Highs and lows of the Honolulu Marathon
On a morning run in the spring, I exited a park trail and merged onto a coastal road. It was one of my usual routes, scenic and absent of traffic. But there was a mass of runners on the road. Within a few strides, I realized I’d run into a race.
The crowd wore numbers pinned to their shirts and moved west, like me, into a residential area. Orange tape and clusters of spectators lined both sides of the road. There was nowhere to escape, so I kept running. People at the end of driveways cheered and rang bells. I was an imposter, the one without a number, but I could feel the energy of the race—a united force of runners, working toward a shared goal, each responsible for their own contribution.
It also felt competitive. I moved through the crowd passing runners for a few hundred meters before a gap opened at an intersection and I veered off course and ran away. Those few minutes were a rush. I was a fraud, not part of the race, and had expected to be called out by someone for not belonging.
I finished my run, alone, but couldn’t stop thinking about being in that race.
PART 1
I started running in the pandemic as a way to combat stress. Everyone was stressed, but the demands of life were unbearable for me at times. I was in my late thirties, pretty fit, but had never been a runner. On an ordinary summer day, I declined a work meeting invite, stood up from my desk (the kitchen table), and went outside for a run. It was impulsive and I remember wearing Vans. My run was maybe 20 minutes. It felt good. It helped me turn off the tornado of tangential thoughts spiraling in my head and focus on something else—on nothing. I did it again the next day.
Over the next two years, I moved to multiple cities, regularly flew cross-country for work, had to quarantine too many times, moved in with family, fell out with family, sold our half-renovated house, tried to live somewhere else, went back and overpaid for a new house, renovated the entire thing, couldn’t find childcare, changed jobs, my wife lost her job, we had a second daughter, she got sick, my older daughter had surgery, I stopped sleeping… And a million other things happened that I can’t even remember now.
So I ran. I kept running. Although I never found enjoyment in it, it always helped me cope. I created ways to fit running into my life, often between meetings. If I had an hour gap in my workday, I’d see how far I could run in 55 minutes. Doing this for months made me fast. On weekends, I ran further and pushed my distance to 10 miles—then further.
I’d never followed running and didn’t know the culture. I’d be mortified if someone I knew saw me in public wearing running gear. I run alone because it’s purely self-serving—it’s “me time.” And I’m obsessed. I’ve watched countless hours of running shoe reviews on YouTube and dumped paychecks on high-end technical gear that I’ve worn into oblivion. I track my runs using three different apps and scrutinize the data of my pace, distance, elevation, and heart rate.
I live in a small city and see other people running, sometimes. Not as much as you’d think, but when I do, I don’t relate to them. They’re usually jogging as a pair or in a small group, going slow, wearing brand-new gear that’s unstylish. And they’re enjoying their runs. They smile and laugh and wave at passing traffic.
I’m a calm and passive person, but my running is aggressive. I’m chasing a high, cleansing my soul of toxic energy, and maximizing short windows of time. My mind can drift into a state of fight-or-flight and irritation. I flip my finger at drivers who honk or raise their hands if I cross a street in front of them, and I increase my pace.
I spent several months in Mexico City last winter with my family and ran in Chapultepec Park, where the rolling hills, high elevation, and varying air quality make for tough running. Women half my age would fly by me on the uphills most mornings—breath calm, form perfect, no sweat. Groups of men a decade my senior would pass me, deep in morning chatter and raising their voices to get words in while carrying a united pace. It was impressive and humbling. Fast runners.
I came home from Mexico determined to improve at running. I bought better shoes and started devouring content about running. I’d been running regularly for almost 3 years and wanted to test myself with a race—a marathon.
PART 2
I found dozens of marathons online in obscure cities with random dates, but one stood out: Honolulu. It was perfect and the entry was still open. Hawaii in December, when the Pacific Northwest weather is at its worst. I could sell it as an easy family vacation, where we’d enjoy several days on Waikiki Beach and I’d disappear for a few hours on Sunday morning to go for a run. I signed up.
I started listening to running podcasts (while running) about marathon training. It was completely overwhelming. I knew nothing about workouts, tempo, or aerobic threshold—and I had no clue what a taper was. I purchased a training program and wrote down the details of every run, around 100 of them.
The seasons changed from summer to fall and I got sick, got sore, and worked overtime. My time to fit in running seemed to disappear. It was the first time that I truly realized the impossibility of adding more hours to a day. I bought a headlamp and started running at ridiculous hours at the expense of sleep. But having that race date on the calendar was something I needed, like medicine. It carried me through all the other stuff. “December 10th: race day,” was always there in the notebook, looming, and week by week, page by page, it got closer.
I missed one run over 18 weeks. It was the Wednesday before the Sunday marathon when we flew to Hawaii and I just couldn’t find the time, so I let it go. It felt freeing. I marked an “X” beside the Wednesday workout and spent the afternoon swimming in the ocean with my daughter.
The night before the race, I thought about the months of training I’d done and that the furthest I’d ever run was 18 miles. In a few hours, I’d need to get up and run 26.2. The reality scared me.
The Honolulu Marathon starts at 5:00 am. Thirty thousand runners start at the same time, so I knew to arrive early. I crept out of the hotel in the middle of the night, rented one of those e-scooters that litter the sidewalks of most American cities, and rode through empty streets to Ala Moana Park.
“A sea of runners spanned city blocks behind me, reminiscent of a music festival where everyone pushes to the stage front for the headliner.”
The hour I spent at the starting line was electric. Early-aughts dance music filled the street, American and Japanese hype hosts competed for mic time to fire up the crowd, and thousands of runners queued up to dozens of port-o-potties to do their morning rituals before bouncing, striding, and stretching across the park in the dark.
At go time, a sea of runners spanned city blocks behind me, reminiscent of a music festival where everyone pushes to the stage front for the headliner. The swarm collectively leaned forward under a release of fireworks and we set off into the dark city.
The first few minutes were frantic as I found my footing amongst hundreds of feet. It was sweaty inside the pack and I told myself to fall into my own pace, which seemed impossible surrounded by the frenzied movements—like everyone was dancing to a different song.
Runners sprinted through the crowd and I reminded myself again to go slow. At mile 1, the cluster began to ease from a river to a stream and my breath got full. My focus shifted away from dodging other feet to the early-morning spectators on the sidewalks of Chinatown. The herd of runners continued to thin and lengthen, and I set lines through the course corners that twisted across Honolulu.
The course straightened out along Waikiki before we broke away from the city and ran into the darkness towards Diamond Head. This was the first proper hill-climb and the opposing wind hit me in unison with the incline. I slowed my pace slightly as I leaned uphill and a young woman in knee-high socks glided past me. I thought of Chapultepec park and picked my pace back up.
Despite the hill-climbs and headwind, I held a solid pace for over 20 miles. My wife told friends to text me encouragement during the race and Siri relayed them through my AirPods as they came in. The artificial voice read out motivating messages, some hilarious and insulting, and they all kept me pushing.
I settled in with 4 other runners and we stuck together for several miles. It was the first time I’d run alongside anyone. We carried a pace of 6:30-6:40 minutes per mile, rotating positions, and having conversation. It was odd to be having small talk at this punishing distance and speed, but I appreciated the change of focus.
The last 3 miles of the course go back over Diamond Head and down into Honolulu. There are 2 miles of uphill with a subtle incline, and the final mile is downhill to the finish at the edge of Waikiki. I was cooked by this point, expecting the end to come into sight around every next corner. I couldn’t cool myself down and my legs felt heavy like they were filled with sand. A blister intensified with every step on the ball of my left foot. I was tired of running.
I’d read a tip somewhere to mentally split a marathon into 2 separate runs: a 20-mile run, and a 10-kilometer run on top of it. I was deep into the 10K, but the uphill was sucking more energy I didn’t have out of my legs with every pounding step. My head kept sagging back on my shoulders and I had to concentrate on keeping my neck straight and my face down from the sun. I was confused why this required so much effort.
I knew that if I could keep running to the top, it would literally be all downhill from there—an easy jog to the end where I could finish strong. My pace was slowing, but I checked my watch and was tracking to finish at a time of 2:58.
At the top of the hill, I passed the Diamond Head lookout and scanned the panoramic view of the southern Oahu coastline, glowing in the morning light. It was beautiful. I crossed the apex of the volcano road and a few strides later reached the mile 25 marker as the hill transitioned to a decline. I ran through it, blacked out, and hit the pavement.
PART 3
It was a life-flashing-before-my-eyes type of vision—the craziest feeling I’d ever experienced. I was crumpled on my side, hallucinating. I could see the finish line right ahead of me and a crowd of people—people I know who’d been texting me during the race—were waving me in. “Is that the finish line?” I asked.
“No,” said the man. “You’ve got 2 kilometers to go, but it’s all downhill. You’re right there brother!” His name was David and he was the course volunteer at mile marker 25. He was around 50, raised on Oahu, and he slid his thick arms under mine and gently pulled me against the partially shaded retaining wall at the edge of the road. He talked to me, just making conversation, but seemed genuinely devastated for me. There were 30,000 runners and I was somewhere in the first 50 with a mile to go, and it was over for me.
I was in a state of delirium and it was impossible to get my body to do what I wanted it to, but the sensation I had was happiness. David kept saying how sorry he was for me, but I thought it was so funny. Hilarious even. I’d come so far and had a mile to go, all downhill, and hit this wall—hit the road. Bonked. It was cruelly fantastic.
The second feeling that washed over me was embarrassment. I hadn’t expected to draw attention to myself and thought how ridiculous I must have looked to anyone in addition to David who saw my legs give out and my body fold onto the black asphalt that was now embedded in my knees and elbows. I was grateful for the care and attention, but it was paired with humiliation.
My phone buzzed. My wife and daughters were at the finish line and had been tracking me on the marathon app. The final update they received was that I’d arrive in 7 minutes, but it had been about 20 now. I needed to let her know I was lying on the side of the road and to not expect me because my legs didn’t work. I pulled my phone from my pocket and it was sopping wet with sweat or water or both. I couldn’t focus my eyes on the screen, but was convinced it wasn’t mine. The screen looked different and it felt unfamiliar.
David took my phone, dried the screen, and asked who he should call. I dictated a message to my wife that he typed out and sent: “I bonked hard but I’m ok. I’m with the course staff. Don’t wait for me if Dylan needs to nap.”
There was no urgency in his voice, and like David, he sat with me against the stone wall and the three of us talked and watched runners go down the hill.
A medic arrived, a young Hawaiian doctor, and he took my vitals. He also said how sorry he was for me before sharing his concern about my low heart rate and dehydration, and suggested I go to the medic tent to be monitored. There was no urgency in his voice, and like David, he sat with me against the stone wall and the three of us talked and watched runners go down the hill.
I went to the medic tent back down the hill I’d just ran up. Course volunteers helped me get there, as walking on my own wasn’t an option. I couldn’t keep a straight line. A buried memory revisited me of the first time I got excessively drunk as a teenager and my legs betrayed my balance. I needed to sober up.
At the tent, I was shown to a canvas bed and given Gatorade, gel, a bag of ice, and a bag of Lays chips. Everyone was exceptionally kind. I sat on the edge of the bed and the tent filled up with other runners who’d collapsed—most of them from cramping.
The cramping runners, all men, looked like they were in labor. They keeled over, locked in odd positions, and groaned or whimpered in agony. It seemed like a battlefield medic tent, where injured soldiers were being pulled in by heroes from the frontline—not voluntary runners coming in from a coastal Hawaiian road on a perfect Sunday morning. Medics scrambled to bring bags of ice and rolls of Gladwrap, and mummified the cramping victims’ limbs with plastic. I had to get out.
I stepped back into the sun and felt a little more steady on my feet. A huge Hawaiian man approached me and said, “There’s a van to take you to the finish, but you gotta decide right now if you’re taking the van or gonna try to finish because we need to pick up another runner that went down a mile back.” I told him to take the van and I’d figure myself out, grabbed another bottle of water from the medics’ cooler, and stumbled back onto the road to head back up the hill.
PART 4
Partway up the hill, a random runner saw me swaying on the edge of the road from behind and pulled up and put his arm around me. He extended his fist across his body with his other arm and said in a calm and quiet voice, “I got you. We’re finishing this together.” I tapped his knuckles in response and my legs straightened out beside him. I knew I would finish the race as we continued up the hill.
A few minutes later I crossed mile 25 for the second time and saw David at the mile marker. “David!” I yelled. “I’m back and I’m finishing.” He shuffled into the road around bypassing runners, reached me with wide arms, and gave me a quick but strong hug. He looked like he was about to cry, and I felt like I would cry.
“You got this Eric, you’re right there!” he called and pumped his fist in the air as my mystery partner and I set off down the hill. David’s booming voice projected above the mob of runners as he yelled encouragement to each of them. He must have shouted the same lines hundreds of times throughout the day. I felt a pang of guilt that he gave me his entire bottle of water and now stood in the sun with his voice getting more hoarse. It was like he’d given me the shirt off his back so he could help me finish a race that made no difference to him.
The road flattened out and I heard the finish line before I saw it. I started running again. Something internal told me I had to make sure I ran through the finish line. The early-aughts dance music was back and hundreds of spectators were calling in the runners from both sides of the road—this time in reality.
It’s so rare for people to cheer for themselves, but inside the short window of time and distance that exists between 26 and 26.2 miles, it’s completely natural.
When I collapsed at mile 25, I was alone. It was lonely at the front of the pack and the struggling time-focused runners were spread out by long empty gaps. Now, I was in the thick crowd of 4-hour-plus finishers and there were hundreds of us. The energy was unexpected, reviving, and emotional. Arms draped across strangers’ shoulders, fists rose to the sky, hands clapped above heads, and people cheered for themselves. It’s so rare for people to cheer for themselves, but inside the short window of time and distance that exists between 26 and 26.2 miles, it’s completely natural. I ran across the finish line.
The first 25 miles of the race were the fastest and furthest I’ve ever run. I’m proud of those miles because I worked hard for them. It was without a doubt my greatest run. But the final mile, all downhill, took me over an hour and a half. I’m even more proud of that mile. It’s when I met people and got to know their names. It’s when I intimately experienced what you hear second-hand about the Aloha spirit and Hawaiian community. It’s when I pushed my body over the edge for the first time, into a state of self-discovery. It’s when I became a part of the marathon and not just a participant, where other runners carried me over the finish line. It was the hardest and the best mile of my life.
A week after I got home and sank into the dark holiday season in the Pacific Northwest, I received a promotional email with the subject line, “Early entry open for the 2024 Honolulu Marathon.” Almost subconsciously, I opened the email, clicked through the links, and registered.
I don’t feel the need for redemption, or a shot at a do-over to break 3 hours, but I want to be immersed in that experience again. I want to run into the wind and up the Diamond Head hill because I know it’s waiting for me this time. I want to see David at mile 25 and give him a hug and a fresh bottle of water. I want to be inside the swollen crowd of 4-hour finishers and cheer for myself with my arm across a stranger’s back. And I want to run through the finish line of a marathon.
And why wouldn’t I want these things? I am a runner.