The difference between a mile and a marathon, in distance, is 25.2 miles. 

The difference between a mile and marathon, in experience, is infinite.

The reason I know this is because I recently ran the Kalakua Merrie Marathon in Honolulu and the Honolulu Marathon the next day.

One race was marked by youthful joy, a feeling of speed and strength and a sense of delight and wonder.

The other was marked by excitement and expectation before the starting gun, determination and the desire to take a nap during the race, and complete relief at the finish line. 

No matter, though. Just being back in Hawaii, where we once lived, was a gift. The sunshine, the beaches, the ocean, the people. I remembered. It was good.

Opening ceremony

The Honolulu Marathon’s opening ceremony includes blessings, music, hula and torch lightings. It is beautiful. My wife and I felt blessed to be there. As we were leaving, KHON2 news interviewed me about the race, why I liked it, how I was feeling, what brought me here. I watched it later that night, relieved that I looked and sounded normal.

The Merrie Mile

More than 2,000 of us ran the Kalakua Merrie Mile, an out-and-back course on Kalakua Avenue. That morning, I walked, jogged and ran with urgency to reach the starting line next to Kapiolani Park with less than a minute to spare.

I sneaked in near the front of the pack and at the gun, shot off under blue Hawaii skies. My feet felt light and fast. When I reached the turnaround point, I ran faster and passed young and old. I waved and smiled when I saw my wife taking pictures.

With 200 meters left, I kicked, gasping for air, and finished in six minutes and 49 seconds, nearly a minute faster than I expected. I was elated. It was better than I'd hoped. Almost glorious. I felt like I could have run the marathon right there. Bring it on.

The marathon

There is little more thrilling to me than the start of the Honolulu Marathon. Some 20,000 men and women packed in on Ala Moana Boulevard waiting in the dark for the 5 a.m. start. So many hopes. When it’s time, fireworks fill the sky and we’re off.

The first miles are easy. I’m barely breathing. We pass the historic Aloha Tower, enter Chinatown and downtown Honolulu. We pass Iolani Palace, reach Waikiki and the statue of Duke Kahanamoku.

I love being back in Hawaii after being away for so long. I miss the heat and the humidity. Feeling good. Maybe this will be my day.

But Diamond Head waited. It lacks aloha when it comes to marathoners.

The gradual climb up this extinct volcanic crater forces me to slow down. A few miles later, on Kalanianaole Highway, against a headwind, my miles slow. My legs refuse to go faster.

The sun is higher and it’s getting hotter. Sweat is stinging my eyes and at every aid station, I dump water on my head and throw cups of it into my face. 

As the course meanders through Hawaii Kai, I began talking to myself. “You got this. Just hold on. Relax. C’mon. Be strong.”

We pass Maunalua Bay Beach as we turn back. I want to stop and admire the breathtaking beauty, but volunteers and spectators keep us moving. One kupuna is playing an accordion. Another person smiles and holds a sign, “Worst Parade Ever.” As I reach for ice, a volunteer sees my name on the race bid. “Bill, keep it up. You’re going great.”

I wave. I wish I felt great.

By now, many are walking. Some are stopped, stretching out weary, cramped legs. Some sit. Others lean against a wall in the shade. One man winces in pain. 

The finish line is close.

I’m headed into the teeth of the most challenging section of the race on Kahala Avenue, a long, steady uphill that leads back to Diamond Head Road and another hill.

I put my head down and focus on ground. I’m muttering. “Don’t look up. Just run. Just run.”

It seems to take forever, but finally, I’m coming down the other side of Diamond Head and grimacing with each step. My quads are done.

A fellow runner notices my anguish.

“You’ve got it from here. Hang in there.”

I nod. I'm thankful to still be running.

The finish line next to Kapiolani Park is in sight. I summon a final kick, determined not to be passed. I hear the announcer call my name.

It’s done. 

I stumble as I walk away, almost dizzy, and nearly fall over. I assure a volunteer I’m OK.

But later, I collapse on park grass and eat malasadas. Usually, I don’t care for them. Today, I can’t get enough. 

My time was 4:28:12. Slower than hoped, but not a disaster. 

An hour later, my wife and I begin the walk back to our friend's condo. I hear the Japanese announcer call the names of the finishers from Japan, of which there are thousands. Her voice is full of excitement, as if each name is the most important on that day. We stand and listen. It’s a beautiful language. 

With the trials of marathon behind me, I'm thankful to be standing where I am. 

And one word comes to mind.

Aloha.

Bill Buley is a reporter with The Press.