Doesn’t it always seem to be at mile 20? Whatever you want to call it—in fact, you could call it hell—something about mile 20 just jumps up and bites you. I don’t want to call it The Wall. Everyone calls it The Wall, but that is a poor description because you see a wall coming. Here, a little bug of fatigue creeps up from your toes to the very ends of your fingertips. A vacuum of water and glucose starts to suck the energy from your core. Then you start to tighten up, maybe in your lower back, or maybe a calf starts to cramp. Ah, crap! It’s happening. Let’s not even talk about my metaphorical Achilles’ heel, which happens to be my actual Achilles’ heel that is now fully embedded with an exceptional amount of scar tissue.

Like one of my favorite lines from Chris Lear’s book, Running With the Buffaloes, “I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.” I’m a wreck, and seriously, what is up with this humidity, hills, and heat? Apparently they travel in threesies. Always wanted a threesie but not this kind. I still have 10K to go, and I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should negotiate with the grizzly bear that has decided to take an unwelcome piggyback ride. If only I had a honey pot. Hey, grizzly, can’t you see I’m dying here? Can’t you see it’s mile 20?

In each of my marathons, I continue to take my body to that frightening breaking point of life or death. I hate asking myself, I wonder if I am going to live. Believe me, I want to live. In fact, I love to live . . . that’s why I run. But sometimes all I want is for all the pain to fade to white. I want to let that cloudy mist engulf my body as I consider submitting to the doubt. If you’ve run a race, then you know what I mean: You just want it to be all over. And then the doubts creep in. A million “should haves” pass through your internal teleprompter. It streams: Should have trained harder, should have done more long runs, not sure if that winter of recreational drug use was such a good idea now. OK, yes, I admit it. I took ecstasy and saw Britney Spears on her “Circus” tour at the Arco Arena

© DaKine Images by Jo Evans

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The author cruising through one of the more desolate sections of the course on Pu’u Road in Kalaheo.

in Sacramento. Phew, I feel better. Hi, my name’s J. T., and I am a marathoner, and I have six miles to go.

The threat of failure So I’m all alone out here at the inaugural 2009 Kauai Marathon and I’m spent, I’m dunzo. Why do I feel so bad? I suppose I could lean on the crutch of poor time management and an overall life traffic jam. I’ve just navigated the last two years by hustling through law school, finally using my mediocre steeplechase skills to hurdle the California bar exam, and then took on that overconsuming J-O-B. But honestly, if anyone found a way to skate a full course of legal studies, I did. Not trying to brag—in fact, I’m slightly embarrassed—but it wasn’t that bad. I made those years into a frozen pond of 90-mile weeks, repetitive-drunk Thursday-night darts, two new friends, and an addiction to Taco Bell and energy drinks. Don’t worry—I’m still drinking and playing darts, but the rest have slid by the wayside. Toward the end of that graduate school journey I found myself in New York City, the famous Central Park, racing in the marathon Olympic Trials, and once again exhausted. A man named Ryan Shay died on that dreary fall day, and his friend Ryan Hall won. I just finished. If I had done either of the former, I certainly wouldn’t be here today. Not sure where I would be, but definitely not here.

I catch myself “race dreaming” and force myself back into the current struggle. It turns out I’m cresting the hill and starting to believe that there may be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I’ll actually finish this bitch. The bear on my back is losing weight. Simultaneously, I realize that this is likely a presumptuous thought

© DaKine Images by Jo Evans

for a man on the cusp of suicide only 50 meters ago. But that’s how it goes in the marathon biz—ebbs and flows. People always ask me, “Why do you run?” Just feels good. “What do you think about out there?” Nothing, everything, or just the next step. Regarding Kauai, they have stated, “Why would you pick such a hard marathon?” I must have forgotten that we were supposed to do marathons because they were easy. This is why I’m here. To find out how tough I am, to push myself to the edge, and to do it in unique and striking settings around the world.

This brings us to the good part. Kauai, even at mile 20, is the most beautiful and the most spiritual place that I have ever been. The emerald-green mountains jut up without a care in the world. Old sugar-cane fields create an ocean of whispering grass fields that sway in the sea breeze. The water is too blue to describe and blends perfectly with the South Pacific skies. Oh, and the dirt. Man, the dirt is so red and impeccably unique. It gets on your clothes, envelops your vehicle and your body, and most important, reminds you that not everything should be paved. Taken as a whole, it is Mother Earth’s mural of island perfection: crashers of Carolina blue, living jagged inspirations, and all grounded by the staining clay. Kauai is alive.

I’ve been here only three days, but the entire experience has been a blessing. I had the opportunity to work for the event, and the race organizers’ team and their

▲ Around mile six, the famous and beautiful “Tunnel of Trees” greets the runners with a respite of shade.

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affiliates are nothing short of utterly charismatic. The hospitality and enthusiasm of the locals put me at ease like an old friend. Every day has been capped with a seat on the sea wall, a beer or two, and new friends to salute the sun’s daily departure. And I learned; boy, did I learn. As a young race director myself, I was mummified by the detail and care the race director put into the event. At some point, it stops being a job or a paycheck and it just becomes a passion, a necessity to seek perfection. All I can say is thank your local race director. It’s too often a lonely toil and it is never easy. I’m not sure whether that is how all successful event organizers are wired, but the Kauai folks turned the task into passion. But after all of the work and all of the fun, I still had to run 26.2.

And we’re off The gun went off with a simultaneous seashell horn, and the runners pounced from the tiki-torch-lit starting area. Unfortunately, I had failed to train much in the past few years, which is a bad way to prepare for a marathon. My recent lifestyle had consisted of running five days a week, partying in San Francisco, and starting a new job. Girls and money just seemed more important and they probably are. Have you ever tried living without those things? Exactly: money and sex. Yes, please.

© DaKine Images by Jo Evans

▲ Authentic entertainment, like these Polynesian dancers, can be found throughout the route.

I got through the first few miles by treating it as a training run. I had failed to run or see the course ahead of time, but I know how to read elevation maps, and the back nine looked like a son of a bitch. A few early 6:30 miles reminded me that I wasn’t the runner I used to be. The 10K mark was distinguished by a famous tunnel of trees and reminded me that maybe life could be enjoyed a little more at this pace. The taiko drummers and hula dancers at every other aid station confirmed that this marathon was unlike any other. When I was fully in the zone and picking up the pace along the one-lane Pu’u Road, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. At mile 17 there was not a soul in sight. I started talking to myself, repeating those mantras I had developed in my competitive days. I leaned into the turns like a tour cyclist and challenged each hill like it was a personal affront to my character. No one affronts my character, especially not that no-good hill clan. No more lead scooters and finally no more pace car with the film crew. It was just the plantation grasses funneling me along my new journey. At that point, I realized that I would never be the runner I once dreamed I could be. No Olympics, no USA color would adorn this furry figure. I wouldn’t even return to the shape that I once occupied, but I finally didn’t care. My life was here and it was now. I was racing my demons of doubt and fighting the tribulation of the trial at hand. I would go hard until I died and that was that. This was a life statement.

We already know what happened at mile 20. It was life on the edge, and I got to the top of the hill. I let my body go; I let the pace flow down the hills and met the oncoming runners who had their personal battles to rage. The cheers of adulation have always raised my spirits as I grew up on a healthy diet of praise.

I even saw ol’ Dean Karnazes out on the course. In an effort at full disclosure, I serve as the executive director of Dean’s official charity, Karno Kids. Without shamelessly plugging our charity too much, we raise money to inspire kids to stay active and eat healthy. Also, Dean, I was just kidding about that Britney Spears night. Please don’t fire me.

My friendly local sea wall Finally, the volcanic sea wall that sits adjacent to the finishing stretch began to chant to me. I could start to feel that finisher’s tape across my chest as I reached 5K to go. Twenty-three miles down and just a few remain. Sounds easy, but now you just start to wait for every mile marker in the distance. Sometimes a deceptive native plant would serve as a mirage, and the fake marker would pass with only a lovely scent. I wanted markers and I was tired.

At the real mile 24, I knew that I would finish. I could see those crystal breakers and the Poipu development began to infiltrate the natural landscape. I could feel the light onshore winds as I began to pass half-marathoners at the end of their race.

As I passed the mile-25 marker, I decided then and there that I would enjoy this as much as possible. I would thank every volunteer with a smile or a quick word of appreciation. I would high-five the kids handing out water.

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© Kaiana Palama

▲ The author gets the crowd fired up as he approaches the finish line in Poipu and wins the race.

Passing the final mile marker and the last aid station, I tried to infuse them with my remaining energy. I know that I’m not the runner I used to be or the one I wanted to be, but I would give what I had.

When I passed mile 26, I also arrived at the blackened sea wall that would serve as my escort for the final minute of pain and exultation. This sea wall, made of volcanic rock, had served as a stoop for my first sunset in Kauai, and little

did I know that after the race it would play host to a fleeting love scene staged only in cheesy romance novels. Apparently the champion is judged among his contemporaries, and on that day mine were probably on the mainland.

In the final quarter mile, I would get excited; I would connect the onlookers to my smile and in return ask for the same. I was about to win my first marathon, and who knows if that will ever happen again. I broke into a dead sprint, crossed

the finish line, and officially sealed a memory that I will never, ever forget. While I wrote much of this account right after the race, it has been two years since I revisited the experience. Coincidentally, I’ve realized that this race reig

nited my love for running. Somehow my first marathon victory taught me that running is not about winning. When I crossed that finish line, I wasn’t proud of beating the others. I was proud about conquering self-doubts, enjoying the ride,

and appreciating those who make it possible. I’m now approaching some of the best fitness of my career, and I’ve never been so focused on enjoying the humidity, the heat, and the hills of life.