, we were out of downtown Omaha and into newly built residential neighborhoods. Without a time goal, I decided to experiment with my breathing, opting for a faster intake earlier in the race. The farther we ran, the greener the path became. Around the 10k mark, we entered a park, whose leafy cover allowed us to forget that, just like the day before, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

And then, a mile later, we reached the river. A concrete path two people wide ran between the river and several industrial silos, whose petrochemical perfume stuck to me like an unwanted GU aftertaste. However, the mephitic odor wasn’t what I most lamented about this stretch. It was, instead, the complete lack of shade. From this point until the turnaround six miles later, where we would retrace our steps all the way back to the start, there would be no more protection from the sun.

Mile 5

Mile 5

Up until the half marathon point, I had been running comfortably, knocking out 8-minute miles as if on autopilot. But right at that turnaround, something happened. It was as if my body had decided to completely forget that I’ve been running marathons for almost seven years. All my experience on the roads, with the repetitive plod of feet across many hours, was harshly erased. My body crossed into a parallel universe, where my memories of running were intact, but my body didn’t make the transition.

Mike and I crossed paths just beyond the turnaround. He asked me how I was doing, and I replied that I felt like I was at mile 22, not just beyond 13. I was still running in the 8s but I could tell I was on borrowed time. Ten minutes later, like a wind-up toy that had only been cranked to reach fifteen miles, my body shut down.

This had never happened to me before. Like any long-distance runner, I’ve bonked before. I’ve bonked as early as mile 18, but every time, it’s been a slow descent into fatigue. Even in Berlin, where I ran the first half too fast, I still managed a slow deterioration. But in Omaha, it was a complete shutdown. I stopped to walk, shaking my shoulders and slapping my back, and tried to pick it back up. But within a quarter mile, I was gassed.

My body was either unable or unwilling to run, and I didn’t know which scared me more.

Miles 7 through 19 were this exposed

Miles 7 through 19 were this exposed

Mike passed me at mile 19. He offered a few kind words of encouragement while pulling away from me. The last of it he spoke to the air, as I couldn’t run fast enough to keep up. Many more runners would pass me after him. With each one, I’d try and kick forward, trying to get back into a gallop. As if in a dream, I was unable to sustain it. My walking breaks grew, my pace crashed, and my attitude soured.

What the hell was happening.

Mile 13.3

Mile 13.3

I had no singular reason for why I had crumbled so quickly. I had eaten plenty the day before, had put in the requisite miles during the summer, and had run a very hilly 3:42 just two months prior. Objectively, it wasn’t even that hot. There were times when I actually shivered during those last miles. The wind had picked up, licking the sweat off my head and reminding me of how dry the air felt.

But there I was, walking the last two miles of the Omaha Marathon in their entirety as if I had never run before. My last attempt at running had left me seeing stars. A race photographer had stationed himself just a mile from the finish to capture everyone’s last dash toward the finish. I didn’t even bother with histrionics and shuffled past him with my hands on my hips, disappointed and dizzy. What tiny stores of energy I still had were saved for running the bases of TD Ameritrade’s baseball diamond, a sputtering toy too far removed from his last confident stride.

Mile 26

Mile 26

I stopped the clock at 4:22, my second slowest marathon to date. Mike was at the finish line to capture my unsightly finish, which started an afternoon of nausea and exhaustion. I found a patch of shaded grass and let my feet stop moving, loudly proclaiming to Mike that I had just finished the kind of race that could get me to reconsider running altogether. I was in no mood to read about silver linings or to exhume the bright side of anything. That race was a sucker punch to the ego and my self-worth. It’s one thing to push yourself to your limits and earn a deserved finish. This was not that. This was a sudden implosion, an inexplicable and precipitous failure of all systems.

Or was it inexplicable?

In the first half of this post, I formatted a few phrases and sentences in bold. As if to console my wounded self-esteem, I looked back at all these reasons as perhaps individual Jenga pieces that I removed over the course of the weekend. Perhaps it’s because I refuse to believe that I’m simply not in marathon shape, or that sometime in August of this year the gene responsible for sucking at running was switched on.

Finishers. Notice the dark, ghostly veil draped over me? It's the shadow of death.

Finishers. Notice the dark, ghostly veil draped over me? It’s the shadow of death.

But either way, it shook me. Whether it was because of a series of subtle mistakes or one big, ineffable change in my body chemistry, I can’t say. But I do have another go at the distance on October 9 in Rhode Island. Whether I decide to tempt another potentially disastrous run or play it safe will depend on what happens between now and then. Either way, I will start the next one without the insouciant bravado of races past, where a sub-4-hour finish is basically guaranteed.

Onwards. With trepidation and even a little reluctance … but onwards, nonetheless.

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All Hills & Fall Chills: 2016 Mad Marathon (State #44)

I signed up for the Mad Marathon in Vermont’s Mad River Valley because it’s one of those rare marathons that takes place in July. I assumed that with my summer training I would be able to handle a warm run in the northeast, and by coasting off my post-Ice Age fitness, I wouldn’t have to put in too much hard training. That said, once signed up, I got this message from Otter:

“haha enjoy the elevation change there [expletive deleted]”

(left to right) Aparna, Erin, Phil, Laura, me

(left to right) Aparna, Erin, Phil, Laura, me

He wasn’t kidding. Unlike many people in the marathon community, I didn’t know about the famous Mad Marathon hills until after my registration had processed. I don’t know if I would have chosen a different race had I known that there were three ski resorts within five miles of the starting line, but with a plane ticket also procured, there was no backing away.

Mile 1

Mile 1

When you live in Chicago, there aren’t many hills to be found. In order to get any sort of incline, you have to either leave the city or run up and down the same mound forty times in a row. In lieu of finding uneven terrain, some runners have suggested tackling urban parking lot ramps. Given the dangers present in running where drivers aren’t actively looking for pedestrians, I’ve kindly turned that proposal down. The treadmill also allows for serious climbing, but these days my love for that machine has swung fiercely back towards odium, so my options for strengthening my legs are severely limited.

That said, I made it to the starting line with a modicum of confidence. The sky was hidden behind a heavy layer of clouds and fog, which occasionally showered the valley’s deep green. A chilly breeze paraded down Waitsfield’s main street, making us all suspect we had slept through summer and woken up in mid-October. You could feel the excitement in the crowd, even with the chance of rain. Marathon veteran and race staple Larry Macon was huddled in a bright red, long-sleeved shirt among the 800 runners, waiting for race organizer Dori Ingalls’ pistol to fire. Once it did, we were treated to a rare, flat stretch of road, just enough to tease us.

Mile 3

Mile 3

After running past Waitsfield’s tiny Main Street, we turned right towards a covered bridge, which acted as a gateway to the race’s many climbs. For much of the race, we were always just a minute away from significant elevation change, surrounded on all sides by a dark green envelope, with an ever looming threat of gentle rain. Within the crowd was Laura, who had been there with me for four other states, and Erin, who had shared three completely different ones. Also in the mix were Phil and Aparna, two new friends who had joined the weekend adventure. I was the only one running the marathon distance, while Javier was still sleeping, proud to be the only non-runner.

Two miles into the race, as we reached the top of a dew-drenched hill, I was surrounded by heaving gasps. I couldn’t tell if these runners were able to continue another 11 or 24 miles on such labored breathing, or if they had all badly misjudged the elevation. My legs were already much heavier than usual, but my slow pace and quick steps were keeping my lungs from requiring more than a standard gulp of air. But if this gradual uphill continued, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to keep it together.

Mile 4

Mile 4

What went up soon came down. As someone with legs made for taking large, bounding steps, I let myself lean forward, meeting the downward slope with my toes, and barreled toward the next covered bridge with eagerness and celerity. It soon became clear that this race was going to be an extended fartlek run, where I would violently change from a measured and focused 10-minute jog to a reckless, arms-swinging 6-minute dash in seconds.

0710_madmarathon 10Along the way, I passed several sign posts with messages painted in thick red strokes. One said “Keep Running Cows R Watching” and another said “Ski If You Can’t Run.” A third pointed into the deep woods with the tempting, yet ominous words “Secret Shortcut” as if written by Br’er Fox, luring us into a trap.

With the race’s first big hill behind us, the next four miles were mostly flat, as we ran over local dirt roads dividing large stretches of farmland. Cows watched from above, while sheep and horses grazed happily across many bucolic fields of northeastern idyll. Cratered and ridged puddles splashed underneath as winds stirred the branches overhead. The race bills itself as ‘the world’s most beautiful marathon,’ as many races do, but in this moment, I was in awe of the sylvan wonderland surrounding me.

Once through with the flat reprieve, it was time to pass through our third covered bridge and begin the long climb upwards. This time, there would be no rewarding downhill on the other side. The course would instead make a left turn and continue its skyward path, totaling a length of about eight miles of near continuous uphill. Despite having walked almost every uphill section of my last race, I was determined to run through every last bit of this one. So I kept a forward tilt, shortened my stride, and tiptoed my way up, up, endlessly.

Mile 6, mercifully flat

Mile 6, mercifully flat

Somewhere along the way, my impossibly long streak of avoiding rain during races was delicately cut short. The occasional drizzle we had kept as a mercurial companion became an honest rain once we reached the race’s highest point around mile 17. Every tiny change in the road’s topography became a puddle or a rivulet, splashing beneath us as we let ourselves be pulled back down to the finish line.

The problem with running downhill this far into a race is that it still requires a lot of effort, despite gravity helping us out. The bottom of my feet had taken a beating during the last twenty miles, and downhill they hit the pavement harder. Once I would either get used to it or develop a tolerable rhythm, whenever the road would flatten, it would suddenly feel like I had doubled my weight. And when faced with another brutal hill around mile 23, well, I had to bid farewell to my pride and walk the damn thing.

Mile 11

Mile 11, the interminable uphill

But steadily onward I ran, watching the miles slowly tick off, silently wishing well the runners to my right, who were on the uphill portion of the race. At one point, I spotted an older runner with short, white hair and a jocular tone in his voice, talking happily with a small group of runners. I did a quick double-take. Had I not been so determined to continue running downhill without interruption, I would have stopped and said hi to Bart Yasso.

Mile 17, the downhill begins

Mile 17, the downhill begins

Instead, I continued downward, past familiar landmarks. At mile 24, a typical aid station had been upgraded with a beer station, where a young bespectacled man was serving a deliciously refreshing wheat ale from a cooler. Even if my watch weren’t telling me I was just a couple of miles from the finish, beer stations normally portend the final stretch. Just two more miles under the flitting, green canopy separated me from finishing my 44th state and 33rd marathon.

I reached the race’s fourth and final covered bridge, the same one we ran through just past the first mile marker. A friendly volunteer was stationed at the entrance, urging me to keep going. I felt like I was leaving an amusement park and she was an employee, thanking me for visiting, and to please exit through the gift shop. There was just one more mile and one more hill to crest.

Mile 23, the hill that broke my run

Mile 23, the hill that broke my run

After a short run through the small town of Waitsfield, now awake with spectators and cars, I turned into a green clearing. Twin rows of orange cones became parallel lines of flags, presumably representing the nationalities of the race’s runners, both leading to the finish line. The announcer pronounced my last name as if it rhymed with “cholera” and I stopped the clock at 3:42:19. Race organizer Doris was there, ready to give me a hug, just like she had for every single finisher before me. I was tempted to exempt her from it, given that I was a virtual sponge of sweat and rain. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. Thank you, Doris.

Mile 24 Beer Station

Mile 24 Beer Station

If you have never visited the Mad River Valley, I highly recommend it. While there, visit the similarly named Mad River Barn & Inn for a delectable squash bucatini and the Mad Taco for a variety of succulent tacos. If you’re lucky, both locations will have the famously rare and refreshing Heady Topper IPA, which should be on any beer enthusiast’s must-try list. Lastly, if you have the legs for it, sign up for the Mad Marathon and hope that, like me, you manage to wake up on race morning with an autumnal chill so that hills are the only wrenches thrown in your running gears.

But I wouldn’t have enjoyed these treats from the northeast at all were it not for the excellent company with whom they were shared. Although serial marathoning can be seen as a fool’s errand (even Phil has committed to Slate’s anti-marathon program this year), there’s no mistaking a race’s ability to bring people together, runners and proud non-runners alike. And as long as there are states I have yet to run, there’s still the promise of returning for yet another round of food, laughter, and of course, many long miles. Thanks, everyone.

Madness Managed

Madness Managed

(And if you think you’re just three seconds away from an age group award, like I was frustrated to learn afterward, remember to always finish as fast as you can.)

Onward.

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