It was March 2014 in San Francisco. My mom, dad and sister were flying from Denver in a month so my dad and sister could compete in the annual Rock ’N’ Roll Half Marathon. 13.1 miles of touring San Francisco by foot, fast, and with several live bands stationed along the way.

About two weeks before the race, my sister texted. “I’m injured. It’s my ankle. I can’t run the race.”

I asked if she’d want to walk it instead. She felt it was better to rest and recover than to risk aggravating the injury. She then asked if I wanted to take her bib number and run in her place.

I’m not a runner. I’m a worker-outer, but I’m not a runner. I’m in decent shape – not great, not horrible – and I’ve never run a race, at least not as an adult. But something about the challenge appealed to me. Just to be able to say I did it, that I tried. I said OK. I was in!

With only two weeks to go, the notion of embarking on a training regimen seemed silly. So I maintained my usual workouts and hoped it was enough to carry me through.

The night before the race, a Saturday night, I ate a giant bowl of pasta from Aperto in Potrero Hill and limited myself to one glass of wine. I went to bed early. My alarm was set for 4:15 a.m., and getting out of bed was likely the worst part of the entire experience.

At 4:15 a.m, the world is dark. In San Francisco in early April, it’s cold. Adrenaline carried me as I drove to the race site and sat in a long line of cars of fellow racers also trying to park. (Weird to be in a traffic jam at 4:30 a.m.)

The bus to take us to the starting line was near Civic Center Plaza. I joined the throngs of people walking through the Tenderloin and down Market Street. The homeless people looked surprised and mildly entertained. I saw a few revelers worse for the wear after a long night of partying. I felt good. Excited! I was about to run a race.

I shuttled over to the start at Ocean Beach, where I met up with my dad. He was stretching. I gave him a hug. I started stretching. We watched the crowd grow and the sun begin to rise over the Pacific. I had no clue how the next few hours would unfold, and that sensation was breathtaking.

The first five miles were fine. Not easy, but I felt strong, like I could do this. Around mile six, the course meandered up a long, shallow grade that felt like one giant hill. This is so San Francisco, I thought, slightly annoyed at this point.

Annoyed at the hill. Annoyed at the prospect of remaining tethered to a large group of people for the next few hours. Incredibly annoyed at several of the racers who were taking selfies along the course. I hadn’t brought a thing with me other than my car key. I was here to run, to finish. Not to take a fucking selfie.

The culmination of the hill, though, was the sun reigning supreme over the Golden Gate Bridge. This part of the course was situated on a hill above it all. A stunning ball of fire in this giant blue sky, just blue and blue and blue and blue. That moment is how I’d come to remember the race.

Crash back down into reality and there we were, shuffling across the bridge. The race organizers had blocked off only two lanes of traffic, which meant the runners were sandwiched together and forced to accommodate stray elbows and feet. Annoyed.

The next few miles – probably mile 10, by now – were hard. Flat, across Crissy Field, but hard. This was the first time in the race that I surrendered to walking. I grabbed every cup of water I could. I realized that the energy chews I’d stuffed into my cleavage at 4 a.m. that morning had melted, creating a red, sugary, syrupy mess in my running bra. My Achilles’ tendons hurt. My feet hurt. My calves hurt. Everything. I was OK, but I wanted this to be over.

The final stretch was through the Tenderloin, with the finish line in Civic Center Park. The Tenderloin never looked more beautiful. I can’t say the last two miles were easy, but adrenaline made them achievable. The only thing I needed the moment I saw the finish line was to see the finish line. I sprinted the last mile. I felt so proud crossing that line. Proud that I’d done it, that I’d fought through despite the lack of training and just a tiny prayer.

“You did great!” my parents said. “You were awesome!” my sister said. “Are you going to run another one?” they asked.

“That was so awesome, you guys!” I called out, still breathless, still riding the high. “Yes! Totally!” I think that night, I even looked up upcoming races in San Francisco.

I was the sorest I’ve ever been for the next 48 hours. A hot bath helped that night, followed by a few drinks and an early bedtime. I could barely walk the next day, hobbling across the street to get to work. My body ached, my joints were screaming.

By the time I felt ready to get back into the gym, I realized that I’d never do another marathon. Even a half marathon. I realized that I’m perfectly fine doing what I do, working out in the gym every couple days, pushing myself when I want to but taking it easy when I don’t. I realized I don’t want to train. I realized I’ve already got a good thing.

The marathon was a beautiful experience, it was magnificently overwhelming. I was – I am – grateful for it, that I did it without a second thought.

And I never want to do it again.