Hell of a Half Marathon

 

Hell of a Half Marathon

Exeter, CA

8 August 2026

“I am, and ever will be, a white-socks, pocket-protector, nerdy engineer — born under the Second Law of Thermodynamics, steeped in steam tables, in love with free-body diagrams, transformed by Laplace, and propelled by compressible flow.” — Neil Armstrong, Astronaut

I stumbled across this quote while reading about the 1969 Apollo 11 Moon landing and, more recently, April’s Artemis II mission around the Moon, and it immediately resonated with me. It reflected both my personality and how I approach marathon running.

It captures more than humor; it describes a mindset. I’ve always been a bit of a nerd—someone who enjoys understanding how things work, whether it’s numbers, cosmology, cartography, pacing charts, or the details of marathon preparation. Curiosity and persistence shape how I approach the world.

As astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson once said, “The good thing about science is that it’s true whether or not you believe in it.” That same principle applies to training. Your body responds to consistent work, recovery, nutrition, and physiology—not wishful thinking. The principles don’t change because a workout is difficult or the weather is miserable. Understanding them helps me trust the process, even when running is anything but enjoyable.

That’s what makes marathon training so appealing to the nerd in me. Science provides the framework, while curiosity keeps me engaged. Every training cycle becomes an opportunity to ask questions: What happens if I adjust my pacing? How does heat affect my effort? Can I fuel more effectively? Each workout becomes another data point, another hypothesis tested, another lesson learned.

In that sense, running a marathon is a lot like approaching life with curiosity. It’s about exploring the unknown parts of yourself, testing theories about what pace you can sustain, and discovering what happens when preparation meets race day. The miles become an experiment, and every finish line brings a little more understanding.

Long before I thought about marathons this way, I had learned to see the world through the structured, analytical language of engineering. My college years meant equations on chalkboards (yes, that’s what we had back then), thermodynamics problems, seismic forces, fluid mechanics, and the satisfaction of a free-body diagram that finally balanced. I learned to think in systems—energy in, energy out—and to respect the laws of physics that govern how things move, heat, and wear down.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics was one of those concepts that initially seemed abstract at first, but gradually revealed its universal reach: entropy increases, energy spreads out, and nothing operates at perfect efficiency.

Years later, standing at a marathon start line, the same principle applies. The human body is remarkably capable, but it remains bound by thermodynamics. Every stride converts stored chemical energy into motion, while much of that energy becomes heat. As the miles accumulate, glycogen stores decline, muscles become less efficient, body temperature rises, and a rhythm that once felt effortless demands increasing effort.

Understanding this doesn’t make the race easier, but it makes it strangely elegant. A marathon becomes a real-world demonstration of principles once scribbled across chalkboards. The goal isn’t to defeat thermodynamics—that’s impossible—but to manage energy wisely enough to keep moving before entropy inevitably wins the day. As in engineering, success isn’t about eliminating loss; it’s about working within the laws that govern the system.

That’s why Armstrong’s quote feels personal. The analytical mindset that once helped me work through Carnot cycles and Laplace transforms still follows me onto the road. The marathon becomes another kind of problem set—a moving one—where the variables are effort, time, weather, and the constant negotiation between ambition and physics.

Perhaps that’s also why some races carry more meaning than others. The Hell of a Half Marathon is never just another race for me; it feels like a continuation of something I had already been running for years.

The hills begin long before race day, in the quiet training climbs beneath the dry California sky, where the air shimmers and the pavement radiates heat. Summer runs that started early but never early enough taught me patience, restraint, and, most importantly, how to keep moving when nothing feels easy.

Those training miles come with me to the start line. Every hill and hot mile has become strength, resilience, and trust. The course isn’t simply a profile on paper—it echoes the terrain I’ve already trained on: rolling roads, relentless climbs, and heat waiting quietly in the background.

I’ve also learned that my definition of “hot” doesn’t necessarily match everyone else’s. Around 70 degrees can already feel warm to me, particularly in the sun with little shade. It’s enough to affect my pace and make hydration more important. Others may consider that ideal running weather, but I’ve learned that comfort is relative and understanding my own limits matters more than comparing them with someone else’s.

That awareness has changed how I approach races. Instead of measuring conditions against some universal definition of “ideal,” I focus on how those conditions affect me and how I’ve learned to work through them.

The Hell of a Half wasn’t separate from that journey—it was a reflection of it. Every hill I had climbed and every hot mile I had endured was already stitched into the course. It wasn’t simply something to survive; it was something I already knew, step by step, long before the starting gun.

The Hell of a Half Marathon is the second race in the Run the Valley Half Marathon Series, set in California’s San Joaquin Valley. Following the opening event, it marks a shift in terrain and tone, introducing rolling hills, exposed stretches, and rising temperatures. More than the middle race, it becomes a turning point where early-season momentum is tested and the challenges ahead take shape.

The three-race series begins with April’s Visalia Half Marathon, where flat roads encourage fast starts and steady pacing. It then moves to Exeter for the Hell of a Half, where rolling terrain, exposed roads, and two climbs up Rocky Hill demand patience and resilience. The series concludes with October’s Judgment Day Half Marathon in Bakersfield, bringing its own hilly challenge beneath the autumn sun.

Together, the races tell a broader story of running in the valley—its changing seasons, demanding terrain, and the quiet determination required to keep moving forward, one race at a time. For those who complete all three, a handsome mega medal awaits.

Packet pickup

Race weekend began well before the starting gun.  While runners could pick up their packets on Friday afternoon or race morning at Veterans Memorial Park on Kaweah Avenue at the Exeter Veterans Memorial Building, an early pickup was also offered Wednesday evening at the Salty Walrus Brewery in Visalia.  The brewery quickly filled with runners collecting their race shirts and bibs before settling in with locally brewed craft beers and swapping stories with fellow competitors.  It was an easygoing atmosphere that set the tone for the weekend, blending pre-race excitement with a sense of community.  

At 1800 hrs, an optional 5K shakeout run offered participants another opportunity to connect before race day, but under a blazing sun and with afternoon temperatures hovering around 106°F, I gladly passed.  The memory of the heat illness I had suffered during the 2018 running of the Hatfield-McCoy Marathon was still fresh enough that there was no temptation to test my luck again.

The setup was refreshingly simple—towards the back of the tap room adjacent to the fermentation tanks. There is no sprawling expo hall, no maze of vendor booths, and none of the usual race-weekend fanfare.  Just a small table, a few volunteers, and a stack of bibs and event shirts waiting to be handed out.

Runners stepped up, gave their name, picked up their bib and race shirt, and moved along.  The whole exchange took only a minute or two—no crowds pressing through aisles, no sales pitches, and no overflowing swag bags to dig through afterward.

In a way, it fit the character of the race perfectly.  Hell of a Half doesn’t try to be something bigger than it is.  Packet pickup felt less like a commercial event and more like a quiet check-in before the miles ahead—simple, efficient, and very much in step with the laid-back rhythm of the Salty Walrus.

Let’s do this

From the race’s website, “The Hell of a Half Marathon is a paved looped course that starts at the Exeter Veteran's Memorial Park on Kaweah Avenue (SR 65) and Sequoia Drive.  The route will take [runners] through downtown and then proceed south to Myers Avenue.  Once on Myers Avenue [runners] will proceed to begin [the] first climb of Rocky Hill.  [Runners] descend and continue from Myers Avenue for a brief run on Yokohl Valley Road until [runners] reach Rocky Hill Drive.  Rocky Hill Drive will take [runners] to [the] second hill climb before [returning] back to the city and [the] finish line, where you can make full use of your bragging rights!”

It’s safe to say that I hate running in the heat. I’m simply not one of those runners who can tolerate high temperatures very well. I know my limits, and I know from experience how quickly the heat can drain my energy and suck the life out of my legs. So, I lined up for this race without any grand expectations. My goal was to respect those limits, do my best, treat the half marathon as a training run, and hopefully cross the finish line somewhere around the 2:30 mark, hopefully before.

Midsummer in California's Central Valley isn’t necessarily the best time to run a challenging half marathon. As I mingled near the starting line, the temperature had already climbed to the upper 70s, and the warmth settled heavily on my skin before the race had even begun. Around me, some runners jogged up and down the street, some stretched, chatted, and bounced with nervous energy, while I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, knowing 13.1 demanding miles awaited.

The sun seemed stronger than it should have been for the early hour, and the course stretched into the unknown like a challenge I wasn't sure I was ready to meet.  My stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation and dread as I imagined the aching legs, the rising heat, and the challenging battle that lay between the start and finish lines.  Standing there, anticipating the countdown, I knew I was about to enter a world of discomfort and determination—a true hell of a half marathon.  

Before the 0700 start time, runners paused for the national anthem (performed by a guitarist with an electric guitar, Jimi Hendrix style). The crowd grew quiet as most runners removed their hats and stood respectfully at the starting line as Old Glory hung from a Tulare County Fire truck ladder.  For a brief moment, the nervous energy of the race disappeared, replaced by a sense of unity among the participants and spectators.  As the final notes echoed across the start, the excitement returned, and runners turned their attention to the challenge ahead.

As the runners surged from the starting line, the relatively low dew point made the already warm morning air feel surprisingly comfortable. It was a welcome reprieve, but everyone knew it wouldn't last. With each passing mile, the sun would climb higher, pushing temperatures steadily toward 80 degrees and adding another layer of difficulty to an already punishing course. The “mild” start was a fleeting gift, and many runners—including me—were determined to make the most of it before the valley heat inevitably took over.

Just one of the city's murals

As the opening miles unfolded through Exeter’s city streets, the famous murals provided a welcome, if temporary, distraction.  Once out of the city, relatively flat roads allowed the field to settle into a rhythm through the hundreds of acres of citrus groves.  Spectators lined portions of the course, cheering enthusiastically as runners found their pace and enjoyed the deceptively forgiving terrain.  With the “cool” morning air still lingering and the major climbs yet to come, it was easy to feel confident. My legs felt fresh as I settled into an easy 9:30-per-mile pace. My breathing was steady, my stride felt light, and the opening miles passed almost effortlessly—a welcome calm before the course reveals its true character.

Knowing the toughest sections of the course were still ahead, I deliberately settled into a slow, steady rhythm during the opening four miles. I resisted the temptation to bank time early, knowing the course layout would eventually demand its price. The goal was to conserve as much energy as possible for the miles that would truly test me.  That strategy carried me smoothly leading up to the Friant-Kern Canal toward the first climb on Myer Drive at Mile 4.5, where the race would begin revealing its true character and offer a preview of the challenges still to come.

First climb of the day

The first major climb of the Hell of a Half Marathon is merely an appetizer, just enough to whet your appetite for what lies ahead. But with the heat zapping my energy, this appetizer quickly turned into a full-course meal, forcing me to walk most of the hill to the summit at Mile 6.  While it demands some effort, it is relatively tame compared to the monster waiting later in the race.  

Immediately after cresting the hill, I let gravity do some of the work. I picked up my pace and cruised down the half-mile descent, settling into a pace just under eight minutes per mile as I headed toward the relay exchange point in the fictitious community of “Gillville” at Mile 7.

By then, the heat had drained so much energy from me that the aid station was a welcome sight. I slowed long enough to grab a cup of cold water and Gatorade, then helped myself to a couple of slices of delicious, ice-cold watermelon. The combination of fluids, sugar, and cold fruit was exactly what I needed to recharge before moving on.

Cruising into the Gillville aid station

Just beyond the aid station, a volunteer was offering runners an unexpected luxury—an ice-water sponge bath. I couldn’t resist. I stopped and let him douse me with the icy water, and the shock of it sent a chill straight through my overheated body. For a moment, the heat disappeared, replaced by an instant wave of relief. It felt absolutely fantastic.

For the next mile and a half or so, the course wound through the ranch lands of the Gill Ranch in Yokohl Valley—flat, exposed roads with no shade and the relentless summer sun beating down. Ahead was Avenue 280 (Rocky Hill Drive) leading to the final climb of the day.

I rounded the turn, crossed the bridge and reached for a towel soaked in ice water and draped it around my neck. The cold was an immediate and welcome relief. I tucked part of the towel beneath my cap, letting the rest hang down the back of my neck to create a makeshift shield from the sun. Running along the lee side of Rocky Hill, there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze to offer relief. With the air still, that cold, wet towel became my best defense against the sun.

Rocky Hill Drive begins more gently than expected, with a mild grade and a series of rolling hills that seem manageable at first. But the road gradually tightens its grip, steadily steepening as it leads toward the final climb. Feeling the effort mounting, at Mile 9.5 “Splash Mountain” I reached for an Otter Pop, giving me a quick hit of sugar boost for what lay ahead.  I could’ve had another ice-water sponge bath, but I passed.

One mile to go to the top

Otter pop time

Splash Mountain crew

I alternated between walking and a slow jog as I made my way toward the base of the climb. I had run this road many times during training, so I knew exactly what awaited me. The climb itself is only 0.8 miles, but it averages an unforgiving eight percent grade. By this point, the heat, sun and miles had taken their toll, and I simply didn’t have enough left to run the entire way. So, like many of the runners around me, I settled into a fast, purposeful walk. Surprisingly, I was moving quickly enough that my walking pace was about the same as the pace I could have managed by running the climb. There was little point in burning more energy just to move at the same velocity.

As I reached the summit just after Mile 10, I was surprised to see several runners who had powered their way up the ascent now walking on the descent. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had spent so much energy conquering the climb that there simply wasn’t enough left in the tank to run downhill. After saving what little I had by walking the steepest sections, I was able to take full advantage of the descent and let gravity work in my favor.

Reaching the summit is a daunting task on foot, especially when every step feels like a negotiation with tired legs. But conquering that climb delivers an enormous sense of accomplishment. For me, it was more than just reaching the top of a hill—it was the defining moment of the race, a hard-earned reminder that sometimes the smartest way forward is simply to keep moving.

I powered down the 1.25-mile, six-percent descent toward the Friant-Kern Canal, settling into an 8:20 pace and clawing back some of the time I had lost on the climbs. Newton would have approved. His laws of motion and gravity explain what I was happily taking advantage of: gravity pulling me downhill while my tired legs tried to keep up. In my overheated state, however, I was happy to let gravity enhance my kinetic energy without questioning the physics too deeply.

At the aid station at the bottom of the descent, I stopped briefly for water and electrolytes. But the moment I slowed down, my fatigued legs seemed to seize the opportunity to revolt. Getting them moving again was another matter entirely. Apparently, Newton’s laws could explain why I accelerated downhill, but they offered no explanation for where my next gear had gone. I simply couldn’t find it.

The final 1.5 miles were flat on paper, but by this point I felt as if I was running uphill. I alternated between a slow jog and walking, repeatedly trying to convince my legs to keep moving. I glanced at my Garmin and realized that a 2:30 finish was still within reach. That became my new mission.

When I turned right from Rocky Hill Drive onto Crespi Avenue, the few spectators seated on the curb must have sensed that I was struggling. Their cheers and encouragement gave me a much-needed lift. I managed to turn the walk back into a slow jog and continued toward Palm Drive.

Then came the final left turn onto Palm Drive, and there it was—the finish line. After 13 miles of heat, hills, fatigue, and more than a few moments of questioning my decision to run a half marathon in such conditions, seeing that finish line brought an immediate surge of emotion. It was still less than a quarter mile away, but after everything I had endured, it felt like I could almost reach out and touch it. The end was finally in sight. All that remained was to summon whatever energy I had left for the final kick.

I dug deep and somehow found another gear, picking up the pace. I glanced at my Garmin and was surprised to see that I was running a sub nine-minute pace. Apparently, there was still some fumes left in the tank.

Then, as I traversed the awkward camber of Kaweah Avenue (SR 65), I felt my legs suddenly become wobbly. I stumbled slightly over the road centerline, caught off guard by a wave of fatigue unlike anything I had experienced before. Newton’s First Law was on full display: an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Unfortunately, my forward momentum was now working against me, carrying me dangerously close to losing my balance. For a split second, I thought I might plant my face on the pavement—a frighteningly familiar feeling reminiscent of my run at the 2026 Ventura Marathon. Somehow, I managed to stay upright, regain my balance, and push through the finish line in 2:30:31.

 

 

RACE STATS:

Distance: Half marathon (Garmin measured 13.15 mi)

Date: 8 August 2026

Bib No.: 441

Weather at the start: 78°F, clear sky, slight breeze

Average cadence: 142 spm

 

Gun time: 2:30:31

Chip time: 2:30:49

Average pace: 11:29 per mile

Overall rank: 349 of 680

Gender rank: 259 of 340

Division rank: 5 of 6

 

Age graded score: 48.21%

Age graded time: 1:59:18

 

Mile splits: 9:06, 9:11, 10:06, 10:20, 11:39, 13:53, 9:03, 11:19, 13:27, 15:39, 10:32, 11:47, 13:14, 8:14 (remaining 0.15)

 

LIKES / WHAT WORKED:

• Smooth packet pickup.

• The spectators that took time to come out to cheer strangers.

• Very well-organized event from packet pick-up to the well-stocked and ample aid stations along the course.

• Super friendly volunteer support.

• Moderately sized field of runners.

• Easy parking race day.

• Finishing the race amid the warm temperatures.

• On-course entertainment.

• Post-race food and drink.

 

DISLIKES / WHAT DIDN’T WORK:

• No shade.

• Some sections lack spectators—if you rely on spectator energy, this may not be your race.

• The two-lane county roads can feel monotonous, with many not-so-scenic stretches.

• Some portions of paved roads (Avenue 268 in particular) were heavily cracked, with potholes and poor pavement condition.  Watch your step.

 

Course profile

Crossing the finish line felt surreal. I was so spent that walking over to a volunteer to receive my finisher’s medal felt like stumbling through a drunken stupor. I was desperately parched, and my first priority was water. But, surprisingly, there were no water bottles in sight. WTF? Given how overheated and exhausted I must have appeared, I was also surprised that no medics offered any assistance.  Were there any on site? Apparently, I still looked functional enough to make it through the finishing chute on my own.

I spotted a bucket of ice water nearby, dunked my towel into it, and draped the cold, wet towel around my neck before making my way toward the park in search of something to drink. I was overheated, my legs wobbly and completely spent, and the scene brought back memories of my finish at the before-mentioned Hatfield-McCoy Marathon, when I had been similarly cooked by the sun and heat and was in no mood to celebrate.

After 13.1 miles, I wasn't looking for a post-race party just yet. I was looking for hydration—and thankfully, I found it in an Igloo water cooler next to the beer garden. At that moment, a cold drink was far more appealing than anything else around me.

The course itself is simple and definitely not an ideal setup for runners chasing a personal record (unless this is your first half marathon).  There’s no long, flat stretch where you can lock into a rhythm and let the miles disappear.  Instead, it’s a constant give-and-take—rollers that interrupt your pace, climbs that demand restraint, and descents that tempt you to go faster than you should.  Any momentum you build is eventually checked by the terrain and summer heat, forcing you to adjust and hydrate again and again.  It’s the kind of course that doesn’t reward aggressive pacing or rigid splits, but rather patience and awareness. You don’t run this one against the clock so much as you run it against the course itself.

The race director and his staff once again did an amazing job creating a fun, relaxed post-race atmosphere. The park setting at the Veterans Memorial offered plenty of shade, giving runners a chance to sit back, recover, and enjoy the GOOD food that has become a staple of this event.

This year, each participant received two delicious tacos from Rocio’s Catering, along with California Ice protein bars—20 grams of protein in a fun-fetti flavor—and berry-and-granola bowls from Rush Bowls. In previous years, the post-race spread has included everything from burritos to pancakes. Whatever happens to be on the menu, it beats the usual generic granola bar and banana hands down!

Adding to the festive atmosphere was the Michelob Ultra Stage, where the band Jaded kept things lively with classic rock from the 80s. After battling the heat and hills for 13.1 miles, relaxing in the shade with good food and live music was a great way to finish the day.

Jaded

Rust Bowls

 

Rocio's Catering

Final thoughts

The Hell of a Half Marathon certainly lived up to its reputation.  The course was relentlessly hot and packed with two challenging hills, testing every ounce of determination.  Yet despite the difficult conditions, the race was made memorable by the incredible support along the course.  Volunteers, and few spectators, lined the route, offering encouragement, water, and energy just when it was needed most. Their enthusiasm helped carry runners through the toughest miles and turned a grueling race into an unforgettable experience.

The opening miles rolled along flat roads, almost lulling runners into a false sense of confidence.  It didn't take long, however, for the true nature of the course to reveal itself.  This was never going to be a race about personal records or fast splits.  The combination of heat and the two hill climbs demanded a different mindset—one centered on resilience, patience, and simply putting one foot in front of the other. Each uphill climb felt like a test of willpower, while every descent provided only a fleeting chance to recover (even though the steep descents battered the quads) before the next challenge emerged around the corner.

When I finally crossed the finish line, the sense of accomplishment was greater than what I have felt after many other races.  Knowing the course's reputation beforehand added another layer to the experience. This was not a race that could be taken lightly, and earning a finisher's medal felt like a reward for perseverance as much as physical preparation.

In the quiet moments after the race, the course began to feel different than it had just a couple of hours earlier.  The same roads, the same hills, the same long stretches I’d train on—but softened now, almost reflective.  It reminded me of Joni Mitchell’s song, “Both Sides, Now”—that idea of seeing something one way, then another, and realizing both are true.

Before the start, the race felt intimidating.  The heat, the climbs, the reputation—it all loomed larger in my mind.  Out there on the course, it became something else entirely: effort, rhythm, moments of doubt, and small victories that came one mile at a time.  And afterward, it shifted again.  What had felt difficult in the moment now carried a kind of quiet clarity, as if the struggle itself had given the experience its meaning.

I thought about the hills in particular.  Who doesn’t?  They are, in one sense, an energy problem.  Every climb demands work—your body converting stored chemical energy into motion and heat.  That’s the First Law in action: energy isn’t created out there on the course, it’s just transformed.  What feels like effort is really that conversion happening step by step, the cost of moving upward written into every stride.

But the experience isn’t just about energy—it’s about how it’s spent.  The climbs feel harder than the descents feel easy, even if the distances balance out.  That’s where the Second Law comes in: energy disperses, systems trend toward inefficiency, and some of what you put in is always lost as heat and fatigue.  You don’t get back everything you gave to the hill, and that lingering fatigue you feel afterward is part of that irreversible process.

The hills exist in both ways at once.  From one perspective, they’re obstacles—places where energy is demanded and lost.  From another, they’re what give the race its shape and meaning—the very mechanism that transforms effort into experience.  Like the song suggests, thermodynamics describes the system without favoring the direction we wish it would take.  And perhaps there’s something almost Heisenberg-like about the race: the more precisely you measure the cost of each climb, the harder it becomes to capture what that climb means.  The race exists somewhere between the measurable and the experienced—the climb and what it becomes afterward.

And maybe that’s what gives the Hell of a Half its name.  It’s not just the climbs or the heat or the way the course seems to take more than it gives—it’s the full weight of the experience, seen from different angles before, during, and after the race, each one telling its own part of the story.  

Standing there at the finish, it becomes clear that the effort you spent and the fatigue that lingers aren’t separate from the meaning—they are the meaning, only fully understood once it’s over.  It’s a race that asks something of you and doesn’t return it in equal measure, at least not in the moment.  But somewhere in that imbalance—in the work, the strain, and the reflection that follows—you begin to understand it. And that understanding is what stays with you long after the miles are behind you.   

Looking back, the Hell of a Half Marathon lived up to its name, delivering a challenging course that tested runners from start to finish.  At the same time, the excellent race organization, enthusiastic volunteers, and supportive spectators created an atmosphere that made every difficult mile worthwhile.  Although my finishing time was not one of my best, the experience served as a reminder that running is about more than the clock.  It is about embracing challenges, pushing beyond your comfort zone, and finding satisfaction in accomplishing something difficult.

To sum up the day’s performance, a line from Toby Keith’s song As Good As I Once Was captures it perfectly: “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.” Maybe I’m not the runner I once was, but on this day, I managed to summon just enough of my old self when it mattered most.

As always, onward and upward.

“Bureaucracies temporarily suspend the Second Law of Thermodynamics.  In a bureaucracy, it's easier to make a process more complex than to make it simpler, and easier to create a new burden than kill an old one.” — Clay Shirky, American pundit

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