The 2022 Mount Desert Island Marathon – ME

The 2022 Mount Desert Island Marathon – ME
Tags: 50 states marathon, Mount Desert Island (MDI), Maine Marathon, Race Raves, Bar Harbor, ME
Start Location: Bar Harbor, ME

In a land so remote that it feels like the edge of the world, stands a range of tumulous mountains on the northern misty shores of Maine. Amid them stands Cadillac Mountain (1,530 ft) towering over the deep blue ocean like a colossal sentinel serving as protector to the dark, mysterious interior of North America’s shore. The mountains are characterized by rounded mountain peaks, propped up by sheets of granite. The U-shaped valleys and glacial cirques were formed by glacial erosion and can be found throughout the mountain range.

The mountains sit surrounded by steep cliffs, rocky headlands, and sky-filled tide pools, separated from the mainland by a narrow channel. The island that European explorer Samuel de Champlain aptly called the “Isle de Monts Deserts”— a desolate mountain.

The mountains are home to numerous glacial lakes and ponds as clear as glass. The island is immersed in towering coniferous forests of spruce-fir and hardwood. And all long the coasts there are inlets, and intertidal zones full of tide pools— home to rich marine life like mussels, crabs, and periwinkles.

The Mount Desert Island (MDI) Marathon would serve as a testy and difficult challenge with which to complete my second attempt at 26-mile glory. The course was notoriously hilly, and I expected this to be significantly more challenging than my first marathon one year earlier. That race had been in southern New Hampshire.

I had learned much in that first training cycle, and there were a number of lessons that I took away from the experience. First among them is the importance of listening to the body and having a gauge on when I’ve reached my limit. Pushing too hard during training for the sake of reaching weekly milestones just isn’t worth it. Pushing too hard is a surefire way to get injured, and the time spent healing from those injuries leads to longer downtimes and amounts to more miles lost than would have been the case otherwise. The focus needs to be on the long-term achievement, not the short-term benchmarks. With that in mind, I had learned that a runner needs to know when to tactfully retreat. Heal up fast and live to fight another day.

Now, as I drove along the coast of Maine, I reflected on my journey’s beginning only 18 weeks earlier. That is— I went into this training season with one clearly defined goal. Don’t get injured. But it wouldn’t be easy, and indeed, I would still be up against many of the same challenges that plagued me the previous year. Namely, the heat. Since this marathon would be an October event, my training plan would put the bulk of my running in the summer months leading up to the race. The problem that summer poses is 2-fold. 1) I tend to sweat a lot and am prone to rapid dehydration. And 2) I’m an afternoon runner. That’s just what works best for my schedule, but the pitfall is that I’m running at the hottest time of the day.

Reflecting on these challenges, I came away realizing that I needed to take hydration more seriously. This time around, I did better with this, and it did well to alleviate many of my issues. When running far from home, I started carrying water with me using a hydration backpack. But mostly I just opted for loops around the neighborhood, which kept me close to home. I started leaving a jug of water in my driveway. This way I was never far away from water, and It also made it easier to call off the run, if I felt the need to do so.

But as it turns out, thanks to better hydration, over the course of my entire 18-week training regimen, I would only once need to stop short of my target miles. That was in Upstate New York, I was in town for a fishing trip with some high school friends and staying with family in the humid, verdant farmland of Wayne County, NY. I was doing 4-mile loops and sweating like there was no tomorrow. It was to be a 20-mile run on an especially hot and humid day. In fact, that day would clock in as the hottest day on record in 2022. It was at mile 16 when I finally made the call. I was losing water way too fast, and I knew I had to end it.

Despite my efforts to play it safe, I would end up sustaining a mild tendon injury that would impair my running for a few weeks afterward. When the body gets dehydrated, not only does it affect the runner’s form, but it can also lead to inflammation of the tendons. The damage that’s done often doesn’t present itself right away, and so it can be hard to realize when the body’s in trouble. That’s what happened on this day. I stopped at mile 16, but on later reflection, I concluded that mile 12 would have been the proper decision point. I was just losing so much water.

Despite this single incident, the overall training season was a smashing success compared to my first time around. I had successfully begun training smarter and was getting injured less. These are crucial skills for anyone who’s aspiring to run multiple marathons, and I was pleased with how far I’d come.

Now, as I made my way north toward the rocky northern shores of Maine, I felt like I was good to go. The only grumbling I had about my current plans was the 5-hour drive it would take to get there. My first marathon had been in my home state of New Hampshire and had been only 90 minutes from home.

Now, I was heading to Bar Harbor, Maine, which is darn close to Canada. Of course, I could have just done the same marathon as last year— The Clarence DeMar Marathon in Keene, NH. But I like to cover new territory and to be honest, I had been playing around with the idea of running a marathon in all 50 states. Of course, it seemed like a pretty lofty goal for someone who’s so new to marathoning. But I had caught the bug, and my last marathon had left me thirsty for more.

Plus, I needed some joy in my life. Running had for the past several years been becoming my predominant pastime, as I’ve sought to weed out more expensive sports and hobbies. Besides, the 50-state goal would provide a great opportunity to travel a bit. 

Still, I wasn’t getting too ahead of myself. 50 states would make for a lot of marathons. But I figured it made sense to align myself with this goal from the beginning. That way, if I did end up getting serious about it, then all my races will have counted toward such an end. 

I chose MDI based on the beautiful location and the significantly high reviews on raceraves.com. My other option was to do the Maine marathon in Portland, which was much closer and was happening around the same time. However, my first marathon had spoiled me. The Clarence DeMar Marathon in Keene, NH, was a top-of-the-line production, and now I wanted to do another race that was equally lauded. After all, it isn’t just about the run; it’s about the whole experience, and from what I’d read, the Mount Desert Island Marathon in Bar Harbor was the race that I was looking for. 

The drive was slow and dragging. At 5 hours and with lots of turns for the first 60 miles, It felt like it took a long time just to get out of New Hampshire and over the border to Maine. I was pretty apprehensive heading there. I had decided going into this trip that I needed to keep costs down any way I could. As a college student who also happens to have children and a family to feed, I had grown accustomed to doing everything on a budget these past few years. 

One of the great things about running is that it’s a cheap pastime. It doesn’t cost anything other than the expense of a new pair of shoes here and there. Marathons, on the other hand, do cost money. There is the registration fee, and there are the travel expenses. When you factor in the cost of hotels, suddenly, running becomes as expensive as golf. For most of my fellow racers, traveling for these marathons is like taking mini vacations. They are weekends filled with fine dining and sightseeing. But for me, at this stage, I couldn’t justify these types of expenses. In considering this, I wanted to try to keep my lodging expenses down. I figured I couldn’t get around the registration fee or the gas expense, but I could avoid staying in pricey hotels at race weekend rates. The reality was that if I was going to be able to afford to keep running marathons, at least for the foreseeable future, I would have to find a way around lodging expenses altogether.

For that reason, I had resolved that I would spend the night camping in the back of my vehicle. The bed of my truck conveniently has a cap, which offers protection from the elements. The windows are tinted which provides a certain degree of privacy, and I brought along a futon mattress and a sleeping bag to make things comfortable. But the success of such an encampment would depend on the parking options offered this weekend.

The parking advertised on the race website suggested that street parking throughout Bar Harbor— free on race day— was the best way to park for the event. However, as an adjunct to this, they also offered parking at a middle school somewhere on the outskirts of town about a mile from the starting line. This school parking lot would be my intended overnight destination, and I just had to cross my fingers that it would all work out. 

It all felt a bit unnerving. Without laying eyes on the area beforehand, it was hard to know if the parking lot would feel secure. There are already so many other things to think about when gearing up for race day, and this was one additional unknown that I had to worry about.

Bar Harbor:

The packet pickup and the expo for the race were being held at the local YMCA. Parking was a bit of a challenge, but before long, I found myself inside and walking around the expo. From there, the packet pickup was a breeze, and the volunteers were friendly and seemed well-organized. It was a low-stress atmosphere. I received my racers bib, as well as a pink MDI bag full of race paraphernalia. The bag had two straps on it which allowed it to be worn like a backpack. Inside the bag I found my race bib, an MDI Course Map, and a t-shirt.

After leaving the Y I headed across town to check out the local school where I hoped to spend the night. I was relieved when I pulled into a quiet, empty parking lot, hidden from the town’s streets by trees and shrubby. The atmosphere seemed pretty laid back. This would be a fine place to sleep for the night, I thought. I just hoped that my truck wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. To alleviate this, I decided to place my racer’s bib on the vehicle's dashboard. This would make clear to any security or police who happened by, that I was there with the marathon.

Leaving my truck I proceeded on foot, turning left out of the parking lot and heading east toward the main street on the other side of town.

I had never been to Bar Harbor before, but I had been to other coastal areas of Maine, in my youth, and had fond memories of this far northern state, with its dark rocky shores, expansive waterways, and tucked-away coves.

My greatest regret for this trip was not being able to bring my family along. Acadia National Park, which spans the vast interior of the island, would have been a fine place to take them. But sadly, there was little time for pleasure this weekend. 

Since I was buried in schoolwork, there simply wouldn’t be enough time to make a meaningful vacation out of it. In fact, there wasn’t even enough time to take a quick look at the park myself. My Saturday so far had been taken up by first packing, then driving, and now— I had race logistics to figure out.

For that reason, I had begrudgingly let the opportunity pass, vowing to myself that once I was finished with college, I would make better use of these races as opportunities to travel with family.

I arrived at the center of Bar Harbor in the area known as Village Green, a grassy park area that would serve as the staging area for tomorrow’s starting line. There were many tourists and runners strolling leisurely around. Music was playing nearby, and this center of town had a festive and jovial atmosphere. I nodded approvingly, then proceeded to walk south down the main street where tomorrow’s starting line would be found. 

Along the main street, there were many small cafes, restaurants, and bars. The Choco-Latte Café, the Blaze Grill, and Leary’s Landing Irish Pub. The main street quickly petered off and I found myself back in the area of the YMCA. A quick backtrack to Wayman Lane, had me turning east toward the ocean. When I found the water I turned north onto The Shore Path, which follows the coastline. From here, I was afforded my first glimpse of the immense size of the greater Bar Harbor Bay, with its scattered islands and distant shores.

The town of Bar Harbor exists on a little node-like bulb of land that bulges out of Mount Desert Island like a barnacle on a rock. The result is that it increases the amount of coastal frontage surrounding the town. 

Certainly, one of the greatest appeals to visiting Bar Harbor is the harbor itself. With its deep green-blue waters, and sprawling islands from Mt Desert Narrows to Frenchman Bay. The life of a Bar Harbor resident is a life that is one with the sea.

I wouldn’t have time to do much sightseeing. But at the very least, I wanted to get to the water and let the spray of bar harbor flow through my hair. I followed the path north, past the backyards of many large residences overlooking the sea. Eventually, the path took me back into a commercial zone, and I ended up down at John D. Ellis Pier. Home to the Harbormaster, the Bike rack fish house grill, and the Bar Harbor Whale Watch tours.

I was at the northern end of town now, and I made my way along West Street past Agamont Park, Paddy’s Irish Pub, the Eagles Nest, and the infamous West Street Hotel. I had a moment of envy. The hotel was only a block away from the starting line. I knew there would be many racers staying there, and I envied the convenience with which they could walk out of their hotels and begin their race tomorrow. But at five hundred dollars a night and sold out anyway, I was inclined to pass.

I had another idea, though. I decided to check out the finish line down in South West Harbor, so I started walking back toward the middle school to get my truck. 

South West Harbor:

Normally, I don’t do much to check out a race’s course beforehand. At most, I just look at the map. But as I drove along the coast in the afternoon sun, following my phone’s navigation to South West Harbor, I found that my directions almost perfectly overlapped with the route I’d be following the next day. 

The MDI Marathon follows a one-way course that begins in Bar Harbor on the east side of the island and ends in the small fishing village of South West Harbor. This course follows the coast of the island pretty much the whole way, making it one of the most scenic marathons in North America. For 26 wonderful miles, racers are flanked by the Atlantic Ocean to the left and the towering mountains of Acadia National Park to the right. All as the fall foliage of the island’s interior sheds its summer coat lightly into the ocean breeze. 

However, the route, though rounding the coast, does not follow a strictly circular pattern. This is because Mount Desert Island is split in the middle by Some Sound, a Fjard characterized by a shallow center and formed by glaciers. This narrow waterway is gouged across the landscape from north to south and serves to split the island nearly in 2. Though shallow, it is a vast waterway over which no bridges have been built. 

When racers reach the southernmost point of Somes Sound in the village of Northeast Harbor, the course will turn north and head along the edge of the sound. Then, when the waterway comes to an end at the village of Somesville, the route returns south toward Southwest Harbor on the other side of the split. 

As I drove along, I couldn’t help but marvel at the scenery. My excitement was growing, in leaps and bounds, but still, I was distracted. I had a final decision to make.

When I arrived in town, what I found was a sleepy little fishing village that was even smaller than it appeared on the map. There were a couple of restaurants and shops here and there: an ice cream shop, an Inn, a local bank.

Turning off the village’s main street, I found myself pulling into a small parking lot outside the local post office. I put the truck in park and decided to get out and walk around.

Pursuing the town, I got a glimpse of the harbor. It was small. In the distance, I could see sailboats moored, and along the coast, there was an assortment of marinas.

Walking along the main street, there didn’t appear to be many people around. I was expecting more tourism. I had pictured this town being like a miniature version of Bar Harbor, and though there was a small line outside the ice cream shop, overall, this town didn’t seem to have much going on. The main street was so small that it was the kind of town you could drive right through without seeing it.

But my reason for coming down here wasn’t to do the tourism thing. I was looking to inspect the layout. The reality is that I had been wrestling with a key decision about whether or not I wanted to rely on bus transportation back to my vehicle on race day, and I was thinking about parking my truck down here instead.

Since the marathon is a one-way, there would be buses to return racers to their vehicles left behind in Bar Harbor. The problem for me, as I saw it, was that I had a 5-hour drive home after the race. I knew I would be extremely tired and that my exhaustion would only grow as the day went on.  I thought I would benefit from being able to get that drive done as soon as possible. That would mean parking and sleeping at the finish line and getting up to Bar Harbor in the morning somehow.

I figured if I could take a taxi up to Bar Harbor in the morning, then my truck would be at the finish line, and I could leave immediately after the race. But there was only one taxi service on the island that claimed to be available in the morning, and there were risks to this, of course. In speaking with them, they assured me they would be able to pick me up at the requested time. Still, I would be relying on a single driver. If they didn’t show, then I would have to spend my morning driving back up there and scrambling to find parking, all while still having to rely on the buses.

Now, as I walked around this sleepy little town and evaluated the parking situation here, I was unsure that I could make it work. The parking lot at the post office appeared to be my only good option. But it felt a bit exposed. More problematic still, just based on the way the town was laid out, it appeared that I could have difficulties exiting that parking lot on race day. I wasn’t sure exactly where the finish line would be. I knew it would be on Main Street, but if it was any further south than the parking lot at the post office, then it looked like I might be boxed in completely. With no way out whatsoever.

So, with that idea dead in the water, I climbed into my truck and began my drive back to Bar Harbor. It was a decision that would come into question the following day.

The Night Before:

There is something mystical about Mount Desert Island. The land that towers over the ocean is hidden in fog and shrouded in the ocean spray from easterly winds. It stands in perfect stillness, and though it is quiet in its embrace, one cannot ignore the sense that this island has a thousand secrets to tell, and in every corner of the island, one can feel the soul of this place quietly whispering into the wind. 

An old Abenaki creation story tells a tale of the very beginning. The tale of Gici Niwasw, the great spirit, who lived in a primordial ocean wholly devoid of life and light. Back before, there were colors or even sounds. Back when the soup of creation was formless and empty. 

But it would not be right to let such primordial potential go wasted for all eternity. And so, one day, Gici Niwaskw called upon the Great Turtle, Tolba, to emerge and form the land. And on the back of this turtle, the great spirit set about creating the world we know. And when the great spirit was finished and drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of all the plants and people that ever were and ever would be. And in a twist of fate that took even Gici Niwaskw by surprise, she awoke the next morning to find that her dreams had become manifest. That all the plants and creatures of her dreams had become her reality and that the world was teaming with life.

That’s the story, anyway. Of the Abenaki people. Part of the Wabenaki Confederation native to these lands.

Such a history seemed a world away when I found my way back to the parking lot of the middle school in Bar Harbor. The sun had set, and dusk was upon me as I backed up my truck into a nice parking space beneath the trees. Climbing into the back, I rolled out my futon mattress and sleeping bag. I fluffed up my pillow, drank some water, and changed into my race clothes. I felt excited but also a little nervous. 

Still, I wasn’t half as apprehensive as I was for my first marathon. That’s just a different animal. The threat of the unknown. The reality is that once you’ve completed at least one marathon, the pre-race jitters lose their edge. The fear of failure is effectively removed because you know you can do it. And even if you don’t complete the upcoming race, you still have the first success to stand on. 

But I had no fears that I would not succeed. I was feeling good. My training had improved by leaps and bounds compared to my first go-around. 

Or maybe it was just the calming tonic of this magical place that soothed my nerves and coddled my dreams. The air felt warm for October as I lay on my back, listening to the soft blowing wind. This was Summer’s last dance, so it seemed; its last wave before saying goodbye, retreating into darkness, and leaving only the cold, harsh chill of winter. 

I could hear small animals in the patch of trees and further in within the thickets. There was Music playing in the far-off distance of Bar Harbor’s main street. Every once in a while, a car or two would pull into the parking lot and then exit soon after. 

With nothing left to do, my thoughts became slow. I thought about school— my decision to go to college at the ripe old age of 39. I thought about my growing family— my two daughters. The youngest was born earlier this year. I thought about all the many things my family needs. I thought about how I wanted to give them the world. That I had a vision. A plan for our future. But that it would take time. But how much, I could not say. 

My body was still. The warmth of the night enveloped me. I felt perfectly at ease in that moment. A rare thing. There hadn’t been much time for contentment these past few years. But now, as my thoughts faded away. I felt a small spark of peace. That thing I once had. The thing I was desperately trying to get back to. I had glimpsed once upon a time. The kind of peace that one is afforded when everything is going well. When there is space to stop, pause, and soak it all in. Without worry about your boss, or the bills, or all the threats out there.

The charm of Bar Harbor is in its coastal timelessness. Its coexistence with land and sea. Here the mountains of the northernmost reaches of the eastern United States hover over the harbor like giants guarding the land within. The people here live their lives irrevocably tied to the sea. With Maine’s black and rocky shores.

That I would find myself this far north, on this night in October with the warm holding out at its peak and nearly giving way to retreat, I could nearly hear the ocean not far off in the distance, As its waves crashed over rocky shores. I heard it as rhythmically as the incoming surge and retreating tides. And with that, I was fast asleep.

Race Day:

I awoke in the early morning darkness to the sound of waking streets. Cars were beginning to pull into the parking lot— other racers, utilizing the free parking offered at the school. I checked the time. It was 6 a.m. Throwing on my shoes, I climbed out of the back of my truck. The air felt thick. The taste of the ocean. A cool morning fog. 

I hopped into the cab and turned the keys in the ignition. As the engine warmed, I took a moment to assess my condition. I felt strong. Rested. This was good. 

I wanted coffee. But I had decided the day before that I was going to try abstaining from coffee for this race. One of my greatest challenges in my first marathon was constantly feeling like I needed to use the restroom and only having a few sparse opportunities to do so. It definitely affected my ability to enjoy my run. I hoped to avoid such an outcome for this race. They say caffeine can help enhance performance because it has pain-relieving effects. This I true as far as I can tell, but it also is a diuretic, and if it’s causing you to have to stop repeatedly throughout the race, then that can cause huge problems of its own. It just doesn’t feel like a neutral trade-off. In my experience so far, caffeine has held me back.

It wasn’t going to be easy, however. I love my morning coffee. But I was all business this morning. My training these past 18 weeks had been nearly flawless, and I wasn’t going to throw all that away for a moment of weakness on race day. 

My plan at this point was to drive into town and utilize the street parking a little closer to the starting line. Though it wasn’t as secure as this parking lot, it would give me more time to prepare this morning while also minimizing my return time after the race. So, I put the truck in gear and started driving toward the Village Green. Down the road a ways, I found a I nice little parking area across from a Hannaford grocery store just a couple of blocks from the starting line. 

After figuring out how to use the parking meter. I found my toothbrush and toothpaste and was preparing to head for the bathroom at Hannaford. I looked at the time. Everything was going along smoothly. I aimed to be at the starting line by 7:30. The race would start at 8. This would provide plenty of time to stretch and get warmed up.

As I finished straightening up my things, another racer pulled in next to me. I watched as he struggled to figure out the parking meter. He asked how it took the money, and I told him there was an app he had to download. We began chatting further. The gentleman was in his 50s, a doctor from Connecticut, who related a story to me about being registered for this race the year before when it was canceled due to an uptick in covid-19 cases. He related the frustration he felt over that. While it was nice talking to him, as he continued on and on, I was becoming increasingly aware of how he was messing up my timetable. I wanted to be at the starting line with a half hour to spare, and I had appropriated myself just enough time to run over to Hannaford, use the bathroom, brush my teeth, and walk over to the Village Green. 

I smiled politely as I fumbled with the toothbrush in my pocket. At this point, I wasn’t even listening. It occurred to me that I had better keep my mind on my to-do list, lest I risk making an error, like forgetting a crucial item in my truck. What did I still need to do? Grab my running belt. Drink water. Eat breakfast.

Finally, he released me from his elaborate back story, and we said our goodbyes. I made a mental note that for the next race I would have to apportion additional time for chatting. I rushed off in the direction of the grocery store and checked the clock. Only five minutes behind schedule.

After, brushing my teeth and shaving, I ran back across the street to my truck and scarfed down a quick meal. A salad with lots of beats. Oatmeal, with raisins and chopped apples. I drank some water, then went to work pinning my race bib to my shirt. Then, with that all out of the way, I grabbed my running belt, and I was off.

I arrived at the Village Green to a quiet scene as hundreds of racers went about their morning routines, using the grass, and the pavement to stretch and warm up.

The air was warm for an October morning, and I felt only the slightest chill as I strolled about in my shorts and t-shirt. The sky way a gray white and a light fog hung over the town of Bar Habor, like a thin morning soup. I had a last-minute thought that I wish I could have some coffee. But it was too late now. The opportunity to buy coffee had already passed. But really this was for the best. For the first time, I found myself not needing to make a frantic last-minute bathroom trip before the start of the race. 

As we approached the top of the hour, I began seeing people moving in the direction of Main Street. It was five minutes before the start of the race. The time had come. I walked across the grass and turned onto Main Street. The road here went slightly downhill, providing the feeling of us all being positioned at the top of a ski hill, posed to lunge downward. The starting line quickly came into sight. I found my place among my fellow racers and packed myself into the crowd. 

Standing near me were two young gentlemen dressed in flagrant American flag-themed attire. They were already shirtless and lean. One had blond hair and was clean-shaven, while the other had long brown hair and a bravado mustache. The one with the mustache smiled often, while the blond-haired one seemed serious and reserved. In their matching attire and simple, contrasted features, they reminded me of Lewis Carol’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

I stood tall, eyeing the road ahead. Eager to get started. Somewhere in the pack of the pack, a middle-aged male runner began to holler, “Get ready! Make a hole! Make a hole!” Apparently, he was planning on a fast start. The crowd chuckled. Then came the national anthem. Afterward, the race director initiated the race by blaring music. The race start was signaled by the blast of a cannon. And with that, we were off.

As I ran along the quiet streets of Bar Harbor, I was surprised at how relaxed I was. There really is no marathon like the first, when the fear of failure hangs over you like a nagging ghoul. But with these first-timer jitters out of the way, there is nothing to do other than enjoy the run while simultaneously bracing for the inevitable struggle that lay ahead. 

It wasn’t long before the streets of Bar Harbor faded into the horizon. The simple Main Street slowly morphed into Highway 3, the same road I had navigated the day before, but this time, it was closed down to accommodate the droves of runners. The smell of the ocean came from nearby shores, and the towering cliffs of  Acadia National Park were to our right. 

The first five miles went by without much of a thought. I simply took in the scenery. Surrounded by forest. It had been a warm autumn. The fall foliage though bright, was still just getting started. And hills of dark green still stood as a backdrop to the lightly fluttering colors of red, yellow, and orange. The trees were mostly masked by the fog, and looking out across the long stretch of highway, saw the multicolored assortment of runners brightly dressed in race-day gear.

Around mile 7, we left Highway 3 and the course made it to the coast along the rocky cliffs of the island’s south shore. These were residential areas. Cooksey Drive at East Point, Peabody Dr, near Crowninshield. I marveled at the majesty of these homes, and their connection with the ocean. They stood on high rocky cliffs, looking south of the Atlantic Ocean. On this morning, they were mired in fog, and I found myself wondering what it was like to watch the weather from such a lofty view. To wake up every morning, being able to look out for hundreds of miles. 

I myself was a forest dweller. Living in the hemmed-in tumultuous hills of New Hampshire.

But with the increase in value of these homes came a certain expectation of privacy and apparently It would seem not everyone from these neighborhoods welcomed this annual marathon. It was somewhere on Boat Wharf Rd that I began to sense that a vehicle had crept up behind me. When it didn’t pass right away, I glanced back and saw that the driver appeared frustrated. She was urgently looking to find a hole in the mass of runners.

A moment later, she seemed to find one and I felt her SUV speed by me with the engine whining. Then she screamed, perceivably directed at me, “Get out of my fucking neighborhood!”

There were a couple of volunteers at the corner ahead. Their wide smiles faded to horror as the enraged driver sped by. For them, it was a dark stain on an otherwise bright day. Fortunately, the course soon turned back onto Highway 3, and I was out of this neighborhood, swiftly leaving behind any baggage that might have been attached to it. Such is the way with running.

The course continued to follow the coast from here, and as the day became warm, and the sun rose up over the ocean, I was treated to sweeping views of beautiful rocky shores to my left. The fog had now cleared, and it was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

There were a couple of runners ahead of me who I had fallen in pace with. They were young, in their early twenties. A male and a female. They chatted with one another as they ran, and though I hadn’t spoken to them, they were beginning to feel like old friends.

The course then came to a small harbor where various sailboats could be seen moored out amid the dark blue inlet. At the northernmost point of the harbor was a quaint little beach, somewhat covered in strings of black sun-dried seaweed. There were various folks out on the beach enjoying the sun. The course then looped around the harbor, leaving behind Highway 3 and heading south onto Harborside Road. At that point, we began to climb what I considered to be the first formidable hill of the day, as the road climbed up the rocky shores toward the village of Northeast Harbor.

We were approaching mile 12 now, and I heard the young couple speaking ahead of me. The girl’s tone was beginning to change. There was a desperation in her voice as she seemed to be out of breath for the first time. The high was wearing off. We had been running those early miles on fairly mild terrain, dazzled by the fall colors and full of the love of the run. Now as we approached the halfway mark everyone was reaching the point where it wasn’t all fun and games. The girl related this to her friend to some effect, then a moment later added, “I’m still having a good time though.”

At the top of the hill, into the streets of Northeast Harbor, we were met by a surge of onlookers, who cheered and screamed and offered words of encouragement.

The young man ahead of me was spotted by his father, who rushed to his side to cheer him on. The pride, the energy, and sheer show of positivity that his father exuded warmed my heart, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a sense of remorse and loneliness that I did not have that type of support of my own. But I let the feeling pass, choosing instead to enjoy vicariously their father-son bond. 

A mile later, we were leaving the streets of North East Harbor behind and once again heading north along what would be a six-mile stretch up the coast of Somes Sound. Much of which I had missed the previous day because my route had kept me on Highway 3.

I didn’t realize it at the time. But here in North East Harbor, despite having 16 miles left to run, the finish line at South West Harbor was only a mile away, on the other side of Some Sound. Not more than a quick boat ride. But, of course, this pack of runners would be going the long way. We like it that way.

For six beautiful miles, the road followed directly along the gorgeous blue water of Somes Sound as it stretched northward along the colored, wilting foliage of Acadia National Park. Up on the mountainside, the fall colors shone brightly in the sun, and though by now my quads felt warn and my hamstrings tight, there was not much that could convince me to be anywhere else than here on this amazing day. The spirit of the run had risen as high in me as Maine’s mountains, and my resolve was as steady as the Atlantic wind.

As the body of water to my left grew wider, I knew we were approaching its bulbous end, and soon found myself wrapping around its northern most point, and making yet another hairpin turn, pointing us south on what would be the last six mile stretch down the west side of Somes Sound toward the finish line at Southwest Harbor. 

I hadn’t seen the young couple since several miles back. A point had come when their pace had slowed, and I found myself trading places with them several times. Finally, they fell behind me for good. By that point in the race, the two of them had grown quiet, no longer chatting in their chipper morning voices. It is a relatable experience for any marathoner. The first half feels like a casual morning stroll. But then, the body’s elation gives way to the harsh realities of the 26-mile feat.

When I got to the bridge at mile 20, my stomach was telling me it was time to refuel. I pulled out some bread I had brought along and attempted to quickly chew it down. It was hard to swallow, and it occurred to me that I was dehydrated. I slowed to a walk, trying to eat the thick slab of bread as fast as I could. 

When I’d finished eating and returned to a running pace, I was disappointed to discover that I was still hungry. I had packed as much of the bread as I could into the small, zippered pocket of my running belt, yet despite it being densely packed with an array of nutrients, the quantity hadn’t been enough. I needed more fuel and more fluids.

Fortunately, the next water station approached, and I stopped and took the time to drink my fill. I also switched to Gatorade to get some extra sugar into my blood. I moseyed my way down the long line of tables. They were filled to the brim with cups of water and Gatorade. I grabbed at them, drinking them down as I walked along. 

When I reached the end of the water station, I spotted my old friends from the starting line. The quintessential Maine bros. The one with the mustache and the other with the American flag shorts. They were hanging out next to a trash can, stretching their arms and shaking out their legs. After a moment, they looked at each other with half-smiles. Their expressions portrayed the bemused understanding of a struggle shared. There, beneath the golden cast of an approaching mid-day sun, they tossed away their cups. And with that, they pushed off.

I fell in pace, not far behind them. 6 miles to go. 6 miles to finish the job.

The marathon is known for its long and sprawling uphill push between miles 20 and 24, where the elevation gain is roughly 50 feet per mile. This leg-breaking course feature comes at a point in the race where exhaustion has become the norm for every runner and stamina has petered out in even the most high-performing athletes. But the bitter sweet side of all this, is the hill peaks at mile 24, and for 2 wonderful miles, marathoners can glide home. It’s all down hill from there.

But that milestone might as well have been a world away. As the miles stretched on, my legs became a burning bundle of fire. There had been many hills by this point, and the challenge I faced in this marathon was that I had not trained extensively for them. For most of the summer, I had sacrificed accuracy in mimicking race conditions, opting instead for the convenience of sticking close to home. 

Still, at least some effort was made. In the last 6 weeks of my training, with the cool, September air relieving me of my need for constant hydration, I finally found cause to leave the comfort of my neighborhood. I began taking my long runs into the Belknap mountains outside of town. And on my last long run of the training season— a 20-mile stint— I even went as far as ditching the pavement and running up to the summit of Gunstock Mountain. A local mainstay that serves as a ski resort in the winter months.

But all this had been an afterthought. The truth was the bulk of my training had been on flat terrain. Now as the hills continued, I was finding myself becoming creepingly slow. 

I wasn’t the only one struggling, however. There were many racers who, in these last six miles, had given in to walking. I saw in them their sunbeat faces. Red and flush with heat and sweat. Their eyes squinting dimly in the sun as they glimpsed the enormity of the long climbing hill ahead, stretching out into the horizon like a goaded reckoning. 

My pace had slowed, but I was still in a running stride. One mistake I realized was that I hadn’t planned accordingly for nutrition. Waiting to eat until mile 20 was the wrong move and counting on the amount of food I could carry wasn’t working out either. I had based these decisions on my food intake during training, which hadn’t sufficiently mimicked the rigors of this hilly course. Now, as I pressed into the long-spanning incline, I understood front-and-center the added demand for calories that this course was putting on me. I was feeling lightheaded, and I found myself desperate for more Gatorade. 

Fortunately, when I came to the next watering station, they were giving out energy gels. I had hoped to avoid them because I don’t like eating goo. But they were necessary here. I tore one open and squeezed the thick paste into my mouth. The sweet song of glucose played on my tongue like a mariachi band. I quickly took down two of them and felt almost instantly revitalized as I pressed up the hill. 

Still there was nothing that could stop me. When mile 24 came along, I felt in my heart the feeling that comes when one is home free. Glimpsing out upon the promise land. I was tired and beat up. But I was still strong. Not limping or feeling like death like I had in my first marathon a year earlier. 

When the finish line came into view, and I heard the cheers of the crowd and the loud booming voice of the announcer, I knew that my MDI journey was at its end. There in the last 100 yards of the course, I went into a full sprint and gave it all I had. 

3:54 for the finish. My first sub-4 marathon. And with an MDI finisher’s medal around my neck and a bottle of water in my hand, I hobbled off, intent on letting the relief of rest wash over me. There was pizza and ice cream at the finish. I didn’t partake, but I couldn’t help but feel envious as I saw my fellow racers spooning the soft vanilla ice cream into their mouths. As for the pizza, this marathon had met with some criticism in previous years, for running out pizza far too early. Hopefully, for the sake of this year’s racers, they will have corrected the issue. Everything else had gone off without a hitch, so I was confident things would be fine. 

I walked around for a while in a runner’s daze. Eventually, I made my way across the road in the direction of where the buses were meant to pick up racers. I didn’t see any buses, but I could see a line beginning to form. 

Thinking back to the previous day, when I’d considered parking down here, a quick look around, had me realizing that I wouldn’t have had a problem getting out of the parking lot at the post office. The finish line stopped just short of the road that led to that area. I could have left easily enough. A slight twinge of regret rose up in me. Had I gone with that plan, then I’d be able to hop into my truck and head home right now. Well, at least now I know my idea wasn’t bad, I thought. 

But what’s done is done. And with that, I picked up my backpack from the bag-drop truck and headed over to the busing area. As I waited in line, I changed my shirt and perused the contents of the bag. Sadly, I made the mistake of not packing any food into this bag. Since there was nothing healthy to eat over at the post-race party, I would have to wait until I got back to my truck in Bar Harbor, before I get some real food into my stomach. 

Some time went by, and yet, no buses had emerged. I was beginning to realize how truly tired I was. Those hills had done a number on me. Feeling lightheaded, I sat down on the sidewalk and enjoyed the heat from the sun-warmed pavement. I sent some texts to my family. Checked out my stats on Strava and chatted with my fellow racers to pass the time.

But more time went by, and still, there were no buses. Looking behind me, I saw that the line had grown long and was stretching all the way down Main Street. I had the sudden realization that something was wrong. 

Then I glanced across the street at the parking lot outside the post office, where my truck could have been parked. I cursed under my breath. 

More time went by. I chatted with the folks behind me in line. They were from New Hampshire coincidentally, and we talked about their town. It was hard to dampen anyone’s spirits after completing a marathon. They noted that I was alone, and I related that my family was back home cheering me on. They offered to snap a photo for me to send to them. Anything to pass the time.

But after an hour had gone by, the discord began to emerge in the ranks of the file, as frustrated runners, who were tired, sweaty, and hungry began to spill over with emotion. I myself was feeling extremely weak and hadn’t eaten. But there was nothing to do. For health reasons, I don’t eat pizza and ice cream. So, I just sat and waited. Growing weaker by the minute and genuinely dreading my long drive home.

Finally, a volunteer affiliated with Race came over and explained that traffic in Bar Harbor was holding up the bus schedule. After standing in line for an hour, this was our first communication from race officials about what was going on. They said the buses were coming, but no specifics were given as to when. 

Indeed, it would be another hour before the first bus arrived. There were cries of relief all throughout the line when the bus’s doors whooshed open. The line began to move. But there was only one bus. I counted the people ahead of me nervously, wondering If I was going to make it on. But I breathed a sigh of relief when a second, then a third bus rolled in, and within minutes, I was comfortable seated on one of them and ready to go.

I relived the course, as the bus backtracked over those same sprawling hills I had just traversed. But I was too tired to appreciate the scenery. Still, I felt a proud sense of satisfaction that my race had been so successful. I had made many significant improvements since my first race. The past 18 weeks had been a carefully orchestrated series of training days, and my execution of race day morning was stress-free and flawless. I successfully kept costs down by forgoing a hotel stay, and everything on my end went flawlessly in terms of execution. I had run a great race, and I had pushed myself to new levels in terms of distance traveled to the race destination and conquering the logistics of a busy weekend amidst my busy schedules.

Now as the auburn fall hills faded past, I began to wonder. What will be next?