AT 8:30 a.m. on july 5, a crisp 42-degree morning, our little pack of racers gathered expectantly under a clear dawn that looked like noon that looked like midnight, the sun merely wobbling around the horizon. Five of the old guys had left four hours earlier, having cajoled one another into back-to-back marathons. One would finish in a mere eight hours.

The ranks had swollen to 11 with the addition of two formidable new racers: Rory, the 23-year-old son of one of the grandpas who'd doubled down, who was helping to decommission a mine nearby and figured what the hell, and Knut, a 32-year-old Oslo sailor who'd been frozen over in Arctic Bay for the past two winters. I lined up close to Boston Bob, whom I'd liked well enough until then. Though we all fit across the starting line, he stepped forward for the pre-race photo, so that the snaps depicted essentially Boston Bob and the Others. I had my nemesis.

The Mountie fired her pump-action shotgun low over the school parking lot, and amid the great cheering of the crowd of three or four, we took off.

Bob bolted. At the crew shack, his seven-minute mile had already established a 100-yard lead, and by the time we reached the fueling station at the edge of town, the pack had fallen far behind. No problem; catch him later. I coasted in the middle, using my chest monitor to keep my heart rate steady at 156, never exceeding my lactate threshold of 162, the maximum pace that the testing had determined I could sustain. Beyond the mouth of the bay, solid ice, a white pelt with blue-green splotches, stretched as far as I could see. Miles disappeared.

And so did Bob. By the time I reached the first turnaround, a dangerous curve sign at the top of a six-mile hill, he was already a mile back down. I thought I might close the gap, risking a hamstring tear with strides like so many grands jetés, but Bob was gone. It wasn't difficult to make peace with second place. Say it's much-needed penance, I thought, and settled in to run my own race. As the course passed through town again with five miles left, I turned myself loose and began humping up an incredibly steep hill rising 700 feet in half a mile. This, Coach Henderson had instructed, was the time to burn it out, forget the heart-rate monitor.

The little gizmo spiked to 175.

Soon I saw Bob. He was passing the last aid station, a truck parked at the bottom of the hill. Was he flagging? I ditched my sweaty shirt on the tailgate, followed the road past fillets of char drying on a string, and started reeling him in.

I caught him at a marsh with two miles to go. Hanging behind, I momentarily thought that maybe we should cross together. After all, his girlfriend had hinted that he'd dropped $2,300 for this marathon because he thought he'd found one he could finally win. But that charitable impulse passed. I stepped out, pumped my arms, and left him to limp home second, three minutes behind.

Again, it seemed, I hadn't had to pay for my sins. My time, 3:27:10, beat the four-year-old course record by 20 minutes—and Bob, a gentleman, congratulated me after he stopped the silent treatment. The old-timers assured me I had a long, glorious future in marathoning, and for a couple of hours I believed them. I could see myself running more, at least enough to break the three-hour mark, maybe enough that someday, like Rory, my son would join me at the far corners of racedom.

I'd won a marathon. I was a marathoner.

The transformation was taking place. By the spaghetti banquet that evening, I felt confident enough to share my secret with the racers gathered around the long folding tables in the high school home-ec room. "So actually, up until yesterday afternoon, I was a smoker," I began. They all gasped and said things like "Good for you"—all except one, that is. Sitting at the far end of the table, Jennifer misheard. After brownies and cake, she motioned for me to follow her outside.

"You want a cigarette?" she offered, producing a pack of ultralights. I wavered—but, the truth is, not for long. Standing out behind the high school, far from the familiar indignity, the health worries, and the depressed spasms of withdrawal, I couldn't say no. Tomorrow I'd quit. Today I was the winningest loser.

Next month, Eric Hansen RV's the Oregon coast with his 94-year-old grandmother.