After two previous trips to New Orleans for pure fun (and zero miles logged), I jumped at the chance to visit again — this time for the Rock ’n’ Roll Half Marathon. When I heard about the race, I had my bags packed faster than you can say “hot jambalaya.”

It was late January, just a couple weeks before Mardi Gras, and the whole city was already buzzing with parade prep and festive chaos. Laura, her boyfriend, and I stayed in the heart of the French Quarter, within stumbling distance of Bourbon Street and beignets. First stop: the race expo. We decided to walk the 1.3 miles to the convention center. Sounds chill, right? It was… until Laura’s ankles decided to mutiny and gave her some gnarly blisters. She powered through like the warrior she is, but in hindsight, we should’ve taken a streetcar. Or an Uber. Or just ridden a rogue Mardi Gras float.

Once inside the massive convention center, we wandered what felt like 16 city blocks to get to Hall Q — a hall so far away I’m convinced it lives in another zip code. But we got there, and runners were welcomed with an actual red carpet. Très fancy. I grabbed my packet, scored a cute race magnet, and mentally prepared for my mission: a sub-2 halfie.

Sub-2, Sweet Dreams, and Puppy Distractions

I’d been chasing a sub-2-hour half marathon finish for a while — close a few times, but never quite there. But this course? Below sea level, pancake-flat (mmm pancakes), and lined with dogs. I was ready.

We lined up at Lafayette Square for the 7:30 a.m. start. Temps were in the mid-40s, just chilly enough to feel alive. I’d never run with a pace group before, but I decided to stick with the 2-hour crew and see what happened.

The race started downtown before turning onto St. Charles Avenue, a boulevard lined with sprawling mansions and huge oaks. Gorgeous. Around mile 3, I realized our pace group was zooming — clocking 8:45 miles, which is… not 9:10s, friends. But I was feeling good, so I hung on. For a bit.

We hit the turnaround near Loyola and began heading back. By mile 8, I was cooked. The pace group was gone. My legs were heavy. I cursed Past Me for going out too fast and making a classic rookie mistake when I should’ve known better. But I kept plodding along, distracting myself by counting the cheering dogs (at least 50 — that’s a Puppy PR).

The course finally left St. Charles and we entered the French Quarter, which never disappoints. I smiled at the familiar wrought iron balconies, passed Jackson Square, Cafe Du Monde, and the French Market. Then we turned onto Esplanade for the final 3-mile stretch to City Park. Spectacular, colorful homes lined the street, and I wanted to stop for a photo — mostly because my hip flexors were protesting with every step — but I was determined to finish as strong as I could.

We passed a cemetery near mile 12. Seemed about right.

Inside City Park, we ran alongside Big Lake (yes, that’s its actual name). Spectators offered Jell-O shots and King Cake, but all I wanted was to cross that finish line. And finally… I did.

Red-faced, sweaty, and happy to be done:

Finish line sweat fest

The Michelob Ultra of Celebrations

I crossed the finish line a sweaty mess but feeling victorious. A volunteer handed me a medal draped in Mardi Gras beads. Festive AND functional. I wandered around City Park waiting for Laura and her boyfriend to finish the marathon, soaking in the sunshine and stretching out on the grass. And yes, I may have looked like I was passed out from too many Jell-O shots. I wasn’t. (This time.)

The best part? Unlimited free beer! The worst part? It was Michelob Ultra. Look, no disrespect if that’s your thing, but after running 13.1 miles, I want my beer to taste like… beer. Still, free is free, so I sipped my carb-water in the abundant sunshine and waited for my crew.

2015 Rock 'n' Roll New Orleans half marathon medal

Let the Real Party Begin

Once we all regrouped and de-sweated, it was time for some classic New Orleans chaos. We did it all: hurricanes and hand grenades, Pat O’Brien’s dueling pianos, Bourbon Street wandering, street performers, and all the Cajun and Creole food we could get our hands on — jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, red beans and rice, gumbo, and a plate that looked like a Jackson Pollock painting but tasted like heaven. I even found vegan King Cake at the French Market — my first ever. A King Cake fit for a running queen.

Jackson Square

All of New Orleans crammed onto one plate — and yes, it looks like a questionable mess, but it tasted like a soulful hug.

New Orleans cuisine

Me and a Minion because reasons:

French Quarter Minion

New Orleans, you delivered again. I may not have broken two hours, but I broke into a lot of laughs, ate everything in sight, and made another sweaty, sparkly memory in one of America’s most iconic cities. Thanks for the miles and the magic, Big Easy.

NOLA Superlatives

  • Best fitting rooms: Brooks’ port-a-potty-style changing rooms at the expo. Delightfully weird.
  • Worst road surface: St. Charles Ave. Broken pavement, potholes, etc. My ankles are still mad.
  • Top canine hype squad: Garden District pup next to a sign reading “25 miles left? You’ve gotta be kitten me!”
  • Most juvenile moment: Spray-painted “POOP” on plywood. I laughed. Hard.
  • Best historic happy hour: Free whiskey at May Baily’s Place, a former brothel turned hotel bar.
  • Cutest bar buddy: A Shiba Inu hanging out in an open-air French Quarter bar like a regular.