Outer Banks Half Marathon (My First Half Marathon!)

I had lived in North Carolina for 15 years and I’d never been to the Outer Banks, so I decided running the Outer Banks Half Marathon in November 2014 would be an excellent excuse to explore. I recruited some friends to drive with McCrae and me to Manteo, and we piled into our compact SUV and headed east.

We arrived late, though our AirBnB host graciously waited up for us. In the morning, he pointed us towards Bodie Lighthouse first, with recommendations for other major attractions afterwards. I’d never seen a lighthouse up close, though at one point in grade school I’d learned about all the major lighthouses of the NC coast. Since it was off peak season the lighthouse was closed for climbing, but the sky was a perfect autumn blue against which the horizontal white and black stripes loomed bold and bright.

After snapping photos, we left the lighthouse and cruised highway 12 on the Outer Banks past Nag’s Head, on towards Kill Devil Hills and Kitty Hawk and the Wright Brothers Memorial. The memorial was simultaneously more and less than I had expected. I remembered watching the centennial celebration on TV in 2003 with the replica powered flyer that never made it off the ground. It had seemed bigger on TV, what with the flyer on the rail and a helicopter providing aerial views. In person, it was an empty field with a large stone memorial on the nearby hill, lonely above the simple signs explaining briefly the science and history of the first flight. “These were pioneers! These were geniuses!” The rough wooden huts that comprised the historic camp were largely replaced by modern toilet facilities, while the long dusty field that had boasted winds that could lift wings and raise terrible dust storms lay heavily seeded and deceitfully green.

We climbed the hill to view the memorial up close and survey the scene. At the base of the memorial you could see the ocean, and we lingered while three pre-adolescent boys tried to land tricks on their bikes up and down the stone steps and pathways, until finally they grew bored and disappeared into the scraggly dunes.

We followed suit shortly. We were already tired and hungry, but it was early afternoon - too early for the seafood restaurants to open - and so I insisted we visit Jockey’s Ridge.

“Come on!” I cajoled. “It’s a 100 foot tall sand dune! That’s basically a giant sandbox for grown ups! What’s not to love?” So we piled into the car to explore some more.

I left my shoes and my friends at the wooden platform overlook near the dune and scampered into the soft sand below. I had hardly dashed out from the platform behind a group of girls absorbed in their phones when a wicked thought crossed my mind. I looked up at the platform towards my friends, then over at the girls, and I dived down to the ground and started rolling in the sand like a dog. My sudden movement made the girls jump and shriek, and my friends sitting above just laughed.

Breathless and exhilarated I stood up, shook sand from my hair and hoodie, and took off - not toward the crowded steep dune face but to the far side of the dune where one older man tracked up and down a smaller knoll. I had no real reason for this; I just wanted the empty space. I wanted to feel like I was the only one standing for miles in a sea of sand. I dug my toes deep into the sand with glee and then sprinted across the empty shifting dune valley.

But the sand was well practiced in its own subterfuge, always collapsing underfoot and challenging muscles, and I quickly tired and stopped to observe my surroundings. The man on the smaller dune had passed over the crest and out of sight. About fifty or sixty feet above my head on the main sand dune a girl strapped to a hang glider nodded solemnly while two instructors lectured her on flight mechanics. Across the sandy plain from the wooden overlook a man in a grey hoodie was approaching. I watched his bare feet kick up sand with each step and soon his features came into focus. I took off on a sprint towards him. This time I refused to let the sand slow me down. I dug in, fighting for traction, and then leaped into the air toward his arms. It was McCrae - of course it was! - coming down to explore with me.

“Race you to the top!” I challenged him, and then lost. I panted as he looked around, breathing in the salt and sights. From the top of the dune we could see the white surf on the beach to the east, and the red sunset mirrored in the lapping waves of the sound to the west.

“I think I scared those girls when I dove into the sand earlier,” I said. “They weren’t seeing anything until I did that right behind them.”

“Do you want your picture taken?” McCrae asked as I pulled out my phone and brushed sand off it.

“Yes, please,” I said and posed dramatically. “I’m king of the mountain! I’m queen of the sand hill!” My phone battery and the sunlight were dying, but we stayed on the ridge to watch the girl in the hang glider. The two instructors had stopped talking and were lined up on either side of her. After a few quick adjustments they started running down the slope together, trying to help her gain momentum and catch a favorable wind, but she never left the ground. Halfway down the slope the glider took a sharp right turn and they all stopped and slowly retreated up the slope for another try.

We didn’t stay to watch her second attempt. Our friends were waiting for us on the platform, eager for fried seafood dinners and rest. In the morning I had 13.1 miles to attempt. I needed to prep for my own first flight and so we left the dune and walked back to the car hand in hand.