The Seabrook Marathon Afterparty

Sunlight shimmered on the freshly chalked finish line of the Seabrook Marathon. Every June, the little coastal town woke up early, laced up its running shoes, and pounded the pavement—for charity, for pride, for the joy of tradition. But while the marathon brought out the determined and the athletic, it was the Afterparty that stole the show.

Set up along the pier, with carnival games, raffles, brunch tents, and more fried food than any nutritionist would condone, the Afterparty was a celebration of community, sweat, and serotonin.

“Burn all the calories, eat ‘em right back,” quipped Danny Van Hoosier, Viking News’ charmingly cocky sports reporter, as he shoved a stick of bacon-wrapped corn dogs into his mouth and posed for a selfie. His T-shirt read: I Ran 26.2 Miles Just to Eat This.

“You ran the relay, Danny. Three miles,” came the deadpan voice of Grace Orozco, junior editor and resident killjoy, holding a green juice.

“Still counts,” he said, mouth full.

Sam Ihle—crime reporter, hopeless romantic, and all-around nerd with Clark Kent glasses and zero sense of direction—was weaving through the crowd with a tray of food, searching for a spot in the shade. By his side was his wife, Jodie Williams-Ihle, political reporter, Audrey Hepburn enthusiast, and possessor of an arched brow that could cut steel.

“Tell me again why we agreed to share an Oreo funnel cake?” she asked, eyeing the monstrosity of powdered sugar and chocolate with a mix of delight and trepidation.

“Because,” Sam said, adjusting his press badge even though they were off duty, “marriage is about compromise. I wanted the fried Twinkie. You wanted the churros. So naturally, we got the thing neither of us suggested.”

They sat under a blue-striped umbrella as the Ferris wheel creaked and kids screamed from the Tilt-a-Whirl nearby. The salty ocean breeze helped cut through the sugary air.

At the next table over, Carl Gene Philips, the Viking News’ arts columnist and self-proclaimed “resident RuPaul of Seabrook,” was fanning himself with a glittery raffle flyer and sipping a mimosa out of a pineapple.

“Dahling,” he purred, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, “do you see Benjamin Diaz over there pretending he didn’t just run a personal marathon?”

Benjamin Diaz, senior editor and known for his unshakeable poise and tailored blazers (yes, even on race day), was standing near the winner’s table, chatting with local dignitaries and posing for pictures like he was at the Met Gala.

“He signed up for the 5K,” Carl said, voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. “And then—mysteriously—ended up running a 15K. Oh, he claims he got lost, but let’s be real. The man could navigate with echolocation.”

“Maybe he just missed a turn,” Jodie said, shrugging.

“Missed a turn? Honey, the route was marked with neon signs and literal jazz bands at each checkpoint.”

“Benjamin did grow up here,” Sam added. “He knows this town better than anyone.”

“Exactly!” Carl said, slapping the table. “He did it on purpose. That was no accident. That was a humblebrag dressed as a detour.”

“I believe the term is 'bragalicious,'” Danny chimed in, grabbing a churro from their tray without asking. “Also, fun fact: I saw Benjamin checking his own reflection in a shop window while running. Guy’s not winded. He’s posing.”

Jodie laughed, brushing powdered sugar off her dress. “To be fair, if I looked like that while running, I’d pose too.”

A band struck up a cheerful folk tune on the stage near the raffles, and people began drifting toward the prize table. A small crowd had already gathered, some still sweating from the run, others just there for the free food and music.

Mayor Beverly Keane, in a lemon-yellow sundress and a flower crown, took the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what a glorious day! We raised $78,435 for local charities this year, our highest total yet!” She waited for the applause and added, “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for—raffle time!”

Cheers erupted.

“Sam, didn’t you put your name in for something?” Jodie asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “The limited edition box set of Murder, She Wrote DVDs and the commemorative fire department cookbook.”

“Of course you did,” she murmured fondly.

Danny leaned over. “I put in for the Jet Ski.”

“You don’t have a boat.”

“Don’t need one. Just the dream.”

Carl twirled his mimosa straw. “I’m hoping for the spa retreat package. Because I earned it watching Benjamin run a runway show down the boardwalk this morning.”

The raffle winners were called out in waves. Someone won a year’s worth of donuts from Sugar Pearl Bakery. Another got a guided hiking trip through the coastal hills. Sam didn’t win anything, and Danny’s dreams of personal watercraft glory were dashed. But then—

“And the winner of the spa retreat for two—Mr. Carl Gene Philips!”

A dramatic gasp.

Carl jumped up like he’d won an Oscar, mimosa still in hand. “I’d like to thank my legs for refusing to run this morning. And Benjamin Diaz for giving me the strength to stay fabulous.”

Benjamin, who was only a few feet away, gave a two-finger salute. “You’re welcome.”

Someone behind them dropped their funnel cake.

The party swelled into mid-afternoon, the air filled with laughter, music, and the occasional squeal from a lucky kid who won a stuffed flamingo at the ring toss.

At one point, Sam and Jodie wandered toward the photo booth tent, where props were strewn across a picnic table. Sam grabbed a fake mustache to wear over his thin, growing real one.

“Double stache,” he said.

“Double trouble,” Jodie deadpanned, donning oversized pink heart glasses. They posed together with the funnel cake in the frame.

Behind them, a dance circle had formed, with Carl in the center, showing off moves that defied both age and physics. Benjamin—still sweat-free and somehow looking like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad—finally wandered over, sipping coconut water.

“I did not plan to run a 15K,” he said unprompted.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“I took a wrong turn near the 10K mark, and suddenly I was on the extended trail.”

“Uh huh,” Carl said. “And I accidentally over-moisturize every day.”

“Can’t fault him,” Danny shrugged. “If I looked like that and had the lungs of a gazelle, I’d probably keep running too.”

Benjamin sipped. “I’m simply an overachiever. It’s a burden.”

Jodie leaned toward Sam. “It’s scary how much I believe him when he says that.”

“Right?” Sam said. “He probably did it to test his own limits. Or because he wanted to make a poetic point.”

Carl fanned himself again. “If Benjamin Diaz ever writes a memoir, it’ll be called The Accidental Overachiever: Oops, I Excelled Again.”

They all laughed.

As the sun dipped low over the ocean, casting golden light on the water, families began to pack up. The raffle booths folded down. The band shifted to slow songs. A makeshift dance floor opened near the end of the pier.

Someone had brought out string lights. They twinkled like fireflies.

Sam and Jodie found themselves near the railing, watching the water and finishing off the last bites of funnel cake.

“You ever think,” Sam said, brushing sugar from his tank top, “that days like this are the real reward? Not the marathon medals. Not the prizes. Just this. Everyone together.”

Jodie leaned into him. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said with powdered sugar all over their chin.”

He grinned. “I try.”

She plucked the sugar off with a napkin and then kissed his cheek. “Next year, we should run the couple’s relay.”

“Are we allowed to carry each other?”

“Only if you promise not to get lost like Benjamin.”

“I could never get lost. You’re always the one guiding me.”

Carl passed by just in time to hear. “Ohh, somebody write that down! That’s going in the wedding vows redo!”

“Already married,” Sam said, but Carl was already off toward the dance floor, glittering under the lights.

As music swelled, the Viking News crew slowly reconvened: Danny doing a ridiculous shimmy, Grace reluctantly dancing with a churro in hand, Benjamin standing off to the side and pretending not to enjoy himself.

They were reporters, editors, wordsmiths, and weirdos. But today, they were something more—a family.

Sam pulled Jodie close. The funnel cake was gone. The lights were warm. And the sea whispered of more stories waiting to be told.