We were going to Yellowstone on Fourth of July weekend and I knew running in Wyoming would be one more state on my list of 50. I did my usual research to find out what race options there were and I stumbled on only one option that fit all the criteria of location, price, and timing. It was in Lander, Wyoming (where the heck is that?) on the morning of the Fourth for a very good price. In other words, it was perfect! There was only one problem--it was a half marathon. The furthest I had ever run was 11 miles, and that was at the peak of my training during the season. I wasn't sure that in the middle of the summer when my training had waned I would be able to pull off 13 miles. In Wyoming. After camping.

But, as always, the idea began to consume me until I knew I would rather die before I didn't run that race.

We drove into Lander on the 3rd and almost drive right out of it before we remembered to stop. The website hadn't provided directions to the office for registration, but we found it by picking one of the three buildings in the town.

"How's the course?" My dad leaned against the counter, mirroring the cowboy behind the desk who was munching noisily on what my naive mind assumed to be Trident.

Cowboy munched once or twice and scratched his beard before answering. "It's a right purty course, I'd say. Not too much bug badness."

My parents and I held in our snickers, but hardly. Bug badness? Where were we?

Lander was a horse trot away from a small campground which was obviously overflowing the night before the Fourth of July. My family and I arrived so late in the afternoon that we barely snagged the last campsite--a desolate, rocky patch of ground right next to a raging river. Lander had never seen such a ferocious windstorm that night, and what with the water coursing down the hill, the tent caving in on my head and the anticipation of 13 straight miles in the morning, I got as many hours of sleep as there were families in Lander, which was probably about 3.

The morning came and my dad and I, without even waking up (but mostly because we had never slept) meandered down to the heart of Lander looking for their city park. Expecting the lucious fields I was used to at home from our city park, I was taken aback when we trundled right past its 20 yard span on our way down main street. Reversing into the last parking spot available, I got my race bib and pinned it onto my light cotton shirt. The air was brisk with the smell of cow patties and dust, and my warm-up lap around the park provided entertainment looking at cowboys turned runners. It didn't matter that I was in country town--the heart-pumping, last minute stretching, shoe tying anticipation that always exceeds a race was still there.

"Kris. YOU CAN WIN IT!" I rolled my eyes at my dad's enthusiastic cheer and trotted off to the join the crowd that was forming on a street corner by a small gas station. "Have fun!

I situated myself in the midst of the throng on the corner, waiting for some sort of start line to appear. I finally saw ol' Cowboy from the office saunter over to the intersection where we were standing. The revolver in his halter was authentic, and I'm sure its ammunition had met many a cow hide in its day.

Still no forming of a start of any kind. I didn't even know toward which horizon we would be running.

"All right folks," he rested his arm on the top of his belt buckle. "Thanks y'all for coming out today. I guess," he looked around. I followed his gaze, expecting some start line to appear in the street, but instead he nodded upward. "I guess we'll just go when the light turns green."

I looked up in dismay, just in time to see the light turn from yellow to red. No one else was laughing,but I could hardly believe he was serious. So I waited in breathless silence and then...

It turned green! And we were off--13 miles into the dusty Lander desert!