Thirteen Miles to Helena (2016 Governor's Cup Half-Marathon)

View from the Governor's Cup half-marathon start line

School bus technology has changed dramatically. I learned this at 4 a.m. in Helena. The 11 buses idling in front of the public library included seat-belts and seats that adjust for small children, plus the old door-opener has been replaced with a simple button. Maybe these updates were more glaring as I attempted to take my mind off the task looming in two hours – my first half-marathon in five years, the 42nd Governor’s Cup.

I first read about the race in 2010, back when I had a free place to stay in Belgrade. The Cup stuck with me because of its comprehensiveness – race for every skill level. Years elapsed and I thought little of the Governor’s Cup until fall 2015, when my sister Jenny and I contemplated meeting up for a race.

2016 became the year. Training attempts stalled with an 8-mile run about three weeks ago. So as much as I wanted to knock out this race, I felt woefully under-prepared (my starting line theme was definitely Undertrained and Afraid). I could only gut through the course and quietly hope to avoid injury.

As for the buses, eight carried the 600 half-marathon participants 13 miles out from downtown Helena. Full marathon runners (three busloads) went another 13 miles out (the Cup 5K and 10K follow a course closer to central Helena and start later in the morning). A rooster crowed and other birds tweeted the morning to life.

Best staging area ever.

 The half-marathon staging area was a friendly plot wedged among a handful of farms. We lined up on the road, with sheriff’s deputies keeping traffic at bay on the country roads where most of the race unfolded. Elsewhere soldiers from Fort Harrison guided traffic, reducing the risk anyone might try anything foolish that would endanger the runners. All in all, the course felt safe. These days I run without headphones, but a single epic song pulsed through my head.

The surrounding mountains and the atmosphere of the starting line raised Ennio Morricone’s brooding theme to The Big Gundown in my mind (trust me, it's brooding). This Soon enough, the starting gun sent the pack hurtling back toward Helena. I wished my sister good luck and off we went, looping past farms and across railroad tracks.

The scenery helped, although not as much as the relatively flat course. Mile 1 crested a hill, then it was mostly flat until the slow incline toward central Helena. At least four miles of the course followed unpaved farm roads. At one point, a trio of horses rested their heads on the corral fence, curious at the stream of passing people. Other horses milling in their pens glanced up at the road. We were a new occupant of these dirt roads.

There was no way to forget that scenery. They valley opened up, McDonald Pass and the Continental Divided visible the start and the mountains that rim downtown Helena never out of view. It would not loom any closer until a race turn after Mile 9.

The elevation, close to 4,000 feet above sea level, played little role. I expected some hardness of breath but none ever came. The weather played a major role – 60 degrees and cloudy, my perfect conditions for running. The sun occasionally broke out, but not enough to impact my running. Distant mountains surrounded the course. Central Helena was visible from almost every point on the course. The cathedral’s twin spires constantly reminded runners of the race’s destination. As the paved road resumed the course crossed Tenmile Creek, which unfortunately was only at mile 9 of the half-marathon.

Mile 9, after Tenmile Creek

Throughout the race, marathon mile markers arrived a tenth of a mile prior to the half-marathon markers. For a second or two at each market, I felt accomplished at seeing those big numbers. But reality raced back in at the half-marathon markers. For my lack of training – I topped out at 8-plus miles and had not run in three weeks, I was surprised by my stamina. I ran the first four miles without pausing and the next five with only little breaks.

My pace broke down around Mile 10. Here the top marathon men passed me. Trying to get a rise out of the volunteers, I told those stopping traffic, “Just so you know, I’m not with these guys.” They laughed enough to propel me back into a jog.

Close to mile 11 I walked briefly with another man, a sprinter who found the long grind of the half-marathon wore him out. Like the other Montanans I encountered, they were interested in what brought me from Nashville. I ran more frequently than I expected after leaving him, running most of the last two miles after struggling with mile 10. The course wound into city recreation paths and around Carroll College (home of the Fighting Saints) before emptying through downtown and onto the pedestrian mall.

The last mile dragged. One of the top marathoners offered a “good job” as he passed. I thanked him, generally preferring to not to bother them as they enter their final grueling miles, pain much deeper than mine. By the last miles my legs were spent. Cramps radiated out from muscles I’d forgotten. Legs didn’t extend the way they did even a mile or two earlier. I wasn’t in pain but exceedingly sore and ready to finish. As I entered downtown, some past Mile 12, I heard a Canterbury clock chime for the hour. My name and hometown echoed from the PA system, followed by a full marathoner finishing simultaneously.

Siblings at the finish line.

But the medal was earned, and I was at the finish line with nothing more than overly sore upper leg muscles and a desire not to run anywhere for a while. After the relentless pounding of 13.1 miles, my feet stung. I kicked off my shoes and socks, my bare feet thoroughly soothed by the soft grass of the city park. I waited for Jenny to finish and occasionally talked to other half-marathoners. The man I ran with around Mile 11 stop to say “good job” and I offered him congratulations. We shook hands and parted. Soon Jenny finished her half-marathon and eight months of anticipation finally closed.

Later that night, I found myself looking out on the valley. As twilight flared above the mountains and street lamps came to life, I could not find the farms on Birdseye Road where the race began, but I could retrace a rough path through Helena. When you run a long race somewhere new, it becomes burned on brain matter. This course and its comforting mountains won’t fade for ages.