Ten-mile run on Sunday. This is the peak; from now on, the distances taper until the half-marathon next Sunday.

Since the first notion of running a half-marathon, I've had this fantasy of running from downtown to the tip of Alki for the 10-mile run. It's actually a little less than 10 miles, so I had to back up into Myrtle Edwards Park all the way to the giant grain elevator at its northern end.

Mentally, this run was a lot more difficult than I expected. As it got closer, I was excited to finally do it, but the reality of the route became clearer and somewhat unsettling, too. About half the route traverses stark industrial areas where few people go, and I worried about putting myself in danger. But I figure that the chances of something like, say, abduction, are pretty slim—too many variables (plan, intent, and means) have to align. I thought about that while I was running, about how I'll run alone in the dark or in sparsely populated areas or hike alone or drive like a maniac, and I can manage that anxiety or fear with knowledge and rationalization. But I'm terrified of flying and additional information only worsens it.

It's funny where we put our fears.

I asked Andrew to drop me off at Myrtle Edwards and to pick me up in two hours at the Starbucks on Alki. He left me at the end of the park and I walked the half mile to the grain elevator and stretched in the shelter of a dormant snack bar. It was raining, just like last weekend, and windy too on the Sound. I didn't think about that beforehand.

From where I stood—looking toward downtown, toward the Duwamish industrial area and the bridge over the channel, and toward the long curvy shoreline that culminates at Alki point—every bit of land in my view was ground I had to cover. That was daunting, too—but exhilarating because I knew that I would make it.

The city was empty in the rain. I saw maybe five other runners and a sparse scattering of tourists along the waterfront. Once south of there, toward the stadiums, there was no one. Along that stretch by the Coast Guard buildings and the stadiums, where the parking is limitless, parked cars and random bikes chained to poles and fences gave the eerie feeling of people just out of view. But nobody appeared. There were just the giant orange cranes, the charred husks of obsolesced warehouses, and the hastily poured federal warehouse.

The long desolate stretches really are long when you're on foot. The stenches emanating from the docks linger for minutes, not seconds; and second by second, hopes are dashed as you fail to reach familiar mile markers. I hadn't anticipated that. I'm so used to covering the route at the pace of a bicycle that I became impatient with my pace. But you know, there's no hurrying that kind of thing, so you just gotta settle back and enjoy the ride and develop a new relationship with the route.

I was relieved to see that ragged group of die-hard fisherman at the landing near the bridge, and more relieved once I turned onto the trail that runs along Alki.

The last three miles faced directly into the wind and the wind was picking up. It was hard to push against it and the stinging rain was discouraging. Once I turned the corner at the end of Alki, for the last quarter mile or so, I was subjected to sea spray, too. That sucked, so I ran all out to end it. I was glad to stop. I walked back to Starbucks and all the people, including Andrew, warm and cozy inside it.