The marathon run, and it’s unique distance of 26.2 miles, is taken from the pages of Greek history. In 490 BC, a Greek solider named Phiddepiddes ran from Marathon to Athens, approximately 26 miles, to announce the defeat of the Persian army. Upon arriving in Athens, he had just enough time to shout “Niki!” (Victory!) before dropping dead. Centuries later, International Olympic Committee founder Pierre de Coubertin introduced the first official marathon run for the 1896 Olympic Games in Athens.

Last Sunday, over a thousand runners kept the spirit of Phiddepiddes alive for the 15th running of the Grand Rapids Marathon. Meanwhile, over three–thousand runners were gearing up for the 41st Annual Detroit Marathon on the other side of the state. It was a great day to be a runner in Michigan. I think all marathoners should definitely experience Detroit at some point; there aren’t many opportunities to run across the border into a foreign country, cover a few miles while being cheered on by ecstatic Canadians, before returning to the USA through an underground tunnel. For me, however, the small-town charm and positive vibes of GR make it a race I return to year after year. Sunday was no exception.

The weather was perfect; a brisk 30 degrees with slightly overcast skies at the start line. My family dropped me off a few blocks away at the Gerald R. Ford Museum. I ran a short warm-up through the darkened alleys to get the blood going.

My goal was to finish somewhere in the general vicinity of my PR, 3:40:09. Although, this was my first marathon in three years, so just getting through the damn thing would be acceptable, too. When I found my spot in the chute, I immediately found my old friend Jon Schlosser. This was Jon’s first marathon. I’d been following his training on Strava all summer, so I knew he was prepared for the task at hand. Jon was wearing on old shirt adorned with my name and photo:

Jon made the shirt a few years back while cheering me on at a prior marathon. He didn’t give much thought to wearing it Sunday, it just seemed like a comfortable shirt to wear for 26.2 miles. However, unbeknownst to Jon at the time, he was the recipient of many, many cheers for “Chris Kato” throughout the entire race. Certainly more than me.

Mile One: Jon and I agree to run the first few miles together. The first mile of a marathon is all about positioning, attempting to settle into your pace, and burning off some of the excess adrenaline coursing through your system. It goes by in a flash. When you pass the first marker, it’s hard not to tell yourself “Only 25 more miles to go.”

Mile Two: We continue our long trek down Steward Street, heading north towards Leonard. Jon and I weave through the crowd, trading off the lead here and there. Our pace was a little quick, somewhere in the 8:05 to 8:15 zone, but I knew we’d settle down soon enough. Cheering spectators line the streets. I try to take advantage of their enthusiasm – it wouldn’t be long until we were alone with only our thoughts in Millennium Park.

Mile Three: One of the early highlights of the race is crossing the Grand River on the 6th Street Bridge. I catch up with my buddy Doug Flynn (decked out in a glorious fluorescent flannel tuxedo t-shirt) midway across the bridge and give him the Too Sweet. We come off the bridge and head south on Monroe Avenue. Sarah and my mom are camped out near Rosa Parks Circle — their cheers (and visible confusion over Jon’s t-shirt) light a spark that carries me for the next few miles. My dad is back home recovering from an appendectomy, but he follows my progress on Strava and sends many encouraging texts throughout the race.

Mile Four: Things start to settle in around this point. Jon and I notice that our first 3 miles were too fast. We decide to take the next mile a little easier and let the 3:44 pace group make up a little ground behind us. We’re slowly but surely making our way out of industrial Grand Rapids and into the quiet stillness of Millenium Park, Walker, and Grandville.

Mile Five: I make a quick pit stop behind a bush around the five-mile marker. I tell Jon I’d catch back up with him, although I never do. I keep him in my sights for most of the race, but we never run another step together. I consume my first GU at 45 minutes.

Mile Six: The rolling hills of Butterworth Park. When people talk about how flat the GR course is, they usually forget about this section of the race. It’s beautiful, and the hills really aren’t that bad, but they’re still hills. I’m feeling fresh and invincible at this point. Just trying to keep my mind focused on the present. It’s easy to slide down the rabbit hole of considering just how much race lay ahead. It can be a little dreadful to say, for example, I’m 6 miles in … only 20 to go. So I continue to fight off those thoughts while trying to concentrate on the lyrics coming through my headphones. It’s the Gaslight Anthem’s ’59 Sound at this point, so no problem there.

Mile Seven: Out of Butterworth Park and onto Butterworth Street. Some of the toughest hills of the course, but nothing compared to the mountains of, say, Pittsburgh. I keep the legs churning and stay lockstep with the 3:44 pace group through this portion of course. Last year most of this road was flooded over; the water rose to my knees in some spots. No such obstacles this year, thankfully. On the other hand, that leaves far less room for excuses.

Mile Eight: On the back half of Butterworth Street. I know Millenium Park is coming up soon, but every time I come around a bend it’s just more Butterworth. The half-marathoners turn off during this section. I always get a reminder from the dark recesses of my brain that I could turn back here and just finish the half. This is the point of demarcation. In Flynn’s words, this is where the Varsity race continues and the JV race turns back. Only 18 miles to go.

Mile Nine: Still feeling fresh, lungs working beautifully, no pain yet (though I know it’s coming). I glide down the last of the Butterworth hills and onto a nice straightaway that leads into the park. An odd thing happens along here. I’m running side-by-side with a middle-aged woman. Out of the blue, her husband rolls up on a bicycle and proceeds to ride alongside us for the next 800 meters. Due to our placement on the road, I am wedged awkwardly between the happy couple as they chit-chat right through me. No bikes on the course, bro.

Mile Ten: We begin our loop around Lake Leota. I briefly flash back to my legs beginning to cramp up along this jaunt back in 2014. No such issues today. I eat a GU Stroopwafel and enjoy the view.

Mile Eleven: Pace good, legs good, lungs good. Stay Positive by the Hold Steady just getting started.

Mile Twelve: The steepest hills of the course unfurl before me as I make my way along Millennium Park Lake. Sarah and my mom are waiting just after the aid station. They cheer loud and clear as I cross the bridge over Maynard Street and head into the back-half of the park.

Mile Thirteen: Half-way point. My hamstrings begin to flirt with the idea of possibly cramping in the near future. Hips are starting to ache. I start to lengthen my legs and strike with my heel for the next few minutes, attempting to stretch out my hammies on the run. Mild relief. Anxiety of impending doom starts creeping in, I do my best to shake it. I tell myself to just focus on the current mile. Enjoy the sights. Make friends with the pain.

Mile Fourteen: This portion of the race is all about anticipation. You’re finishing up the final paces of Millenium Park, nearing the bridge that will take you to the next phase of the race: the out-and-back along Indian Mounds Road that covers miles 15 through 21, the last test of the race before the final 5 (which is all guts and heart). I continue to stave off cramping but I can tell it’s a futile endeavor.

Mile Fifteen: I turn off the bridge and make my way onto the road. My right hamstring is starting to flair up, though not yet a full-fledge cramp. I assess the rest of my body – lungs: good, feet: good, mind: OK, legs: iffy. At the next aid station they’re handing out bananas, Oreos, and GU. I eat it ALL.

Mile Sixteen: Pickle Juice. I take 3 cups.

Mile Seventeen: Almost to the big Mile 18 turn — the rowdiest and most important spectator section of the race. The turning point. You cross Mile 18, see your family one last time, and embark on the dark night of the soul that is the final 8 miles. I’m not there yet, but I’m close. Hamstring is tight, but still no cramp. I may outlast this thing after all.

Mile Eighteen: The big turnaround loop. The streets are lined with screaming spectators. Folks are handing out water, Gatorade, beer, orange slices, bananas, and more. I stuff an orange slice in mouth and run a few paces like Don Corleone. I’m at the stage of the race where I’ll consume anything that’s handed to me, hoping that one of these items will help fight off muscle cramps and carry me along to the finish line. Mom and Sarah make it just in time to see my stumble past and head back towards Grand Rapids.

Mile Nineteen: My old friends from the 3:44 pace group catch back up to me. I’d been outrunning them by about 30 seconds for the last few miles. I’m a little demoralized as they close in, recognizing that my pace must be starting to fade. But rather than wallow, I stay focused and trudge onward. As I near the Mile 20 marker, my right hamstring locks up and the cramp finally arrives.

Mile Twenty: Pain. Big pain. I made it 20 miles, but the cramp arrives and it’s ruthless. I don’t need to stop, but my form suffers. I try to straighten my leg and run through it. My mind remains intact and I’m not concerned with the remaining 6 miles. I just need to get through the next one.

Mile Twenty One: I pass through the pickle juice and banana stations and stuff my face all over again. I’ve got the cramp under control, but it’s still there, bubbling under the surface. My form is pretty much gone, but I’m not worried about it. Form isn’t going to take me to the finish line. It’s all about guts and heart from here on out.

Mile Twenty Two: I text my family after crossing the 22-mile mark to let them know I’m getting “close” to the finish. Within a few seconds of hitting send, the cramp finally returns in full and stops me in my tracks. A full-blown Charley Horse extending from my butt to my calf. One of the worst cramps I’ve ever experienced. It forces me to stop right in the middle of the course and lean over, clutching my quad. I try to walk, but my leg has no mobility. I’m done. I made it 22 miles with no problems whatsoever, only to crumble with the finish just around the corner. That’s when I recognize the dilemma before me. This is a test. I could throw in the towel, I could attempt to walk and eventually reach the finish in 4:30 or so, OR I could suck it up, fight through it, and GO. I think of Terry Fox, the legendary Canadian runner with osteosarcoma who raised thousands of dollars for cancer research by attempting to run across Canada, despite having a prosthetic leg. Fox ran a marathon every single day from April 12 to September 1, 1980, covering 3,339 miles over 143 days. His “Marathon of Hope” ended in Thunder Bay when his cancer returned. He fought through unspeakable pain on a daily basis. His prosthetic leg was a far cry from the modern technology available today. My measly little cramp is nothing compared to what Fox endured. With his memory burning in mind, I put one foot in front of the other and run. My form is ugly, my leg is killing me, but I move forward.

Mile Twenty Three: Pain, but still moving. Somehow my head is still clear. The remaining 3 miles don’t seem too far away. I will make it.

Mile Twenty Four: “DIMED OUT” by Titus Andronicus kicks in as I re-enter Butterworth Park and make my way up the hills one last time. “I only really like it when it’s dimed out” screams frontman Patrick Stickles; dimed out refers to living life with the volume always cranked to 10. In my case, it’s pushing your body to the breaking point week in and week out. Relentless. No retreat, no regrets. Dimed Out. My pace recovers from the cramp, but my form remains atrocious as I try to hold on to some semblance of control. When I came through here a few hours earlier, the pack was crowded with runners jockeying for position. Now it’s just me and the road.

Mile Twenty Five: 1.2 miles to go. Doesn’t feel like a victory lap, not just yet. Still got 8 minutes or so to suffer through, but I know I will finish and I know my time will be respectable. I won’t PR, but I won’t be far from it either. I’m content. Trying my best to take in the moment and enjoy it. It’s not quite that easy. I just want to be done.

Mile Twenty Six: I can see the finish line. Less than a quarter mile away. The finishing chute is packed with screaming people surrounding the road and bleeding out onto the course. The euphoric waves hit. I Too Sweet the crowd, eyes focused on the finish line. I figured I’d run a marathon again someday, but I lived in the “5 Marathon” zone for so long that 5 seemed like my destiny. It’s not. This was 6. I feel strong as I cross the line. Marathon Don hands me a finisher’s medal and shakes my hand. No tears, just sweet relief. Schlosser’s waiting for me. We survive. We hug. We find beer.