Prologue: City Island, 1983 (Foreshadowing)

We arrived in Harrisburg the day before the race, picked up my bib (parking for that was a bit of urban Tetris, but overall painless), checked into our hotel downtown, and walked over to City Island to get the lay of the land. Ten minutes from the start. Sweet, one less thing to worry about.

City Island itself felt like it had been left behind in the 80s—in a way that was both slightly sad and strangely charming. Rusty, peeling-paint merry-go-round energy. A baseball stadium that looked like it had stories to tell. A dilapidated parking garage that felt a little… tired. But I liked it. It reminded me weirdly of my own childhood—and of Hawkins, of all places. Hmmm. Wonder why? (This, apparently, was foreshadowing.)

I should mention up front that I trained for this race using a 10-day cycle instead of a traditional weekly schedule. One quality run, a long run, strength work, and generous recovery built in on purpose. As a perimenopausal runner dealing with slower recovery, lingering muscle and tendon sensitivity, and a body that no longer responds well to constant compression, the goal was simple: get to the start line healthy, train consistently, and see how far that structure could carry me on race day.

That walk around the island was reassuring—until it wasn’t.

We noticed the port-a-potty situation and exchanged looks. Surely, we thought, they’ll bring more overnight.

Boy, were we wrong.

Mile 0: Hawkins, But With Port-a-Potties

Okay, so race morning shows up and immediately chooses violence.

Same tiny cluster of port-a-potties. Same island. Only now it’s full of runners doing that frantic, dead-eyed shuffle that says, I have exactly twelve minutes to solve a problem that should not exist in a civilized society.

I sprinted to find a line that looked merely unreasonable instead of catastrophic and barely made it to the start in time. Luckily, access to the corrals was easy. The vibe? Controlled chaos. Like a school fire drill, but with carbon-plated shoes and much higher emotional stakes.

Meanwhile, the Naval Academy running team stood nearby with their own two private port-a-potties, cordoned off like a VIP lounge. Good for them. Truly. Perks of being on a large team, I guess. The rest of us were out there raw-dogging the public port-a-potty line like participants in a very democratic endurance experiment.

The start itself was typical—loud music, families nearby, staggered starts for walkers, half marathoners, and full marathoners. City Island is small, so everything felt compressed but manageable. Parking on the island looked stressful with road closures; I was deeply grateful we walked.

Elevation-wise, Harrisburg is mostly flat—until you realize the bridges are their own small toll booths, and you’ll be paying that fee more than once.

At this point, the world still felt like Hawkins. Colors on. Rules intact.

Miles 1–3: Hawkins Holds

Early miles clicked by smoothly. Crowd support was solid. Legs felt cooperative. Brain felt optimistic.

Everything made sense.

Also: the crowd support here is the real deal. I’ve heard people call Harrisburg a mini Boston because of the spectators and energy—and honestly? I get it. The volunteers are everywhere. The aid stations are frequent. People show up like they mean it. Good signs, too.

Miles 4–6: The River Path and the Fish That Refused to Bite

Once we settled into the paved path along the Susquehanna, we passed fishermen stationed along the embankment, staring at the stream of runners like we’d just scared every fish back to 1983.

I imagined the fish thinking: Absolutely not. We’re not biting today. The sky is shaking.

One fisherman looked particularly… relaxed. I briefly wondered if he’d still be there by loop two. Taking a deeper sniff, I thought—is he even fishing out here? Then I remembered I had a marathon to run and let the thought drift away like a mirage.

And somewhere along that same stretch—right when the river path started to feel like it had its own rhythm—I noticed her for the first time.

The perfumed runner.

Full glory. Head-to-toe luxury kit. Effortless stride. The kind of runner who looks like she’s filming a campaign while the rest of us are just trying to keep breakfast down. We began leapfrogging—passing each other back and forth along the Susquehanna like we were quietly enrolled in the same strange side quest.

Miles 7–9: Italian Lake and the First Omens

Italian Lake is roughly a mile loop—flat on paper, but quietly demanding thanks to cambered pavement, uneven footing, and subtle rises that don’t announce themselves. Still scenic. Still runnable. But your ankles know what’s happening.

Right before it, I saw them: an Amish family of five running together.

Mom in front. Skirt. Headpiece. Three kids tucked in behind her. One cohesive unit.
I immediately pictured them at home and laughed—because there is no way this level of cohesion exists in a kitchen on a school morning. Someone in that family has absolutely argued about socks, homework, or “why can’t I
wear that,” or the universal teenage classic: I’M READY (while still looking for the other shoe).

But out there? Zero drama. One unit. Mission mode.

If the Navy ever need a pace group that doesn’t negotiate, call that family.

Just past Italian Lake, I met the GOAT.

A real goat, calmly chewing leaves, stationed near a sign that read: You may not be the GOAT, but you got this!

Situation normal. Copy that, goat.

Miles 10–12: The Bridge (First Pass)

Not long after, we crossed the Harvey Taylor Bridge for the first time. On loop one, it’s honestly kind of… fine. A straightforward out-and-back with a pedestrian sidewalk wide enough for two people and guardrails separating runners from traffic. The ramps have just enough rise to make you notice, but nothing dramatic.

I filed it away as: Okay. Bridge noted.

Mile 13: Halfway — Everything Is Fine

Halfway still felt like Hawkins—the town before everything breaks. Volunteers cheerful. Aid stations plentiful. Crowd support excellent.

Okay. We’re fine. Time to pick up the pace, it’s on!

But right after I came off City Island and took that familiar sharp right back onto the paved path to start loop two, I saw my family waiting for me—bright faces, big cheers, gloves and my empty carry bottle already “spoken for.” This was our predetermined drop point.

And that’s when it hit me—like a pop quiz I did not study for.

My heart rate was weirdly high. Not “race excitement” high. More like “why are we acting like this is an emergency” high. And the annoying part was it didn’t just drop back down when I told it to. It took actual time to settle, like it was busy arguing with me.

And after that, every time I tried to pick it up—even a little—my body responded with this instant, uncomfortable surge of perceived effort. Like: Oh, you want to go faster? Cool. Here’s panic and burning legs. Not sustainable. Not even close.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a very unhelpful quote surfaced: If the brain dies, the body dies.

Okay. Copy that.

Panic not allowed. Brain stays online. Roger that.

I smiled. High-fived. Jogged away.

And then—almost immediately—I had to start walking. That’s when the quad cramps showed up. Like my legs took one look at the change in rhythm and said: Absolutely not. And once they started, they only got more confident.

Inside, I knew what kind of race day this was going to be instead.

The fishermen were gone now. Trash dotted the path. The circus was quietly packing up.

Miles 14–15: The Shift

It starts as déjà vu.

Same aid stations. Same volunteers. Same faces. Same cheerful “You’ve got this!”— and I’m still out here, bargaining with my quads like they’re a separate department that didn’t get the race-day memo.

I’m still hoping the cramps will subside. Still hoping I can kickstart everything back to normal, find that pace I thought was waiting for me, like a spare gear tucked into the pocket of my shorts.

Alas.

I keep moving. I keep pretending this is temporary. I keep telling myself, just get to the next stretch, just get through the next minute, just hold the line.

Miles 16–18: Italian Lake Again, the GOAT Returns

On loop two, Italian Lake felt less like scenery and more like a quiet negotiation with my ankles. Same camber. Same unevenness. Now amplified by fatigue.

And then the GOAT appeared again.

Same goat. Same chewing. Same sign.

But now it felt… wrong. Like something you’d see in the Upside Down. Familiar from a distance, unsettling up close. The fixed stare. The relentless jaw. Less comedy. More accountability.

The sign still said: You may not be the GOAT, but you got this.

And honestly, it might have been the most accurate messaging on the course.

And then the goat looked me straight in the eyes—yellow as warning lights—and in a deep Vecna voice that somehow enunciated every syllable like a prophecy, it said: “Keep. Chew. Ing.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine.

After that? I abandon all hope. I’m demoralized in the cleanest, simplest way: Oh. This is what today is.

All sorts of people pass me. I stop at a port-a-potty and hope—seriously—that I don’t cramp while in there. Because imagine. Imagine the headline.

I shuffle back out, trying to shake off the goat-curse, and that’s when—like she’d been summoned by the exact moment my morale cracked—the perfumed runner comes around again…

The perfumed runner passed me again. But this time the moment had changed. The expensive perfume now smelled putrid. Or maybe it’s me? She looked a little disheveled. The formerly Arabian-trot elegance had picked up a hint of limp.

And still—she was moving faster than me.

Shit.

She might have style, I thought. But I have grit, dammit.

Miles 18–21: Portal Formation

On loop two, I saw the bridge again in the distance—and even though I knew it was coming, my heart still sank. More like a slow internal drop—cue the clock chiming.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Oh. Right. This part. Again.

That’s when the portal began to form.

You run it out, away from downtown first, and my brain immediately started scanning for escape routes like this was a bad dream. Could I jump the guardrail? Hop the divider? Absolutely not. Traffic. Cars zipped by, passengers bundled up with coffees, sealed inside a warm universe where bridges are something you drive over in thirty seconds and never think about again.

At the far end, the volunteers split into two moods. On the right, a guy who looked utterly spent—counting seconds until he could go home and disappear into a blanket. On the left, a group of students who were aggressively alive, radiating pep at a level that felt borderline illegal this late in the race.

And then—just like that—I was directed back up and onto the bridge again.

No.

No no no.

(And look—if the race ever adds “official signage” to this bridge, I’m just saying: Pennsylvania could save time and taxpayer money by skipping the committee hearings and going straight to the only name that captures the full emotional range of this out-and-back: THAT GODDAMN BRIDGE.)

You head back toward downtown and realize—yes—this is still happening. The wind drains warmth. Time stretches.

I fell in behind a half-naked runner—skimpy shorts and flowing hair, nothing else. His shoulder blades were glistening, and I was freezing just looking at him.

As I drew even with him, he turned his head and said it, clear as day, in that voice:

“You should’ve stayed away!”

I froze for half a second.

Oh my god.

It’s Billy.

What the hell?

I had this completely irrational fear that he was about to grab me and toss me off the bridge. So I did the only thing that made sense.

I sped up.

I passed him, eyes forward. When I glanced back, he was already fading into the gray—just an ominous grimace shrinking into the distance.

And then—finally—I was off That Goddamn Bridge.

Hopper voice in my head:

This is not a joke.

Correct.

Mile ~23: Solid Ground and Shield Mode

The pavement feels different immediately.

Not easy. Not good. But solid. Predictable. Real.

I tuck myself into the pace group without asking, sliding into the middle like I belong there. I don’t. I know I don’t. I catch a couple of looks—but I don’t care. This isn’t about belonging. This is about staying upright and warm and moving forward.

I let them block the wind. I sync my steps to their rhythm.

Shield mode engaged.

Mile ~24: The Grated Bridge

I hate this bridge.

You can see the river through the floor, churning and dark, like it’s waiting. The sidewalk is narrow. I angle myself as far away from the grate as possible.

And right there, mid-grate, the pacer announced—bright and cheerful, like she’s offering gelato flavors on a street corner in sunny Rome:

“If you feel good, feel free to speed up and finish faster than the group! You don’t have to stay with us.”

And immediately I sense a trap.

Not a real trap. Just… that feeling. Like—what is she really saying? Does she know something we don’t? Is this where people disappear? Is this where the group dissolves and everyone just… becomes their own problem?

Everyone hesitated.

Nobody moved.

I took it as an opening.

The song is already there—because of course it is.

If I only could, I’d make a deal with God…
And I’d get him to swap our places…
Be running up that road…
Be running up that hill…

I step onto the grate. I don’t look down. I don’t think about the water. I think about staying in motion.

The grate hums. The sound is awful. The sensation is worse.

But I’m moving.

Then I’m off it.

Miles 25–26.2: Back to Hawkins

City Island comes into view again—but dimmer now. Muted colors. Cracked pavement straight out of another decade.

Stay sharp, I tell myself.

Spectators form a tunnel. They’re clapping. Yelling. I can’t quite tell what they’re saying.

It could be Good job!

It could be Goddamn bridge!

Hard to tell.

Bodies everywhere. Some shuffling. Some sprinting like they’ve just been released from something.

Damn half marathoners.

I pick a runner ahead of me—not to chase, exactly. Just to focus on.

I start reeling him in.

Wait.

He’s old. Like—really old.

No.

Not today.

And yes—I know how ridiculous I look in this moment. In my head, I’m Kipchoge. Relaxed shoulders. Smooth cadence. Smile on my face. Absolute dominance.

In reality, the pictures later rat me out: my “stride” is basically a fast shuffle, and my smile looks like it’s filing a formal complaint.

I pass him at the line anyway—cleanly, decisively—because my brain is still alive, and therefore my body is still alive, and we’re doing this.

That’s it. Never again!

…When do I sign up?

Epilogue: Back to Hawkins (and Straight to Chipotle)

Later, the older gentleman finds me in the medal line. Pats my back. Says, Good job.

“I want to be like you when I grow up,” I tell him. And I mean it.

He’s unsteady, so we walk together briefly. I support him until he finds his people. Then he straightens up and takes off.

Post-finish, the Naval Academy port-a-potties are finally open to everyone. I beeline toward that tiny illusion of luxury like it’s a reward for survival—fully aware that hundreds of people have been there before me.

Spiritually? Cleansed.

Mind Flayer residue: purged.

Then my family finds me. My youngest runs up like this was just a normal Saturday outing.

“Mom, mom—you want Chipotle for lunch???”

Thank goodness. It’s all over.

This was an Upside Down race: I got out. That’s the win.

Next time, I’m aiming for Eleven energy—the kind where the bridges are afraid of me.

But here’s the thing: I’m also sticking with the 10-day cycle for the next build-up.

Because it helps me recover on purpose, stay consistent, and arrive at the start line with my body intact—especially in this season of life where recovery is real, variability is real, and durability matters as much as fitness. And Harrisburg reminded me that training for the course matters too: not just “getting fit,” but getting ready for the specific cost of a course like this—surfaces, bridges, wind, repetition, the mental tax.

If you’re reading this as a runner who’s trying to balance training with life—and still show up with grit—here’s my encouragement: build a structure that supports you, not one that punishes you. Keep showing up. Keep moving forward.

And if a goat in the Upside Down tells you to keep chewing…

…maybe listen.