When I arrived at Skyline High School on a cold, dark morning on Oct. 24 for the Sammamish Marathon, I wondered one thing:

Where is everyone?

There were maybe five cars in the parking lot. Shivering in my running shorts, I wandered around until I found a small table, a case of bottled water, a race flyer and a single Porta Potty.

That was it.

Finally, another runner appeared.

"Do you know where we get our bib numbers?"

I had no idea.

Gradually, more runners arrived and, as the 8 a.m. start time approached, the race organizer showed up. A line quickly formed as participants picked up their race shirts and bibs. There were maybe 40 of us. About half were running the full 26.2-mile marathon, while the rest were entered in the half marathon.

The organizer explained that the course was open, meaning we had to watch out for traffic ourselves. There would be no road closures and no volunteers pointing us in the right direction. We were on our own to avoid cars and navigate the hilly, double-loop course, which wound through neighborhood streets, busy sidewalks and park trails.

As we prepared to start, my son, Ray, and his wife, Destiny, arrived. They had driven an hour and a half from Lacey to support me. Both were smiling and full of energy.

Good thing. I was going to need it.

With little fanfare and light applause, we were off.

The first few miles felt easy. I settled into a comfortable pace and chatted with another runner, Jason, about how we were feeling, the races we'd run and the races we hoped to run in the future.

This was nothing like the Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon I had run a few weeks earlier, where thousands of spectators lined the course and cheered as if we were Olympians. Those miles passed quickly.

Not so in Sammamish.

I don't recall seeing a single spectator. We did pass plenty of people walking dogs, though. They looked at us curiously, probably wondering why a handful of runners were making their way through their quiet, tidy neighborhoods.

Oddly enough, I enjoyed the solitude. Something about being part of such a low-key, bare-bones marathon appealed to me.

The halfway point brought me back to the starting area, then sent me out for the second loop. I was feeling fine and briefly considered calling it a day. I had done zero marathon training and knew my legs couldn't keep running smoothly forever.

But Ray and Destiny had gotten up at 6 a.m. to cheer me on. I couldn't let them down.

The second half unfolded exactly as expected.

I got slower.

The miles got longer.

I got clumsier.

Around mile 16, while running alone down an empty street, my foot caught on something and I crashed onto my left knee before rolling onto my side.

"Get up," I told myself.

I did.

"Start running."

I did.

But the mind can only push the body so far.

My legs ached with every step. My stride deteriorated into a shuffle. Doubts crept in, and I wasn't sure I could finish.

That's when Ray and Destiny saved me.

Whenever I wanted to quit, they showed up.

Clapping.

Cheering.

Jogging alongside me.

Urging me forward.

Joking about giving me a ride to the finish.

They even insisted I was looking good.

I think they found me four times during the second half of the race. Each encounter gave me new life and renewed determination. 

With two miles remaining, I emerged from a downhill trail through a park and there they were again. They gave me one final burst of encouragement before hurrying back to their car.

"We'll see you at the finish."

I hoped so.

Twice more, I stumbled and nearly fell, but I refused to walk.

"C'mon, Buley," I told myself. "They're waiting for you. Get going."

Finally, after one last turn into the school parking lot, the finish line came into view.

I tried to sprint.

To my surprise, my legs responded.

I ran as hard as I could, as though an Olympic medal were on the line. The final hundred yards felt effortless. I felt like I was flying.

The race organizer snapped a picture of me crossing the finish line, my face twisted into a grimace and my teeth clenched tight.

It's actually pretty comical, such an effort at that place and time.

I finished in 4 hours, 23 minutes and change.

Not bad.

The Sammamish Marathon had the smallest field of any marathon I've ever run. Yet, it has come to mean more to me than perhaps any other race.

I won't remember it for the finish line.

I'll remember it for the two people who helped me get there.

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