Millinocket marathon is a special kind of madness, and I’m hooked

By Aislinn Sarnacki, Bangor Daily News Staff

My running cleats bite into the slippery surface of packed snow and ice. A freezing wind stings my face. As I jog up the Golden Road, surrounded by more than 1,000 racers, I start to question my decision. Can I really do this?

For the first time, I’m participating in the Millinocket Half Marathon — 13.1 miles of running along frozen roads under the shadow of Katahdin. It’s 15 degrees out, but the sun is shining.

A man wearing a beekeeper suit passes me, pursued by a group of racers dressed as bumblebees. I laugh, my breath rushing out in a cloud.

Ahead, a volunteer stands at the side of the road, handing out fresh oysters. I pass on the offer, but farther along, I pause to accept a cup of hot cider.

Welcome to the Millinocket Marathon. It’s ridiculous and wonderful. And in many ways, it showcases the best of Maine.

This year, the race has a record of nearly 3,000 runners, split among a marathon (that’s 26.2 miles), half marathon and fun run for kids. In addition, about 5,000 people cheer and offer runners support.

The race begins in the heart of downtown, between two parked logging trucks and under the arcing arm of a log loader – appropriate for a region of Maine with a long history of logging. From there, the hoard of runners head out of town and onto the Golden Road, a famous logging route built by Great Northern Paper Co. in the late 1960s. 

“You don’t need to carry anything,” a runner assures me before the race as we huddle around a bonfire. “Volunteers set up stations with drinks and food along the way.”

I am running the race alone, though my mother joins me as sideline support. So, it seems natural for me to strike up conversations with strangers prior to the event. I have so many questions.

“Is this the coldest year yet?” I ask. 

“Oh, no,” she replies. “That was 2018.”

In fact, she says, legend has it that the cold was so intense that year that all the water and Gatorade at the relief stations froze. As a solution, one volunteer rushed to their vehicle to unearth a bottle of Fireball cinnamon whiskey. And so, a tradition was born.

Nowadays, you can find Fireball shots at unofficial water stations throughout the course. As I trudge up the logging road, I pause at one of these tables to pluck up a paper cup, eyeballing the liquid to ensure it’s water before gulping it down. 

I’ve never run inebriated, and a 13-mile race doesn’t seem like a good time to try it.

Someone jogs past dressed as a gingerbread man. A penguin follows.

Caught back up in the flow of racers, I round a bend and Katahdin appears. Covered in bright snow, its sharp ridges jutting into the blue sky.

My left toe is starting to hurt, pinched by the rubber of the cleats. But it’s also partially numb, so I try to ignore it. (I would later lose the nail — for the third time. I hope it grows back.)

Turning off the Golden Road, we loop around to follow pavement back into town. My legs are starting to ache. While I’m tracking the race with a phone app, my hands are too cold to press buttons, so my phone stays in my pocket. At a water table, I turn to the runner beside me and ask what mile we’re on. 

“Eight,” she answers before dashing off. 

Five miles to go.

I don’t consider myself an experienced runner. I ran cross-country briefly in high school. As an adult, the only other race I’d participated in was the Down East Sunrise Trail Relay, a 102.7-mile nighttime race from Ellsworth to Eastport. For that, my team’s goal was simply to complete the race and have a good time. I am approaching the Millinocket half marathon the same way. 

Yet, in the back of my mind is a far-fetched goal that goads me onward: running the half marathon in less than two hours. For me, it’s a huge challenge. It means an average pace of just a little more than 9 minutes per mile. 

As I draw closer to town, houses start to appear, and more spectators, too. They hold signs that say things like: “Brrrr… You’re so brave.” 

A woman walks down her icy driveway with a platter of homemade Christmas cookies, calling out to runners in need of a sugar boost. A police officer leans out of the window of his cruiser, offering high fives.

I never knew what high fives could do for a runner’s morale. 

As I run through downtown Millinocket, the finish line a haze in the distance, a girl steps out into the road. She offers me her hand, and I accept. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. But the simple gesture propels me onward.

I finish the race in 1 hour and 57 minutes, but more importantly, with a big smile. I’m hooked. 

The community won me over. The runners, too. Each and every racer and volunteer saw the frightful weather report and showed up anyway. That kind of resolve and unwavering commitment is at the heart of Maine’s spirit — alongside a shot of cinnamon whiskey and a perhaps touch of madness.