The Secret Half-Marathon
“Too much sitting has ruined my body. Too much abuse has gone on for too long. From now on there will be 50 pushups each morning, 50 pullups. There will be no more pills, no more bad food, no more destroyers of my body.”
— Taxi Driver (1976)
THE PLAN
Going back for as long as I can remember, I always had the impression that running organized races was an act of pure vanity.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m not above participating in competitive races from time to time.
Sure, sometimes these races are all in good fun. For example, 5k races typically benefit one charitable cause or another — plus there isn’t much bragging right in running only a measly 3.5 miles.
Running as an expression of narcissism becomes clearer when you examine more difficult competitions — particularly marathon and half-marathon races. In my opinion, half-marathons were the worst of them all — probably due to the relative attainability for otherwise ordinary people.
I always used to regard habitual runners as a rather smug bunch of wellness-crazed zealots. You know these people, you’ve seen them before — the smarmy social media posts, photos of their medals displayed for their followers. And the most egregious offense: those annoying “13.1” bumper stickers — which appear so frequently that one must conclude a majority of all drivers have run half-marathons.
It seemed to me that many people only run half-marathons for a cool Instagram photo, and so that they can gloat about it afterward, and flaunt their 13.1 bumper sticker for the world to witness in awe of their health and athleticism.
So, one day I conjured up the idea to run a half-marathon — in secret — and never tell another soul. I would take that “13.1” bumper sticker and place it somewhere no human would ever see it. This would be my bold act of defiance against the exhibitionism of my generation…
It began as a joke, but eventually I realized that my story of an incognito half-marathon was too interesting for me not to live out, writing the story of it with my life. It was the summer of 2020 and boredom permeated all corners of the world — Deep Quarantine. What else was I going to do with so much free time?
Whenever Galen travels from Kansas City to visit, we always end up running. I will be sitting in bed one night polishing off a glass of whiskey, when that late night text pops up, “Wanna go for a run tomorrow morning?” At the next sunrise, I would drag myself out of bed and join him for an outdoor jog around our hometown. Typically, we followed the same route, which spanned roughly 3.5 miles in distance. I didn’t care much for cardio — the monotony was intolerable — but I would reluctantly tag along in the interest of spending quality time with my far-flung best friend.
We were sitting outside after finishing the run, sharing a hemp cigarette, and chugging our water bottles. I turned to Galen and asked, “Do you think you could run a half-marathon?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Do you?”
“Easily. I bet it’s not even that difficult.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I recited my diatribe to him and recounted my ironic tale of revenge-fantasy. He appreciated the humor in it. That is how the joke turned into a challenge. Together, we conspired to bring it into existence.
We planned to run an entire half-marathon together.
I plotted our route on a map of the Hilliard Heritage Rail Trail, an old railroad track that had been converted into a public bike path. A website dedicated to the Heritage Rail Trail describes it thus:
The Heritage Rail-Trail is a 7-mile multipurpose trail. Converted from right-of-way located in Franklin and Madison Counties, which stretches between Hilliard, Ohio and Plain City, Ohio in the central portion of the state. The trailhead is located off of Main Street in the ‘Old Hilliard’ historic district of Hilliard (which contains many shops and eateries as well as the Northwest Historical Village located in Weaver Park) and continues toward Plain City.
The trail begins in downtown Hilliard and runs westward out into the hinterlands. Shortly after the 6 mile-marker, the trail dead-ends at a long-forgotten sign posted by the city announcing the hollow promise to someday extend it further. Running to the point where the trail dead-ends and back again would put us at 12 miles, so I needed to plot out the extra distance for us to be able to reach that elusive 13.1 milestone. The extra distance comprised a detour into Homestead Park, a municipal park which the Heritage Rail Trail passed through.
Since Galen’s visit only lasted for the next two weeks, we were on a tight schedule to bring this plan to fruition. Most of the fitness resources I read recommend anywhere from 10 to 16 weeks of training to prepare oneself for their first half-marathon. Galen and I had roughly one week to get in shape for the task at hand…
We forged our runner’s pact on Saturday. The next morning, I woke up in a state of pure focus and ran 7 miles from my house and back. Afterward, I sat outside to stretch my legs. I messaged Galen, “This is Happening.”
Monday morning, we met up and ran our usual 3.5 miles around Hilliard. Tuesday, we ran 5 miles. I had to play an adult rec league lacrosse game on Wednesday, so we both took off that day. On Thursday, we ran 3.5 miles again. Finally, we ran 6 miles on Friday.
We were both twenty-six at the time, young blood still coursed through our veins. Yes, this is happening, all right.
THE RUN
At last, the day of the run was upon us…
I was slightly hungover, but jittery with anticipation. I stopped at McDonald’s for breakfast on my way to pick up Galen. We drove separately to the end of the Heritage Rail Trail. I parked my car there, stocked inside with water, Gatorade, snacks, and spare tee-shirts and socks. Then we left in Galen’s truck, leaving my car behind. Now we would be able to hydrate and change clothes when we reached the halfway point of our half-marathon.
Galen wore a bright red tee-shirt and a digital-camo baseball hat. I wore a black tank-top, a sweat-wicking headband, and a lightweight fanny-pack (for carrying my phone). We both wore black running shorts, polarized sunglasses, and Brooks running shoes.
We arrived at the mouth of the Heritage Rail Trail. It was the first week of July — the brutal humidity of dead summer in the Midwest was approaching, but the balmy morning air invigorated us for the time being. We began running at about 9 A.M. Galen established our tempo, settling into an early lead; golden curls of hair bounced atop his head with each step he took. Initially, we jogged at an easy, yet brisk pace. The idea was to build some momentum, without draining our tanks too early. We would need our last reserves of willpower for the final leg of the race.
Hilliard’s Environmental Sustainability Commission paints an idyllic picture of the venue:
This multipurpose trail is nicely paved, which provides a smooth surface for users to enjoy as they travel through neighborhoods, woods, and farm fields. The trail not only provides a means for transportation and exercise, but can also be a serene retreat for viewing wildlife, especially in the quiet morning hours. As its full name implies, the Heritage Rail Trail was constructed along the site of abandoned railroad track.
The path took us past a small pond, past the Makoy Center, past Memorial Middle School. After passing Hilliard Darby High School, we had to cross the road (the first of three intersections in the trail). Beyond the road was Homestead Park.
Homestead Park used to be a bustling train station back in the olden days. A few historic train station buildings remain, now converted into sheltered picnic areas with benches. There is even an old steam engine train car still sitting in a patch of open grass as a sort of public museum display. At a wooden announcement board, there was a clear, plastic box containing pamphlets with a map, which proclaimed: “This 44-acre park offers a quiet, country atmosphere with a covered bridge, train station replica and two barns, with gently rolling hills surrounding a 2.5-acre lake.” Regarding the caboose & railroad theme, the pamphlet reads:
Near the turn of the 19th century, you would have heard the sounds of trains rumbling by on tracks that ran along west edge of Homestead. Throughout the park, there are reminders of the site’s connection to the railroad. A bright blue caboose at the south end is open periodically for programs and to view railroad artifacts. Norwich Station (with restrooms) and a replica train platform are nearby. Additional train artifacts are displayed at Bradley Station, a replica of a train depot that once stood along the tracks near Hayden Run Road.
A small, asphalt trail wraps around Homestead Park, of which the pamphlet reads: “Encircles the main activity areas and gives direct access to the midpoint of the 6.1-mile Heritage Trail. Safe and uncrowded for bikers of all ages.” This detour would serve to make up the extra distance missing from our goal of 13.1 miles. We ran the perimeter of the park three times, for good measure, then resumed our route on the Rail Trail. From here onward, our surroundings would only become more rural and desolate.
I want to live in the moment. I can’t be stuck in my head anymore. I can’t stop working out. Too much nervous energy, I can’t sit still. I exercise one, two, sometimes three times a day. I feel like I could explode. I’m dynamite.
I don’t even know what I’m running from…
I must continue inventing new ways of inflicting pain upon my body. I crave pain. I need to ache with soreness. I can’t let myself become idle. I must chisel my body into sculpted marble, like a Greek god. I want to radiate with mythic power.
After we crossed the next road, we ran past a small dog park, then the opening to an equestrian trail, where you could see robust piles of horse poop littering the ground. Description by the Metro Parks website:
The 87-acre Heritage Trail Park is adjacent to the Heritage Rail Trail, a 6.1-mile multi-purpose trail converted from abandoned right-of-way, with a parallel bridle trail. The paved trail starts in Old Hilliard off Main Street and continues toward Plain City.
This was nearing the halfway point of the Rail Trail. For the final half of the distance, the trail narrows between a thin corridor of tall trees and old railway posts amidst the farms and open land. Through the high canopy along the trail, we could see there was nothing but open space, interrupted only by the occasional farmhouse or barn. Nothing but endless fields of corn and soybeans.
After all these decades, you could still tell there used to be a railroad here. Thin borders of salt-and-pepper colored gravel laid along both sides of the path. The old railway poles — stripped of their electrical lines and lights — still stood tall, like ancient ruins from a lost world. Galen is an electrical engineer, so he was naturally fascinated by these decrepit railway lines and the history behind them. He explained to me the type of circuit technology used in those times and how the lines would have worked when they were still in operation.
I frequently rode my bicycle on this trail, it has always been one of my favorite locations to cycle. As we ran, I said, “Once, I was riding bikes out here with Cameron and Adam, and we found a wild apple tree — it really was growing natural apples. They did not taste like grocery store apples.”
“I’m allergic to apples.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, grapes too. It’s their skins. I found out my second year of college when I ate an apple and my throat swelled up so bad that I finally drove myself to the ER at midnight. I didn’t get home until 3 A.M.”
“Wow…”
I once read an old Korean proverb (at least I think it was Korean). It goes something like this…
A fish swims up to another fish and says, “I’m searching for the ocean — do you know where I can find it?”
The other fish looks around and replies, “Why are you searching for the ocean? We are swimming in it.”
The first fish gives a puzzled look, then proclaims, “THIS? This is not the ocean — this is just WATER.”
Running is a mental exercise as much as it is a physical one — even more so, perhaps. That is the reason why so many people despise running to the extent that is commonly observed. Running is tedious. It feels like slow torture. For most people, the pure boredom of it alone is insurmountable without the aid of headphones and loud music. Focus yourself on the beat of the music, synchronize your pace with the rhythm, hypnotize yourself into believing you are doing anything else.
You invent mundane little tasks to occupy your wandering mind. Count your steps. Just put one foot in front of the other. You internally chastise yourself: I won’t check my Apple Watch until I cross the next street, I won’t take a break until after this song, I’ll only slow down and walk once I reach that big tree up ahead on the left, etc.
It takes serious mental toughness to commit to running, especially long-distance running. You need to have that X-factor determination. It hurts so good. There is a sick, sadomasochistic pleasure in it. It must be how those self-flagellating monks from The DaVinci Code feel.
Running is pain. Running is self-discipline. Running is sacrifice.
In simple words: You need to be a little bit crazy to consider yourself a runner.
Finally, we reached the 6 mile-marker. As the endpoint came into view over the horizon, we became ecstatic and erupted into a fatigued sprint toward the final marker sign.
We took a short rest at the halfway point. I changed my socks and stretched out the muscles in my legs. Ten minutes had passed when we finished drinking our bottles of Gatorade. Then it was time for us to run again.
Rather than feeling drained, we were riding our second wind. We were not simply running anymore — we were GLIDING!
One mile remaining. The End is Near. My legs felt like jelly, but somehow, someway they kept on moving.
We broke into a mad dash for the finish line…
THE HIGH
It felt like heroin. Both of us had experienced runner’s high before, but nothing came close to the euphoria we felt after crossing that finish line. We felt the HIGH: that mythic, exalted state between pleasure and pain — this was True Force.
It took us a little less than three hours to complete the half-marathon.
Already, I could feel the stinging pain of fresh sunburn setting in on my entire torso, back, and shoulders. During the final few miles, we had removed our sweat-soaked tee-shirts — a decision that turned out to be a mistake. My sunburn was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to the bright pink hue scorched upon Galen’s fair complexion.
My legs felt like they were going to fall off. My feet felt nonexistent.
From the trailhead, we walked back to Galen’s truck and drove to retrieve my car from the end of the Heritage Trail while blasting Hozier on the stereo with all the windows rolled down. Then, we drove separately back into downtown Old Hilliard for the celebration.
We had a few drinks at the local brewery, then got seated in the patio section of a nearby restaurant. We both ordered two entrees for ourselves. On the menu, I noticed a “Thin Blue Line” margarita, which advertised that a percentage of proceeds benefitted the Hilliard Police Department; I ordered five of these margaritas throughout the course of our feast. We were drunk and merry like kings.
The days go by slow, but the weeks pass quickly…
It took me over a year to finally start writing about this event. I simply couldn’t hold the story in myself any longer, despite the oath of secrecy I swore. I kept thinking about it, wondering if I would ever get another chance do something like that again.
A few years ago, my mother ran a half-marathon. Whenever Mom showed off her medal (always beaming with delight), my brothers and I would playfully bust her chops about it. I didn’t understand. I can see that in retrospect now. Foot surgery was all it took to ensure she would never run another half-marathon for the rest of her life.
What did it all mean?
What possessed us to pursue such a grand undertaking?
I suppose it was our quest for purpose during the lost summer of 2020.
Today I got a message from Galen. I took this as a sign that I was meant to write about last summer’s run: “I will be back in October. Want to run another half-marathon?”
“Yes,” I replied without skipping a beat.
“I’m trying to convince Brian to do it with us.”
“Do you think he will?”
“He might. I told him about the HIGH.”
I lost myself in thought for a moment, then I asked, “What do you remember about the half-marathon last summer?”
“I remember all of it. Running and walking, running through Holmstead [sic] to get some extra distance, drinking Gatorade at your car, running back. Being high! Going for some drinks afterwards at Odey’s [sic] and the bar next to it. Then we went our separate ways.”
“What do you think it all meant? Why did we do that?”
“Why did we run?”
“Yeah. We didn’t have to. Or did we? What insight did we gain?”
“That running is easy and society is making us all soft. We’re not accepting pudgy futures. Almost everyone I work with is fat. We’re breaking the mold.” He paused, then continued, “It was anti-establishment, like the fact we didn’t have to pay or sign-up. It was rewarding that we could just do it.”
Sunday, October 2, 2021 — We did it again. By God, we did it again!