In the final miles of the Milwaukee Marathon, three questions played in my head: 

“Why didn’t I just run the half marathon?” 

“Is anybody still behind me?” 

And the most important one of all: 

“Where the hell is the finish line? 

• • •

Milwaukee is a beautiful city that sits on the shores of Lake Michigan and is home to the Brewers and the Bucks. Residents are committed to the Green Bay Packers and come football season, many make the 120-mile drive to Lambeau Field.  

With tree-lined streets, older homes, plenty of taverns and the Milwaukee River running through it, in my opinion it resembled a big version of Coeur d’Alene. It’s a place where summers are celebrated, even coveted, and winters are proudly accepted and worn like a badge of honor. 

I was here for two reasons: One, visit my oldest sister, Mary Louise, and her husband, Dan, for the first time. They had only moved to "Brew City" about four decades ago, so I finally found time to fit them into my schedule. 

And two, run the Milwaukee Marathon. I had heard it was a relatively flat and scenic course with strong spectator and volunteer support. And, as mentioned, it’s where relatives live so I can get free lodging. 

Coming into it, I felt solid. Had some good training. Lost a few pounds. Slept well. Although I had run the Seattle Marathon on Dec. 1 and the Mesa Marathon on Feb. 8, making this my third marathon in four months, I thought my legs had recovered sufficiently.  

I was wrong.

The race started at 7 a.m. on Harbor Drive on a cold but sunny Saturday morning. The first miles were easy, and I held my optimistic goal pace of nine minutes a mile. Yet, my legs didn’t feel fresh. No zip. They were weary and tired.  

Still, I found a second wind about mile nine as we made our way along the Oak Leaf Trail before turning around near North Green Bay Avenue. I went through the first half in around two hours.

Spectators popped up in groups, in seemingly otherwise isolated sites, cheering and holding signs that said things like “On a scale of one to 10, you’re 26.2," and “I trained for a week to hold this sign.” Volunteers greeted us with water, Gatorade and smiles.  

It helped. 

But no amount of good words and cold liquid can resuscitate dead legs. 

By mile 16, as I soldiered slowly on, I knew I was in trouble. Not even the sight of Lake Michigan's brilliant blue waters that stretched into infinity as we descended a long hill could provide a spark. 

It was about then a fellow marathoner passed me and offered this: “You’re doing great, sir. Great job. Keep it up, sir."

Now, that is meant to be encouraging and I appreciated it, muttering a “Thank you.” 

Yet, I couldn’t help but feel I was being praised because I must have looked pathetic in my old-man shuffle. Why did she have to say, "Sir?"

I admit, however, in the final miles on an endless Kinnickinnic Avenue, I felt older than Moses.  

I walked more than I ever have in a marathon. I was going slower and slower. Runners continually passed me. I wondered if I was in last place. I wanted to quit. 

And yet, people cheered and clapped and shouted for me to hang in there.

It was humiliating. 

But it kept my feet moving. It gave me resolve.

Finally, someone said the finish line was just around the corner. I saw an elderly woman in an orange sweatsuit walking with a cane, headed the same direction I was.

“You can beat her, Buley,” I told myself.  

With a final kick, if you could call it that, I did. It was over.

Thank you, Lord.

At the finish area, I was greeted with undeserving accolades from my sister and her husband, who, by the way, are the world’s greatest hosts. 

“That was brutal,” I told them with a smile. 

They laughed and insisted I had done well.

I shook my head, but maybe so. Maybe they were right.

After all, I learned a few things over the last 26.2 miles. 

Milwaukee is a cool city.

People here are good.

Family is wonderful.

And marathons, while painful, are beautiful.

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at bbuley@cdapress.com.