I started running three-plus years ago specifically because I hated it.  If that doesn’t sound weird enough, bear with me.

Name me another large group of people who regularly sign up for painful competitions they have no hope of winning. How’s that for weird?

As a group, I suspect runners pay more attention to the color of our pee than any other.* Getting warm yet?

For energy, we willingly squeeze into our mouths tubes of flavored sugar with the consistency of a loogie hacked up during a sinus infection. We also compare notes about our favorite flavors. Seriously.

If none of that sounds weird to you, you’re probably a runner.

The 2013 Missoula Marathon/Half Marathon was picture perfect.**  That happens more often than not in this beautifully scenic and running friendly town that is Missoula, Montana.

Sunny skies and temperatures of a wonderfully cool 47 degrees greeted us at the 6:00 a.m. start.  Customary cannon fire and fireworks sent us across the start line with the giddy excitement I experience only once a year. Toeing the line for this fantastic race will do that to you.

I ran the full marathon the past two years, but a directive from the significant other that she’d like to see me do something more than training all spring sent me aspiring for the half this year.

I thought I’d be sad lining up for the half, envious of my friends doing the full.  Not so. Illness, work schedules and added activities left little time for training. Plus, I was secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened, I’d be able to walk the next day. Not always so with the 26.2.

What did I expect to happen? The beautiful thing about having a crappy training season is the resulting total lack of expectations.  Every aspiration is out the window.  You may have desires, wishes, and hopes nonetheless, but they’re easily dismissed with the wry smile of a realist.

Well before later pictures reveal a heel striking problem.

It leaves you free to run. To look around at the world. To enjoy the colorful display of runners’ favorite race-day clothing. To realize the only sound two hundred yards past the raucous start line is the cadence of running shoes on pavement. To notice the Bitterroot River bathed in early morning sunlight rising above Mount Sentinel. To smile at the tux-wearing grand piano player pounding out a rousing rendition of Chariots of Fire.***

To realize you’re running way too fast. Yet feeling no pain.

The most common error of any runner is setting a pace that cannot be sustained.  We’ve all done it. From 5ks to 26.2s, it’s inevitable. Whether by excitement, ego, unrealistic expectations, or failing to adjust to reality, heading out too fast has been the death knell of every runner.

I found myself five miles into a 13.1 mile race running way too fast.  And loving it. And worried as hell.

In 2012 I’d found myself in nearly the same spot on the course during the marathon crashing and burning at mile 19. That day I’d had no choice but to admit I’d gone out too fast on a hot morning.

But not this day.  Worried, yes, but feeling no pain. What the heck, let’s see what happens.

The next six miles involved an internal conversation I’ve not revealed until now. Amidst the constant wondering whether I could sustain this ridiculous pace I had no business running, I jostled with the idea that I needed to hit the can. You know, that ebb and flow between “no” and “is there a bush nearby” kind of a conversation.

The need for a bush won out near Mile 11 at Bonner Park, Missoula’s bucolic park filled with grass, playground equipment, a basketball court, and band shelter.  Fortunately, porta-potties are plentiful on this extremely well organized race.

Thirty seconds. A new Growler Fills record, and I was back on the course. Oddly enough, the need to make up time ignited afterburners I did not know I had. After exiting our-lady-of-the-odoriferous-box I said “hello” to friend Ross who had reappeared among those not needing a potty stop.  I took off for the final two mile stretch to the finish line.

It was this moment – emerging into the light from beyond the land of bubblegum-smelling depository fluid and hand sanitizer – when I realized I might reach a goal I’d set in January.

An excellent winter of training had me excited about the possibility of setting a new PR (personal record, the runner’s hallmark) in the Half Marathon. Not by a second or two, but by six minutes. A whopping cut. An idea that had long ago died with a bad cold, a third pizza, a fifth hamburger and a trip to Vegas.

Running doesn’t always make sense.

Each of my final six miles was faster than the previous one (subtracting the 30 extra seconds of stationary activity.) It was fun. It was exciting. It was unexpected. It was stupidly enjoyable. It was as giddy as that excitement at the starting line.

Everything I asked of myself I got. I asked for confidence and I got it. I asked for extra effort and I got it. I asked for speed and I got it. I asked to hang on and I got it. When you ask for these things, there is only one person who can answer.

The Missoula Marathon is a course built for sentimentality. It is beautiful. It has scenery. It has energetic fans. It holds your interests. It teases you at Bonner park, sending you in the opposite direction you really want to go.  When you’re most tired.

“You bastard” is commonly heard at that turn south. Maybe it’s just me.  I doubt it.

But the Missoula Marathon is a kind mistress overall. For every challenge there is a reward. In the last half mile the course makes a number of turns that take your mind off the pain.

A last aid station is manned by Sentinel High School cross-country team members whose enthusiasm is equal amongst the first and last finishers. A left turn takes you past the Missoulian newspaper offices, proud supports of the marathon, and directly into the path of a large, wildly cheering group of sign-waiving young adults, members of Missoula Youth Homes for whom many raise funds by running the race. ****

A hard right puts you onto the Higgins Bridge and across the Clark Fork River of “A River Runs Through It” fame, lined by a thousand friends, family members, and finishers anxiously waiting for friends and loved ones to finish their quest.

I got beat by 384 people and I couldn’t be happier.*****  I am never going to “win” a race. But my race was fantastic. I ran 13.1 miles faster than I’ve ever run it before. By far.

I crossed the finish line at EXACTLY the number I’d picked as a goal when things were going well in January.  To the very second. Holy crap.

At the finish line. I swear I wasn’t angry.

For a million reasons, that should not have been my result. I missed more than a third of the training due to illness or work schedules. I was five (okay seven) pounds heavier than I like to be for a race.  I fueled up with my favorite pre-race dinner – nearly an entire pizza.

Pepperoni. It’s a classic.  Screw your goat cheese, jalapenos, and fennel.

When your cards line up – even cards you have no business holding in your hand – you celebrate. Loudly. To the point your friends, family and significant other grow dramatically tired of you. And you don’t care. 

And you crack a beer.****** Or four.*******

I track many stats on this blog. I know my posts about running are the least read.

That’s perfectly okay. Much like this race, some things are just for me.
_________________________
* It’s a hydration thing.
** The race was July, 14, 2013. It’s taken me a while to write this. 
*** I’m not making that up. Run the race. You’ll see. You’ll laugh. You’ll smile.
**** More than $85,000 for 2013. Holy crap.
***** 2865 total finishers, so, hey, I’m proud.
****** Thank you, Missoula’s Big Sky Brewing Co., for the free beer at the finish line.
******* This sets the record for the most footnotes in a Growler Fills post.  Oh, and my main celebratory beer for this race was a Black Butte XXV, among others.