through the Boston Marathon because she is in a similar pace range to mine. She trained hard and ran tough. She showed me what is possible for those of us who aren’t elites but aren’t slouches, either.

Getting through the half with Joe

My friend Joe D. showed up to take me through the half. Joe is a very dear friend, someone who occasionally infuriates me by seeing when I’m doing less than my best and calling me on it. He is also an utter inspiration: He races every weekend, usually wins or places, and still comes out to run with his slower friends. And he doesn’t act like he is slumming when he does it. Joe and I became friends through running, but we also share an interest in baseball. As we ran, I imagined us talking about the Mariners and what a good start they have this year. As we passed the half in 1:47-something, right on pace, I imagined Joe encouraging me to keep it up and reminding me that the real half is at the 20-mile mark.

Matty was waiting for me at the next mile. Matty is an old friend, too, someone I met through my sister. He came to me for advice a year or so ago when he was trying to start running, and we ran together a few times. I’ve definitely pulled him a few miles, and I liked the idea of his returning the favor! Since he doesn’t have a car, I imagined him riding his motorcycle to Eugene, just to pace me.

The next mile, according to my band, I would be accompanied by my friend Diep. That is a nickname, not a real name, and it’s pronounced “deep.” Diep is wicked fast. He is also one of the most driven competitors I know. He knows everything I would like to know about “game face.”

It turned out I had made a good choice in selecting him as my imaginary pacer for this part of the race. As I was trotting along, lost in my own head, putting one foot in front of another and admiring the vivid green of the landscape and wondering when things were going to start getting tough—because they always do—I failed to notice that the half-marathon course had briefly joined the marathon course and had then split off again. I was on the wrong course.

“I’m just trying to keep up with you. You’re pacing this perfectly.” A voice broke into my reverie, and I muttered some pleasantry along the lines of “You’re doing great.” We made a bit of small talk about the weather and the course and then, after a few minutes, my new friend confided that it was his first marathon and he would be satisfied with anything under four but that he was currently on pace for about 3:35.

More company “Are you guys doing the full marathon?” asked a voice behind us.

“Yeah,” we said in unison.

“You needed to turn way back there.” The stranger, a woman in spandex with a ponytail, gestured far off into the distance.

“Seriously?” It looked so far away.

“Yeah.”

My mind went into a flurry of damage control as I turned and reversed course, running against the traffic. Could I make up the time? Could I at least get a 3:45, to qualify for Boston? What would Diep do?

Once we were back on course, I could see a pace-group balloon far ahead. I couldn’t make out the numbers. “What pace group is that?” I asked someone.

“Three-fifty.”

What would Diep do? Diep would floor it. I decided I would floor it, too. I threaded through the other runners, collecting lots of roadkill and a wicked side stitch. I nearly forgot to look for the next mile marker. I swept past the 3:50 pace group and scanned ahead to see if I could pick out the 3:40 group’s balloon off in the distance.

At this point, my pace-band strategy became less of a focus and making up distance took over. The people on my band for the next few miles—my uncle Kenny, the only other jock in the family; my friend Dan (Tex), who has done some insane number of marathons in the last year while being a dedicated family