After the six mile mark my steady pace slowed and my thighs tightened. I walked and jogged till mile eight and pushed my legs one after the other, stopping thankfully every two miles for water, till mile 12, when I summoned all the strength in my body to “finish strong.” I’d like to describe the experience by recalling childhood nightmare’s of being pursued and unable to run because, to my horror, all my strength has been drained and my legs turn to stone. Fellow Pier to Peakers remained encouraging enough, the crazies, smiling and cheering once anyone resumed a jog to surge that particular incline, one of many. 

One man who’d run behind or slightly in front of me for 3 or so miles, and who I refer to as Popeye, kept verbalizing a need for a can of spinach, and laughing as he asked, frequently, where the cartoon character was when you needed him. My technique was to push away thoughts of death and pain with anything positive, which was remarkably easy considering the tremendous view, and California’s unnervingly large pinecones. I’m talking infant-sized cones of pine, with spikes comparable to arrowheads. So amazed by nature, I picked up one of these cones and put it under my arm for a couple lunges before I realized it must have been 5 pounds, going on 10, and that the point of checking out the scenery was to get my mind off the weight of my legs. Popeye gave me a knowing smile; I set my treasure down, fearful I’d become one of them.

At first glance, the joggers and walkers of a half marathon up a mountain seem, well, nuts…especially the ones who had competed in Pier to Peak over 11 times (Stairmaster seems to be a popular and successful training technique). It is not that they knew what a mountain was, were running up it again, and liked it that baffled me, but that they were…smiling. Big smiles, hearty laughs, jokes and some serious friendly support the whole 4,000 ft incline. If suffering up a mountain in Santa Barbara with a tremendous view of the city, the channels, and the Channel Islands brings out the compassionate claps on the back from fellow runners, I can only imagine the kind of camaraderie found in hell. But maybe it’s just the endorphins.

Or perhaps they aren’t mad at all. Wouldn’t it be crazier if they weren’t smiling, if they ran Pier to Peak every year grimacing and brooding over the heat and the various aches of their bodies? It’s difficult to accomplish any task that one’s will is against, let alone a half marathon. Whether they do it because they love it, it to prove something to themselves, for the view, for the challenge, for the killer quads, or for the ice cold beer waiting for them at the finish, they have to have some way of getting up that mountain. And for those who find themselves in a much steeper situation than aforethought, the quirks of others serve a purpose other than motivation: entertainment.

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