In 35 years, the St. George Marathon has only had to deal with rain twice.

Lucky me. The first time I run what most of my friends say is their favorite marathon, not only does it rain, but we are blessed with a chilly headwind as well.

The weather was so bad at the start of Saturday's St. George Marathon, I actually contemplated staying inside a Port-a-potty — unsanitary stench and all — rather than heading back out into the elements.

I decided to leave my stinky refuge only because I worried that those standing in line outside might storm my tiny castle and beat me up for making them stand in the storm. Each time I headed back out into the fresh, freezing air, I asked myself why I'd decided to run one more marathon.

I was one of the first runners at the start line in an attempt to earn a few freebies advertised on the race's Web site. Not only did I freeze for nearly three hours in the rain and wind, but I didn't win one single thing in those drawings! As my father used to say, "If it wasn't for our bad luck, we wouldn't have any luck at all."

By the time the race started, my shoes were already drenched, my legs were beyond stiff and, thanks to those bonfires that kept me from seizing up completely, I smelled like I'd been camping for a week. I couldn't feel parts of my leg, and I'm sure the tendons in my knees, hips and ankles were about as tight as they could get without snapping. At about mile 2, I was thinking that I could walk back to the start and hitch a ride. After all, I had done four marathons, and I'd earned the Grand Slam even without Saturday's finish. I was tired; I was cold; and I was very, very low.

That's when I noticed a group running in garbage bags, as most of us more than 6,000 runners were doing, but instead of shivering and shaking, they were chatting and laughing. They were several members of a group who called themselves Generation Gap Runners. They spanned from preteens to post-retirement ages and shared a common goal — to keep running.

I talked with them about their lives and their passion for running and, the next thing I knew, we were at mile 8. OK, now it was too far to walk back. So I kept going — up the hill called Veyo and talked with a mother and daughter who were struggling. When the daughter said she didn't think she could make her legs run any more, her mother encouraged her, walked with her, even comforted her.

I moved on and talked with a mother and son for a while. It was mile 18 when I met them, and now I knew I might make it. Two miles later, I met David and Caleb Tanner and talked with them for several more miles. It was mile 23 and I was in so much pain I couldn't stop running. I knew if I did, I would quit.

This is that place, I thought, where we don't want to be. The place we move away from. The pain and discomfort we're constantly flailing against, fighting with and resisting. So I settled in and just let the pain in my left knee sear up and down my leg. I felt the ache in my right hip and took a deep breath. This is just pain, I thought. I have felt pain and I have let it go. I took deep breaths as I took in the scenery and the stories of those on the wet roadway with me.

This is life — painful, cold and sometimes we're not sure we can bear to take another step forward. We look for comfort, refuge and often a way out of our problems. Instead, look for inspiration in those who are struggling in the same race. Let them sustain you, take care of you and make those dark days just a little brighter.

Someone once told me that with pain comes clarity, and for the first time in a long time I clearly saw one thing. Life is really not about the finish line. It's not about the end; the part you savor, the part that makes you who you are, is how you travel those 26.2 miles to the finishers' chute. And in the darkest, coldest times, there is only one thing that can bring you comfort — the love and friendship of your fellow travelers.

E-mail: adonaldson@desnews.com