It’s a few minutes to the start of Race to Robie Creek in Boise and I’m standing in a sea of runners waiting for the noon start when I feel a tap on my shoulder. 

I turn around and a young man greets me with a smile. I don’t recognize him. He seems to know me, perhaps because my name is on my race bib attached to my shorts.  

“I’m Trey Bartoo. Your wife was a teacher when I was in first grade,” he says. 

He introduces his wife, Hannah, standing next to him, and we chat for a few minutes about his time in the Coeur d’Alene School District and how they’re feeling for this grinding, brutal 13.1-mile race on April 19 that includes a steep 5-mile stretch with an elevation gain of more than 2,000 feet snaking through Rocky Canyon to Aldape Summit. 

It is their first time, and my second. 

“Are you related to Amy Bartoo?” I ask. 

“That’s my mom,” Trey responds. 

What a small world. 

I had recently talked to Amy Bartoo in Coeur d’Alene about bringing back the Mayor’s Mile that used to lead off the Fourth of July parade on Sherman Avenue. Once a runner, Amy Bartoo is the emcee of the parade and, like me, remembers the Mayor’s Mile as something special. 

My conversation with her son ends as the announcer says the race is about to begin. We shake hands, wish each other well and a few seconds later, the traffic signal light acting as the starting gun turns from red to green, and some 2,000 runners are off. 

Robie Creek is one of those epic races that sticks with you. It calls you back. For me, it ranks up there with Bloomsday in Spokane, Haena to Hanalei on Kauai and the Dingle Marathon in Ireland. It is one of great natural beauty, but also one that hammers you mercilessly going up and coming down. 

It certainly got me. 

The uphill second mile was far tougher than I remembered. About 3.5 miles into the race, the real work begins, a slow steady ascent into the hills and valleys. It seems fine, at first, but at the sixth mile my feet are burning as I shuffle along. A few times I stumble on rocks scattered across the dirt road. I weave my way around ruts and runners wondering why I'm doing this again and praying the end would come soon. 

Not soon enough. 

By mile seven, the climb is so steep that most middle packers with me are walking. I try to run, but it’s slower than their walk. My legs decline my repeated requests to go faster. They are in chug mode. I muttered quietly about my lack of preparation.

But there is hope. People are amused at my shirt, which reads, “Running Sucks.”  

“I agree with you,” shouts one smiling volunteer. 

Around mile eight I hear someone shouting we’re almost at the summit.  

“Half a mile to go,” he yells as I creep along. 

An unofficial aid station about 50 yards from the top offers congratulatory candy, whipped cream and cigarettes. I desperately want the licorice and wouldn’t even mind a smoke for the first time in my life, but pass. 

Finally, the road stops going up. People are cheering like I won something. It seems I should stop and enjoy this moment, but there is no time. The clock is running and my daughter, Jennie, is out there, surely closing on the finish line and there are still 4 miles to go. 

The sudden, steep descent is jarring and pounding. My left hamstring starts to seize up. I’m running guarded and controlled to avoid falling, but still slip on a muddy patch and nearly go down. Men and women charge past, seemingly in a full sprint. I am at once annoyed at their speed but grateful to be upright.

Gradually, I feel better, but my legs are on the verge of buckling. Knots rise and fall on my calves. They hold up, just enough. I round a final turn and am greeted by a glorious sight: The finish line. 

I summon what little energy remains, past a few folks and complete the course in 2 hours, 15 minutes and 16 seconds. Good for 754th, second in my old man age division, which earns me a medal and slight applause during the awards ceremony.

Later, enjoying the free beer and food on green grass, under sunny skies while recounting the day with my daughter, I am struck by a recurring thought.

God, that was fun.

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Bill Buley is the managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].