Yes, it’s only one hill, but that’s some hill. The race is over now, and I’m happy to say I survived, and had a great time (in the sense that I enjoyed myself, not that I finished competitively). Coming into the race, I was familiar with the course, having driven it before, but I’d never really imagined running it, so being out on the road on race day was really my first experience with this perspective.

As the race begins, the mass of gathered runners passes under the start banner, past the giant tents in the field. It’s a slight downhill, the first and only such section on the whole course, as if the mountain is saying “Don’t get used to this, because this is not what you came here for.” As we started into the early, forested section of the mountain, I got into a groove of slow and steady running. There was a little jockeying for position, and I was passing and being passed in equal measure. I felt pretty good, and thought about the only question that is really up for consideration: not if I will start walking, but when? I knew that the elite runners didn’t resort to walking, but that just about everyone else did, and it was a matter of figuring out what you were capable of, and which method was more efficient.

In a race that was over seven miles long, I figured I’d try to run the first half? The first three miles? Good luck – all such calculations went out the window as I started heading up the hill. I readjusted my expectations and figured I’d shoot for two miles before walking, but at some point around 1.85 miles or so, I settled into a walking pace for a few steps that was disconcertingly faster than (or if not, then just as fast as) my running pace. I didn’t stay walking for long, but once I’d started, I was officially “run/walking,” and I continued to alternate throughout the remainder of the race. I used the walking stretches to gather energy for more running, and the course is steep enough that walking isn’t really much slower than running, especially if you’re running as slowly as I was.

I used my GPS watch to keep an eye on my pace, and used my average speed as a guide to when I should start running again. Walk until my pace drops below 12:00 a mile, then run again until I feel like I’m running in place, then walk again until my pace drops below the next :10 threshold. Like everything in this race (and in races in general, I guess), this worked fairly well until it didn’t any longer, which was probably around mile 5 or so. I don’t have a lot of memories of the contour of the course in general; instead, I remember specific moments, such as the stretch in mile six where I just ran along the white stripe at the edge of the road, my eyes glued to the pavement, missing a beautiful view, I’m sure, but happier to operate with less information about what was coming up. I also remember running next to a woman who was going at the same pace I was, and when she stopped to walk, I would run for a stretch, then walk until she passed me and eventually stated to walk again. I always find myself using artificial signposts and markers like this when I run, probably because whatever internal get up and go I should have isn’t strong enough… I often thought of the tip I heard when I was training with the L.A. Roadrunners, to always keep your eye on the top of the hill and run toward it, rather than focusing on the stretch right in front of you. That works well enough when you can see the top, but in this race, there really is no top of the hill, just the point at which you can no longer see the road because it’s switching back or has gone around a curve.

I felt like the race went by in a pretty reasonable way; sometimes you feel like a race is dragging on, despite the advertised distance you’re supposed to be running, and sometimes, if you’re having a good run, it feels like it’s flying by. This was somewhere in the middle, and by the time I got to the 7 mile marker, I was still feeling pretty good, tired but not exhausted and still capable of running with a little walking, rather than the other way around.

Then, as if to mock any feelings of competence in the face of difficulty I might have had, the road suddenly goes from “uphill” to “vertiginous,” skipping right over “steep” and “woah!” As we came up to what I thought was the final corner, I could tell the finish line was near, and, wanting to finish strong, I started really pushing it. Then we came around the corner and I saw the road switch back on itself and head up at an angle that is more like a ladder than a road, and looks unsafe, if not potentially impassable, for a car. At this point, the muscles on the inner part of my thighs started doing this weird thing where they were vibrating and spasming in a way that said to me “we can’t keep this up much longer, we are going to give out soon, just to give you a warning,” and so I willed my way across the line, remembering to stop the timer on my watch, so this finish line photo looks like every other, me grimacing and looking down, with my right hand on my left wrist. I managed to finish in under two hours, coming in right around my normal half-marathon time, for a race about half the distance.

All this might make it sound like the race wasn’t enjoyable, but that is far from the case. It was a very well run event, and everything about it, from the setting to the course markers to the embroidered fleece blankets we all received at the finish line – a flimsy little space blanket will never seem cool again – was terrific. The views, at least those which I glanced up from the road long enough to see, were beautiful, and of course the sense of accomplishment when I arrived at the top, into a freezing bank of fog and thankful for Steve and the bag of dry clothes he had waiting for me, was worth every ounce of strain. I caught my breath in the summit building for a few minutes, and then caught Dad finishing. We waited in a line that snaked up to the summit for a photo op, and then Steve drove us down the mountain. It was a quick drive down, but it felt good to know that every foot we coasted down on four wheels, I’d run (or walked) up on two feet.