I should have known better. I should have known that when you start a 26.2-mile race with a limp, your chances of crossing the finish line are extremely slim. But I was young, well-trained, and confident (okay, overconfident), so I ignored the voice in my head that kept saying, “don’t do this; wait until next year.” The next Columbus Marathon was about 365 days away, and that was too long to wait for something I’d been spent almost five months preparing for.

I’d run several 10ks and two half-marathons. The last one in early September had been on a rugged course through the hills around Granville. I’d finished in pretty good time, but came away with pain shooting up both legs from my ankles to just above the knees. Shin splints. most likely. A common problem for inexperienced runners who went too far, too soon.

In the weeks before the marathon, I worked hard to get rid of them, soaking my legs in hot water and reducing both the length and frequency of my practice runs. My legs slowly improved but some pain still lingered when race day rolled around on October 10. No matter. I had finished every race I had ever entered, and this one would be no exception, even if it meant running with pain.

The starting pistol went off and I and several thousand other runners surged up Broad Street past the State House toward Bexley. I’m not sure when I noticed that I was limping. In any case, I tried to ignore it and convince myself that once my legs were fully stretched, the pain would subside. As I passed the fourth mile and headed toward German Village, my hope seemed justified. The pain lessened and my speed increased. I could do this!

But my hope was short lived. Somewhere between the eighth and tenth miles, it returned. It was a gnawing, cramping pain as if some giant hand were tying my calf muscles into knots. And now there was another problem. Even though we were well into October, the heat and humidity felt like mid-August. What few clouds were in the sky at the race’s start had moved away, giving runners no protection from the sun’s fury. Sweating and stumbling, I passed the halfway point, my doubts about finishing the race growing with every step.

Still, I made it to the fourtheenth mile, then the fifteenth, and sixteenth. The pain now ran above my knees into my thighs. No longer did it feel like my legs were knotting up; now it felt like they were being stabbed by thousands of tiny knives. By the seventeenth mile, my motion couldn’t be described as running or even jogging anymore. It was some bizzarre hybrid of a waddle and a stagger.

At this point, I was in Upper Arlington where lots of people on lawns and sidewalks shouted encouragement to passing runners. A family seated in lawn chairs on North Starr cheered and waved to me as I went by. I smiled and briefly broke into a run to please them, but slowed down again as soon as they were out of sight. By the eighteenth mile, I was walking, and not so easily at that. With the finish line still eight miles away, I finally realized that I wouldn’t be crossing it this year.

“You going to get on the meat wagon?” someone behind me said. I turned and saw the words had come from another runner, a haggard-looking man somewhat younger than me.

“The what?” I asked.

“The bus that picks up guys who can’t finish the race.”

I paused, wanting to say no. But it occurred to me that there are times when spirit, determination, and fortitude are not enough to carry the day. When the trite phrase discretion is the better part of valor should be the guiding principle.

“Maybe,” I finally answered. “Depends on how I feel when it comes by.”

We walked on together, small talking while other runners glided past us. When the “meat wagon” rolled up, we both got on. Just before entering it, I took note of where I was: about a quarter mile west of Dodridge’s intersection with Olentangy River Road, just a few feet from the race’s twentieth mile.

I felt disappointed, maybe even discouraged, but those feelings did not last long. Like teams that lose championship games or like athletes who place fourth at the Olympics or who trip and fall at the starting line, I knew there would be other marathons in my future. Another day to gain redemption.

That day came almost one year later when the next Columbus Marathon was held. It was the same month, the same course, no doubt with many of the same runners. But for me the result was much different. With better weather overhead and no shin splints to slow me down, I finished in just over four hours and twenty minutes. It felt great to cross the finish line and receive cheers and pats on the back. It felt good, too, the following day, to see my name listed with other finishers in the Columbus Dispatch sports section.

But something felt even better. It was the way I felt when I ran past the exact spot on Dodridge Road where my hopes had died last year. Where pain and fatigue had gotten the better of me. More than anything else, the greatest feeling of triumph came when I raced past the twentieth mile.