This may be ignorant of me, but Alaska somehow feels like a foreign country, despite being definitively within the 50 state union. I found myself thinking “I can’t believe people actually live up here all the time,” surprised that they have Olive Garden and Walmart. Anchorage actually does have one Blockbuster store, still kicking, so it really is another planet, surreal and otherwordly.
Alaska has also been the home to my mother’s sister and her family for the past decade, yet I had somehow never stepped foot on the United States’ most northernly soil. I am currently in the process of trying to complete a full or half marathon in every state in the country, slowly but surely, even as my multitude of injuries piles up and taunts me for no reason other than to be an asshole. So when my mother suggested meeting in Alaska after nearly six weeks of being on the road and living out of a tiny backpack in the southern hemisphere, my first reaction was to hop online and register for the Anchorage Mayor’s Marathon.
So what happens when you’re registered to run 13.1 miles, you’ve barely slept in a month and a half, and you can count on two hands the number of runs you’ve completed in 2018? Basically, you lace up your running shoes, go to the start line, and let Jesus take the wheel.
The Race
This marathon was originally named the Midnight Sun Marathon, because it takes place on the Saturday closest to the summer solstice. Why the marathon goes off at 7:30 am and the half goes off at 9 am is beyond me, since there is ENDLESS daylight during Alaskan summers (similar to Iceland in the summer, there are 24 hours of daylight in June) and racing at midnight when it feels like 4 pm would have been an exhilarating experience.
The race isn’t a big one, with about 1,400 half marathon finishers and 700 marathoners. We arrived at the start line five minutes before the gun, and still had time to do a photo shoot and use the portapotties. Thank you, Anchorage, for supplying us with an adequate number of portapotties, because nothing is more stressful than not having enough time for your pre-race poop.
The gun went off, we meandered to the line, and off we went. My mother and sister opted for the 5k because they are slightly less insane, and I ran the half with my aunt, who had trained far more intelligently than I had. Seriously, I had struggled through a 7 mile run the week before in Wellington, New Zealand and called it good. Turns out, if you can barely run 7 miles on your own, you CAN run a half marathon if you’re fueled by enough adrenaline, competitive spirit, and poppyseed muffin.
The race begins in downtown Anchorage and runs for many miles on the paved Coastal Trail along the Knik Arm. It circles around near the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, takes runners about a mile through a rough, hilly trail in the woods, and goes back along the Coastal Trail towards the finish, located right next to the start.
Thank the lord for my complete lack of training, which fostered a nonchalant attitude towards my performance, because I did not bother researching anything about this race, nary a peek at the elevation chart. Save for a small dip around mile four, the first five miles are almost purely an uphill climb, which is subtle but not so subtle that you’re not huffing and wondering why you are such a damn fat ass. I thought I was in for some serious hell for nearly the first half of the race, but because we came back on the same trail, miles nine through twelve were a steady descent, and it was easy to make up for lost time. Flying down that hill was such a breeze that the second half of my race averaged about 42 seconds per mile faster than the first half.
I was carrying my GPS on me, thankfully, because during those uphill miles there was also not a mile marker in sight. At one point a man behind me cried out in pain, “have we even done a mile yet??” after we had gone nearly two, but there was no proof in the form of encouraging mile markers, and my heart went out to him. The mile markers finally did materialize after a few, but I do wonder if that man was taken by surprise when he saw mile four after assuming he had not even run one yet.
No matter how many posts I write lamenting lack of mile markers, no one seems to take the advice to heart and print out ten foot high posters for every mile in every race. Am I not famous enough for that or something?
After a horrific uphill finish, I crossed the line in a personal half marathon best, which is not saying much considering I have run two total half marathons, both on absolutely no training and both coming off four simultaneous injuries. But still, one for the books.
Weather
The average high temperature in Anchorage during the month of June is 63°F, or 17°C, which makes for absolutely perfect running weather. The race took place before the temperatures even reached 60, with overcast skies, low humidity, and plenty of fresh, fresh air.
Pricing
The early bird pricing for the marathon is $80 and $70 for the half, up until three months before the race. A month before the race, you’ll be paying $95 or $85 respectively, which is about average for a race of this size.
Swag
All finishers are immediately handed a thick, heavy medal upon completion of the race, as well as a performance, quick dry, long-sleeved t-shirt. It is a nice alternative to all the Under Armour I have in my closet from Baltimore races, with quality just as good and in a BEAUTIFUL ass teal color.
Some WTF Moments
Overall, I thought this race went very smoothly, offering an adequate number of water stations in 1.5 to 2 mile increments, an enjoyable course, high quality swag, and zero run ins with moose or bears (about which, to be honest, I was a little bit worried). This is the 18th annual Mayor’s Marathon, so it makes sense that things would go off with very few hitches.
But there were a couple hitches, and since I am one to complain (sometimes), here are a couple things I was not entirely stoked on.
First, my GPS was on point the entire race. When I got to the 11 mile marker, my phone clocked 11 miles. When I got to the 12 mile marker, my phone clocked 12 miles. For anyone who’s ever run with a GPS app, you know this never happens. The stars were aligned, luck was on my side, the accuracy was almost too good to be true! But no, it actually was too good to be true! Because when I looked down at the phone and it had hit 13 miles, there was no 13 mile marker in sight. When I had put in my 13.1 miles, I saw the 26 mile marker come into view. Spectators clapped and cheered. “Only 0.2 miles to go!” they screamed with delight. “WTF,” I thought, having already sprinted the past quarter mile under the assumption that I was going to be done. But no. I had no choice but to sprint the last 0.2, all brutally uphill, to finish 13.3 miles in 1:58:51.
Well, that was annoying, but at least I finished under 2 hours. I was honestly expecting 3 hours and many, many more tears.
But wait. There’s more.
There were laptops sitting under a tent after the finish, where you could go, enter your bib number, and print out your official finishing time. My printout had my correct name, my correct age group, but my finishing time was 2:00:22.
WTFFFFF.
Turns out, despite the very tangible chip glued to the back of our bibs, only the full marathon utilizes chip timing. The half is scored solely based on gun time. HAD I KNOWN SUCH A TERRIBLE THING, I would have dragged my feet a little bit less getting to the line after the gun, maybe fiddled with my phone and ponytail a little bit less. I will go to my grave insisting that I ran this race under two hours, even though it is nothing to be all that proud of, but considering the number of debilitating injuries I’ve faced the past three years, I won’t beat myself up, at least not too violently.
Being in Alaska was bizarre. Suffering through a half marathon that you never trained for made it a little bit more real. And as long as you shove your way to the front before the gun goes off, this race is a perfect way to spend a beautiful summer morning in Alaska.
