When the shot rings out, I turn on my iPod and we’re all off. It’s a slow jog at first. I tip my cap to the friendly Yorkers who have turned out to cheer the runners on and remind myself to go slow.

There is one goal and one goal only here: to finish.

We circle through a few neighborhood blocks until we finally reach the Heritage Rail Trail that runs along the railway that once took President Lincoln on a train to deliver the Gettysburg Address almost 150 years ago. The trail, of course, slows runners down, even though, admittedly, it doesn’t hit the joints as badly.

Looking left and right, as corny as this may sound, I see my native Franken again. It’s so funny how this place reminds me of the hills and fields of Kitzingen and the Steigerwald back home.

I complete three miles, I am near the back of the pack, and I still can’t calm down. I am amped up, so hyper it’s nauseating. If this keeps up, I will pass out. The good news about that is that I will finish ahead of everybody else. The bad news, of course, is that I will do it in an ambulance.

After four miles, I need to stop to pee, which takes a half minute off my time. Damn it. Not a good start, continuing I still have over 22 miles to go. I am trying badly to find a rhythm here and decide not to go any faster than one mile for every ten minutes. Let the fat guys and half cripples pass me, if they must. Again, this isn’t a race for anything but survival.

Four miles later, the bladder is full again, and I must pull over again. Lesson learned. Should have had less water and Gatorade before the race. I have over eighteen miles to go and still feel like a wreck. The music playing on my iPod isn’t helping either. I need relief in the worst way.

What have I gotten myself into?

A little bit of comic relief happens when I see a Jewish runner passing me, complete with the yarmulke on his head.

Around ten miles, something surprising happens. I finally get locked in, meaning I have found a rhythm. Excellent. I will need it.

At the halfway mark, I grab a Gatorade pouch from one of the volunteers and tear it open while I am still running. It tastes like an ice cream sundae topping, but then again, it’s an easy replenishment in terms of the much needed carbs, so I down the whole thing.

At mile 14, I am congratulating myself on making it past the half. I see the first runners walking. For them from now on, it will be walk a mile, run a mile. I can’t stop, nor do I feel the need for it.

From here on out, it’s one mile at a time. Don’t ever think there’s twelve miles to go, just think in increments. Like make it to milestone 16, then there will be ten to go, etc. There’s little logic to this, but I need to keep going here.

I continue to pass dozens of people who are now walking and will probably run at their own leisure from here on out. Looking at the time, I see that I have remained consistent, at a ten minute mile clip. I wonder when I will finally slow down and walk myself.

Yet the milestones keep passing me. Every two miles I grab another cup of Gatorade from one of the volunteers and toss it aside once I’m done with it without slowing down. The goal is to make it at least to mile number 20 and then, if I must, I will walk.

The funny thing is, I am not tired in the least.

I pass scores of people, younger and older alike, and think to myself, Yeah! Ha! Not so bad for a 40-something first timer.

At mile 19, the battery on the old iPod dies. Crap. There goes my time monitor along with the music. Oh well. Seven Miles to go. A snap for me on any day, but those seven miles now feel like seven states away.

I pass the Jewish runner, who by now has taken his yarmulke off and is walking. He’s probably sweating too heavily under it.

Then the first casualties. A few runners have passed out in front of me and require medical attention.

I can’t stop now, nor can I think about that, as cold as that may sound.

When I reach twenty-one miles, I see more casualties, some of them wheeled off by ambulances. I pass many more runners who have turned into walkers. My exercise and running regime in La Paz at two miles altitude are now paying major dividends. I have a stamina I can’t even recognize myself.

Mile 24, two miles to go. I still am running. I finally realize I will make it, even if I have to walk the last two miles. I’m just afraid of what will happen if I do slow down. I’m afraid I will collapse. Can’t do that now, I have to keep running.

Run, Forrest, run.

By now, I must have passed over a hundred runners over the past three miles and counting. Milestone 25, one mile to go. The trail ends, and it’s back to the pavement. I hear more ambulance sirens.

Finally, I see the stadium and pick up the pace. I recognize the line where the race began, but instead the run ends in the stadium, the last two hundred meters coming on a track. This is when I actually dash for it, I am so exhilarated to be alive and well.

Before I cross the finish line, I see the time. 4 hours, 24 minutes. Not great, but I kept the ten mile a minute clip. I’ll take it. Not bad for a first timer.

When I cross the line, I would like to cheer, throw my arms in the air. YEAH! I made it! Lock up your kids, YORK!!!! But I just pump a celebratory fist.

I barely hear the voice coming through the PR.

“From Arlington, Virginia, at four hours and twenty-four minutes… Andrew Longworth!”

One volunteer runs up to me and grabs my shoulders. Obviously they anticipate the runners to collapse once they’ve crossed the finish line.

"Are you okay?" he asks me.

He looks intently into my eyes or looks for any other telltale signs that I might mail it in and get sick right then and there or have a heart attack.

"Get off me!" I tell him. Damn Dr. Phil. I'm all right.

The great thing is, that that’s the truth.

A female volunteer comes over and slips a medal over my neck, which I will wear for the rest of the day.

I drink some more Gatorade, then head for the car and simply leave. I’m not interested in any post-race celebrities. I need to hurry to check out of the motel or be charged for another day. I also need to return the rental car in DC.

Oddly enough, I am not aching much when I am driving back.

I do have a huge grin on my face though, all the way home.