3:42 a.m.—Three hours before sunrise. Sarah and I are awake. Sort of. We begin our marathon route in the hamlet of Manitou Springs, a town where everything is organic, even the Subaru exhaust.
We start our journey alone, in front of the little courthouse, the official starting line of the Pikes Peak Marathon. Before we begin running, we hug each other tightly.
“We’re doing this,” we say before we sprint off into the silent streets.
We’re doing this.
Our path, lit by our headlamps. Our feet, slapping the pavement in a two-beat rhythm. We are the only living creatures awake for miles except, of course, for the prairie rattlesnakes, most of which are, thankfully, at Whole Foods Market right now.
3:49 a.m.—We are running uphill now. We are heading toward the mountains. And, since this is the Amazing Age of Technology, we are using our GPS to lead us to Barr Trail. You have to love technology. It truly is incredible. Even though we don’t know where we’re going, we are safe in the knowledge that our sophisticated, expensive, specialized trail GPSs will lead us along the official race route.
4:07 a.m.—We are lost.
4:19 a.m.—We are nowhere near the mountain; we are running in circles through random Manitou Springs neighborhoods. My sister is very upset right now. She has never been one to hide her emotions. She is assaulting my small GPS unit, which costs about as much as a tactical government helicopter. The unit keeps saying it’s recalculating. My sister keeps telling it where, exactly, it can lodge its recalculations.
4:22 a.m.—Even though we’ve been running for 40 minutes, we seriously have no idea where we are. I think we are in Iowa.
4:28 a.m.—Sarah is really pissed now. Also, my GPS has gone to be with Jesus.
4:34 a.m.—We are now on Barr Trail, the primitive course which leads upward to the summit of Pikes Peak.
5:03 a.m.—We are currently jogging straight uphill. Not up “hills,” as in: plural. Up HILL, as in: singular. As in: this entire course is one giant, massive, 13-mile hill. One that never ends. I am only a few miles in, and already I am having vivid fantasies about Uber.
5:21 a.m.—I’m actually doing okay. All the recent hill training has paid off. I’m feeling strong. I might actually be able to do this.
5:26 a.m.—Sarah and I split up. I am running slightly faster than she is, so we agree to go forward at our own paces. Thankfully, I brought two-way radios for just such an emergency. We embrace each other tightly.
“Make him proud,” she says.
I see her headlight behind me in the distance, growing smaller. I can hear her cheering as I plunge deeper into the mountain.
6:00 a.m.—The sky is gray and purple. The air is sharp and dry. It’s so dark I can’t see. The sound of my feet is the only noise I can hear in these desolate woods. Also, I see evidence of black bears alongside this trail. Either that, or Shaquille O’Neal is out here, and from the looks of it, Shaq is meeting his daily requirements of dietary fiber.
6:32 a.m.—The sun is rising. I find a large boulder and climb atop it for a better view. The boulder is the size of a tractor tire. The orange orb rises in a serene sky and illuminates the world with overtones of gold and red. On this mountain trail, I feel like the last man on planet Earth. And yet, at the same time, I’ve never felt less alone than I do right now. I know I have never been, nor will I ever be alone. I wipe my face after I snap a picture of the vista.
The radio attached to my backpack squawks to life. “How you doing?” comes the tinny voice of my sister.
Static.
“Did you see that sunrise?” I reply.
Static.
“I saw it,” she says. “I almost couldn’t keep it together.”
Static.
“Keep running, Sarah.”
Static.
“You too.”
7:18 a.m.—I’m looking at my shoes as I jog up the log steps toward Barr Camp. I am thinking about how my dad’s feet have run this trail before me. These trees. These rocks. These exposed roots. This was all his once. It belonged to him and all those like him, who loved this mountain. This was his happy place. He wanted to be SCATTERED here. That’s how much he loved it. Why has it taken me so long to return to his beloved?
7:27 a.m.—As I am running upward, my lungs are burning, my legs are throbbing, and my feet hurt. But oddly, I feel good. And I’m thinking about how many years I wasted being sad. Or angry. Or afraid. Or hating a dead man. Hate is difficult, I’m thinking. Hate takes so much work. Hate never lets you rest.
The most difficult path you could ever walk is the Pathway of Hate. Hate expends enormous energy. Hate will drain you and kill you early.
For years I had no idea I hated anyone. I thought I was a nice guy. I thought I was okay. But then I noticed that I always rolled my eyes at the mention of my father. Or worse, I simply avoided using his name.
It’s been years since I’ve simply used his name out loud. And although I’ve often refused to call this behavior “hate,” that’s exactly what it has been. For years I’ve taken the hard road of bitterness. And all the roadblocks have worn me out. But there are no obstacles in the Way of Love. Love is easy. Love is gentle. Love requires no struggles.
8:01 a.m.—Apparently Shaq is all over this trail.
8:21 a.m.—The air is getting thinner. I am working hard to breathe. I pass a group of Mennonite hikers. Two young men and two young women. They are wearing the traditional wardrobe of their culture. They are doubled over, trying to draw in breath. I ask if they are okay.
“We are struggling with the altitude,” the young man says.
“We are not from here,” adds a young woman, mopping sweat from her brow. “We are not used to this. What about you?”
“Me?” I say. “I feel like a lightning bug trapped in a Miracle Whip jar without holes poked in the top.”
They laugh. I laugh too. And I’m thinking that laughter really is a tonic for the body, because suddenly I feel energized. Either that, or I’m hallucinating.
One of the Mennonite young men says, “I will pray for you on your run, sir.”
I thank him for the kindness. I shake his hand. As I run off, I overhear one of the young women say, “What’s Miracle Whip?”
9:04 a.m.—I am above the tree line now. Very little vegetation grows on this tundra. I cannot breathe. I feel like someone has covered my mouth with their hands. I feel panicked. Confused. I can’t speak into the radio without slurring my words.
9:27 a.m.—I go through moments of bewilderment where I can’t, technically, remember my own name. I keep trying to repeat my first, middle, and last name to myself to prove that I’m okay. But I can’t. I can get my last name, Dietrich, out of my mouth. My first name is on the tip of my tongue, but not totally accessible to my hypoxic brain. Then, without preamble, the name John comes to my lips. John was my dad’s name, I say to myself.
“No,” replies a voice. “John IS your dad’s name.”
9:31 a.m.—I have run 11 miles. The voice in my head is probably imaginary, but it keeps talking. It keeps telling me it loves me. It keeps telling me how important I am. Sometimes I start crying when I hear this voice. And I mean hard crying. Like little-kid crying. But these tearful bouts only last a few moments; I am too oxygen-deprived to cry. My heart is beating like a disco cover band.
I meet a South Korean woman named Hae who is a runner too. She is tired like me, and doubled over between her jaunts of running.
She puts her arm around me. Like a mother, she squeezes me. I can hear her lungs fighting to breathe.
“Go,” is all she has the energy to say.
9:43 a.m.—I summit. But I abruptly stop, just before crossing the ascent finish line. I collapse in the dirt, falling to a seated position, crisscrossing my legs, slumped over. Breathing. Or at least trying to. I feel like I’m suffocating. I am coughing wildly. The radio on my chest yelps.
“You there?” Sarah asks.
Static.
I say, “Here.”
Static.
“Have you made it to the top?” she says.
Static.
“Yes.”
Static.
“Congrats,” she says.
Static.
“Don’t congratulate me. I didn’t cross the finish.”
Static.
“Why not?”
Static.
“In the dirt currently.”
Static.
“What? Why?”
Static.
“Start together. Finish together.”
Static.
Then silence. Then sniffs.
“On my way,” she says.
9:45 a.m.—My sister and I cross the ascent finish line together. Shoulder to shoulder. Running. Just like he did. Jogging. Sweating. Hearts beating. Like his heart once did. And now we have to run back DOWN this mountain.
We can’t breathe. We can’t speak. We can’t think. Sarah is nauseated and dry heaving. I am dizzy and coughing badly as I hold my kid sister closely for balance. I feel confused and I can’t form full sentences. But I’m okay enough to shed hot, salty tears and feel her body in my embrace.
I hug my sister tighter and say, “My… My… My cup…”
“Runneth over,” she blurts out.
“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Amen.