9:45 AM. Millinocket, Maine. The first Saturday of December.

The starting temperature hovered around 15F, not including the wind chill. Despite the frigid day, the crowd was in good spirits. It was sunny, and the vast majority of runners were from the Great White North, used to the challenges of a northern Maine winter. I, on the other hand, being from Cincinnati, was not so used to the consistent freeze. To counter my lack of acclimation, I burrowed my way to the center mass of the waiting runners, in the hope their bodies, penguin-like, would protect my own while we waited for the starting cannon to fire.

Why, it would be fair to ask, would one travel a thousand miles to a town of 4100, somewhere north of the 46th parallel, to run a race in December?

Well, mostly because a friend asked me to. Plus, it seemed like a really cool idea. The story was that Millinocket used to have two paper mills, but both had been shuttered within a few years of each other. The mills had been the major employers, and their closing was dealing a death blow to Millinocket.

Into this economic void stepped a marathoner, a local to the area, named Gary Allen. Gary put together a marathon/half-marathon to be run early in December as a means to bring some money into town close to Christmas. So, in 2015, the Millinocket Marathon and Half was born, the inaugural race attracting just fifty or so participants. No entry fee. Gary asked only that those who came into town for the race spent their money at local businesses. By 2019 the race had grown to a couple thousand, and by then even had its own theme song, called “Run Millinocket,” written by another runner named Jenn Schott.

The whole story was intriguing. I was intrigued.

So I went to Millinocket.

A bit of the intrigue had worn off by the time I was standing in the crowd but, mercifully, the cannon fired before I had a chance to back out. I and about a thousand others cheered and, as a group, run-walked toward the starting line, which happened to be wedged between two logging trucks. On the other side of the start line it seemed half the town had turned out to support the conglomeration of masked joggers, which almost immediately turned left after exiting the man-made log chute.

That left turn led us past more glove-muffled applause from the locals and thence uphill which, at the moment, was still paved. Before long, however, the clean pavement morphed into an ice-covered logging road. The logging road, officially named the Golden Road, was constructed of dirt and gravel which, at the moment, happened to be (mostly) trapped beneath a sheet of ice and snow. This forced the racers to make a choice: ignore the road conditions altogether and just run, run, run; or look for parts of the road where the dirt and gravel were visible, and run on those whenever possible.

I, of course, took the run, run, run route, mostly because I was too preoccupied with breathing to worry about anything else. You see, though there were, indeed, flat parts on that six-mile stretch of logging road, nonetheless most of it was uphill, offering a cardio-vascular challenge to myself and everyone around me.

The time on the Golden Road was spent running in the general direction of Mount Katahdin, which happens to be the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. The mountain itself is beautiful and many stopped running to take pictures. I viewed it only sporadically. When tackling hills, I tend to stare down at the road directly in front of me. I do this to avoid being reminded that I’m actually on a hill, and so that I don’t have to see how long the hill lasts.

Whilst staring down, however, I couldn’t help but notice that some of those around me had spikes attached to their running shoes, the kind of spikes you can use for hiking, the kind that slip over the bottom of your shoe like a big rubber band. I was immediately jealous of the spike people. Here’s why: According to my own, ultra-scientific calculations, I was using about half my available energy just to stay vertical on the ice. Meanwhile, the spike-people appeared to be floating up the hill. Hell, some of them were even carrying on casual conversation.

My joy at arriving at the first flat was palpable, and I soon finished the first mile. As a half-marathoner, I only had twelve more to go.

The rest of the Golden Road followed the same pattern. Tackle a hill, let your legs relax on the flat, tackle the next hill. There were water tables along the way, none of which were race-sanctioned and all of which were manned by people from Millinocket. Also manned by locals were the Fireball tables, at which everyone seemed to be having a good time.

Finally, I reached Huber Road, the cross-over from the dirt/gravel Golden Road to a paved one. Like the logging road, Huber Road was snow covered, so I could only assume I was still running on dirt and gravel, and was again jealous of those who thought to bring their spikey slip-overs.

But the last six miles beckoned like a siren. Millinocket Lake Road was, mostly, downhill, and the helpful pull of gravity worked to increase my pace. Suddenly my shoes had something to grab onto, and my whole body relaxed while I flew down the hills. I was sure that was how deer felt when they’re running in the forest.

With just a mile to go, I went ahead and stopped at the cookie table. The family standing behind the table cheered the runners and handed out sugar cookies to any who wanted one. I ate mine while I ran, choking on the crumbs only three or four times before crossing the finish line.

Race complete, I showered off the dried layer of salt left over from some pretty profuse sweating, and met up with my cohorts at the Blue Ox, one of the drinking establishments located in “downtown” Millinocket. The Blue Ox is considered “Runner’s Central,” and that night much beer was drunk and many stories told, the foreigners mixing in with the locals in every corner of the packed bar. And well past the normal closing time, new friends said their goodbyes, promising to be back next year.

And we meant it.