You would think that 13 miles stretched out before you on a road which seems to have no end would be daunting or boring. Especially in Lander. But not so for me. The Race never fails to keep me entertained and excited, and my first half marathon in that forgotten Wyoming countryside was no exception.

I ran up first hill, which was more like a slightly inclined pathway, and past two skinny girls in tie-dye sports bras then around the bend and past a man with a white shirt, already covered in sweat. I ran past herds of cows and alongside aged tumbleweeds and to the top of prairie hills and on top of crunchy gravel then soft sand. I ran over a squashed rattler and a slotted cow grate and a boisterous patch of brambles. I ran right on past the water stop and past the Johnson's sitting out by their white mailbox, cheering me on with beer in hand. I ran till I looped right back up with Main Street, where Mom and Dad yelled like crazy, Summer bundled next to them catching the hours she had lost to the wind the night before.

"One more mile, Kris! YOU CAN WIN IT! You're almost done!" My dad waved his camera as I flew past, my mom yelling after me to try running on the asphalt instead of the cement to give my feet a rest.

I half expected to be looking for some stop light about to turn red to signal the end of the race, but I was pleased to see instead a big FINISH banner hanging over main street as I rounded the corner back into the town. 13 miles already done? My skinny chicken legs ran past Charlie's Diner and right into the finish chute, a small pioneer woman lassoing a medal around my neck as I staggered to the patch of grass where I started.

I did win it. But the real point was, I ran it. The old family camping chair set up on the side of the road as the Fourth of July parade marched from one end of Lander to the other never felt so good to my tired and victorious body.