I don’t know when I decided that my 39th year on this planet would include a running streak. Much less that it was going to culminate with a full marathon. Not just any marathon – the Big Sur International Marathon. No, on May 15th, 2017, I put on a pair of running shoes, stepped outside, and went for a little run. An I-have-364-days-until-I’m-40 birthday run.
But here I was, on the morning of April 29th, 2018, waking up at 3 AM in a hotel room in Monterey, California. “Waking up” is a stretch by any measure of the imagination. The nerves kicked in, and I didn’t slip into bed until midnight. I then proceeded to toss and turn for the next two hours and forty-five minutes. When my alarm went off (precisely fifteen minutes after I had finally fallen asleep), I began the three-block trek to catch the bus to the starting line.
It was a chilly morning in Monterey, where the average low tends to hover in the high 40’s to low 50’s year-round. Coffee drinking temperatures. I didn’t have coffee. There was no place open to meet my need at this ungodly hour. So, I took my place in line to board the bus. There, I huddled with all the other coffee-less souls as we shielded ourselves against the cold dark of the night.
The ride to the start was long, but warm, at least. Some people slept, some performed their pre-race rituals, and I gazed out the window. The bus lumbered up and down along the cliffs high above the ocean. The moon was full and drifting between the clouds. One time, as we rounded a bend, I was able to catch a glimpse of moonlight dancing off the water far below us. A singular, sickening thought consumed me: I’m going to have to run up all these downhills we’re taking to the start line. Gulp.
The bus slowed to a stop a half-mile from the start line, Big Sur Station. There was no place for the bus to turn around beyond this point, so we’d have to make our way to the start line on foot. Rumors circulated that coffee was available, but all I found were empty jugs and long port-o-potty lines. I had nothing to do now but wait. The race directors would soon call us to enter the starting chute by predicted finish times.
As I settled into the starting chute, the sun began to rise, revealing my surroundings. Big Sur was waking up in all its splendor. A towering mountain rose ahead of me, and massive redwoods blanketed the valley. The Star Spangled Banner blared from the speakers, a gun popped, and we were off. The first five miles were all downhill and through the redwoods. Though the temperature was a bit chilly for standing around, it was perfect for running. Invigorating, actually.
Those first five miles lulled me into a false sense of running bliss. At mile six, I left the redwood cover’s protection and smacked right into a stiff headwind. Oh, by the way, the course follows the coastline for the next fifteen headwind-laden miles before veering back inland to the finish. It’s a special kind of hell-bliss. The views are spectacular, breathtaking even, though I can’t be certain that isn’t because of the headwind.
The course undulates and meanders along the coast. A ribbon of road leads me to the monster before the halfway mark: Hurricane Point. This behemoth starts near sea-level before soaring, over two and a half miles, 560 feet to its pinnacle. It twists, turns, and exposes several false summits before finally reaching the top. The slow, steady rhythm of the Taiko drummers positioned at the base of climb propel me up the cliff. Hurricane Point lives up to its namesake. The wind whips and swirls at the summit, wafting up the gentle twinkle of the grand piano from far below.
Hurricane Point gives way to Bixby Canyon Bridge, the most iconic spot in the race. On the other side of the bridge, the tuxedoed pianist plays beautiful melodies as a reward for my surviving the monster. The long downhill provides stunning views of the bridge and the canyon it crosses. The Pacific Ocean rages in all its fury against the rocks below. Crossing the bridge, I can’t tell you if my feet even hit the ground. I’d reached the halfway mark and was feeling alive. The first half had been the fun run.
I wish I could say the second half was as inspired as the first. The beautiful sunrise sky I enjoyed at the start gave way to clouds before becoming overcast. The gloom did nothing to diminish the beauty of the land, but my mood faded with each passing mile. Though the monster was behind me, the rest of the course continued to ripple with hills. By mile fifteen, a light drizzle had started to fall, and even an anthill felt like a mountain. I used the strength of fellow runners to buoy me through the waning miles.
Around mile 23 the rain had finally stopped, and the strawberry station was coming into view. Another staple of the Big Sur International Marathon, these big, fresh strawberries are a welcome snack at this point in the race. Had I not been so ready to finish the race, I would have remained gorging on those delectable treats the rest of the day. It certainly would have been a better fate than what was awaiting me at mile twenty-five. There, the course lobs one final insult: a half-mile uphill obstructing the view of the finish line.
My legs felt like dead weight as I struggled to propel my body forward, cresting the final hill. In what felt more like a stumble than a run, I crossed the finish line. I collected my handcrafted clay finisher’s medallion and scanned the crowd for my wife and son, B.J. and Oliver. Their smiling faces lifted my already euphoric spirit. They had been stuck in traffic but had made it to the finish line just in time. Together, we weaved through the finish line festival, past the full jugs of coffee, and straight to the beer tent. It was time to celebrate.
