I Rolled Out of Bed and Decided to Rip off a Half Marathon
When I awoke just before dawn — on what was a rainy spring morning in Santa Barbara — I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to run that day and I certainly had no idea I was about to roll out of bed and rip off a half marathon.
Two days earlier, not even a minute into a run along the profoundly rugged (and muddy) Rocky Ridge Trail, I rolled the hell out of my ankle. Afterwards, on Strava, I accurately predicted: “Gonna feel that one later.”
And yet, not even 48 hours after the fact, as I was running along Anacapa St. in downtown Santa Barbara, Spotify at full blast, I couldn’t help but notice I felt great, electric — I was flying.
Originally I figured I’d run down to the water, head over to La Playa Stadium on the campus of Santa Barabara City College and climb the steps, surveying the Pacific, the downtown, the Santa Ynez Mountains, maybe even the Channel Islands, a dozen or so miles off the coast. Then, I figured I’d run a 10K. And finally, at some point as I ran along the wooden planks of the Stearns Wharf, jutting out into the Santa Barabara Channel, I (probably) said something to myself to the effect of: Fuck it. I’m going to just run a half marathon.
I’d hatched the scheme the day before as I drove down from San Francisco to Santa Barbara. I’d been running a lot, mostly on the trails of Marin, and never felt more alive. So, why not run my own little unofficial half marathon? Once, ages ago, I raced the San Francisco Half Marathon. So, this would be my second, technically speaking. When I’d floated the idea to my favorite business school friend/co-conspirator, she’d replied: “Sounds lovely and slightly insane.”
I’d ramp up over the next few weeks, eventually running out the front door of my apartment in the Marina, along the waterfront, across the Golden Gate Bridge, into the Headlands and down to Sausalito to finish. If I timed it right, maybe I could even ride the ferry back to the city.
But, well, the best-laid plans.
If there was ever a place to run a half marathon on a whim, Santa Barabara is it. And so, I did it. I ran along the waterfront past the soaring palm trees, up the La Playa steps, rambled around the (beautiful) campus of the City College, made my way back to the coast where I tracked the Pacific until I eventually lost the water, ending up in an upscale neighborhood.
I had no plan, no route, no map, no stretching, no water bottle (more on that shortly) but it turns out I largely traced the course of the official Santa Barbara Half Marathon.
I’m a strong runner. So, even though I couldn’t tell you the last time I went out for more than seven miles, there was never a doubt I was going to knock this off.
On the approach to what I soon learned was known as Arroyo Burro Beach, I hit a significant downhill and took off. Past the beach, I continued along Cliff Drive, which I quickly realized was absolutely not the place to be. The road was windy, filled with blind turns and the shoulder was all but non-existent. This was the perfect place to get run down by a car. I turned back, eventually climbing a trail into a nature preserve above Arroyo Burro. Don’t tell anyone but as I wound through the woods in a strange park, only a vague general plan to head back north, I almost cried. I wasn’t happy or sad, per se. I think, mostly, I was panicked. I didn’t have a water bottle, I hadn’t come across a water fountain in maybe eight miles. I imagine I was dangerously dehydrated. What was I doing? What was I thinking? I kept going. Right along the edge of the bluff, the park offered stunning views up and down the coast. The park emptied out into the same upscale neighborhood I’d cut through before. I continued on. I was on the home stretch.
As it just so turned out, I found myself bounding down the slope toward the ocean as I closed in on the 13.1-mile mark. I ran through a patch of grass and then across a tiny metal suspension bridge, slung across a small green valley — the perfect finish line.
I stopped my Strava. I felt triumphant. I needed water.