It’s pitch dark, around 5:30 a.m., and I'm standing at the starting line of the Mesa Marathon in Usery Mountain Regional Park on Feb. 8. What lies ahead, other than cacti and desert, I can't say.

I am both optimistic and doubtful that this will go well. While I’m delighted to be here for the first time and love the heat of Arizona and hope I might have a good run over 26.2 miles, I’m also worried about a calf injury that I’ve been nursing back to health for about a month will force me to stop.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

I’m in a talkative mood and turn around. Standing behind me is a kid. A boy. At the marathon starting line. What is he doing here?

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” 

“Nine,” he answers. 

His name is, fittingly, Atlas, and he is joined by three men, they being his father, a grandfather and an uncle, if I got it straight. They are with him as he attempts his first marathon. 

We chat and I offer I am from Coeur d’Alene. They know of this place and have been there.  

A few minutes later, it’s time to run. 

“Good luck out there today,” I say. 

I know I’ll need it, but luck and marathon are different worlds. 

Opening miles 

I start at a super slow pace, despite the opening 2 miles being downhill, in effort to save myself for the end. Nice and easy. Feels wonderful. This was a good idea, I decided. 

As the miles pass, the sun rises, darkness fades, and soon, it is light. Mountains seem to suddenly appear and stand in the distance, strong and majestic. 

People lining the sidewalks cheer us on as if we’re Olympians. I offer a “Good morning” and a wave to many. Some notice my shirt with the words, “Run Aloha.” 

“Go, Hawaii,” one man shouts. 

Along the course are discarded shirts, hats and gloves. Energy gels, many unopened, are on the ground. I see an Ironman cap and ponder picking it up but leave it be.

At each aid station, there are scores of cheery, helpful volunteers handing out water, Gatorade and energy gels. The spirit of these volunteers is among the best I have encountered. This continues for the rest of the race. It carries us along.

“Thanks for being here,” I say. 

“Thanks for running,” they answer. 

Marathon Maniac 

I ease alongside a man wearing a Marathon Maniacs shirt and ask him how many marathons he’s run. 

His answer is crazy: 492. 

“This is number 493,” he says, “if I finish.” 

Most of those 492 came after the age of 50, he says.  

Turns out he lives not far from the hill we are climbing.

“We train here all the time,” he says. “I hate this hill.” 

I slowly pull away and a few minutes later come upon Atlas and crew. Atlas is looking light and fresh as he bounces along. One of the men looks at me and smiles. 

“Coeur d’Alene!” he shouts. 

Gene Dykes 

Somewhere around the halfway point, I come upon a man wearing a shirt that reads he is 76 years old and this is Marathon 182, or something like that. I hear him say that he ran a 3:17 marathon at the Chicago Marathon in 2023. This catches my attention and I fall in beside him. 

“Did you say you ran a 3:17 marathon?” 

He nods.  

His name, I learn, is Gene Dykes. He owns a number of national age-group running records. I am in the presence of running greatness. But rather than being prideful, Gene Dykes is humble. 

He explains that he is having a bad day and hasn’t run well since he finished the Las Vegas Marathon in November in 3:59:18. His legs have not recovered. 

“It’s been like beating a dead horse since then,” he says laughing. 

Grind it out 

On the long bus ride to the start, I sat next to a young woman named Caroline, who used to live in Arizona but now lives in San Francisco. We had a great talk about races we've run and what’s ahead. She completed the Mesa Marathon last year and I asked her for advice about the course. 

The early miles are the most scenic, she said, so bank some time and enjoy them. In the final half, there isn’t much to see as you’re on arterials in town. 

“Just put your head down and run,” Caroline said. 

With 6 miles to go, my legs are balking. The sun is relentless. We’re on straight shadeless stretches. So I did what Caroline said: Don’t look. Just run. Don’t look. Just run. 

It works. 

Despite my agonizingly slow, painful shuffle, I am passing runners who have become walkers. Some are relegated to sitting on the curb. One is sprawled out under a tree. Others push against buildings as they try to stretch cramping calves. One runner pulls over, steps up on the sidewalk and suddenly buckles, crumbling to the ground, screaming in pain and grabbing his calf. Two police officers hurry to help. 

Don't look. Just run.

The finish line 

The end is near, just around a corner, one more turn.

“C’mon Billy,” a man shouts at me, reading the name on my bib. “You got this Billy. Run hard now, all the way in.” 

I try. 

I see the finish line and give what’s left. Even when you’re fighting for place 2,000 and something, every second matters. 

My time is 4:34:21. I am disappointed. My goal to qualify for the 2026 Boston Marathon – I need a sub-4 and beyond, seems out of reach. Once confident, now, based on this performance, I'm not. Perhaps I can't do it.

My wife and brother bring me back to life.

They are all smiles and hugs and tell me how well I did. They praise me for completing another marathon. They laugh and tell me despite my old age, I'm still running strong.

Slowly, I begin to feel better. I shake off the feeling of defeat. I begin to think they are right.

Any day you can run the Mesa Marathon, or any marathon, is a great one.

• • •

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