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EVERY BIG TOURISM ENGINE has a mythic origin story, and Grandma’s Marathon has one that almost didn’t happen — not because of logistics, weather, or runners, but because of a conversation that could have ended with a polite no.
Picture it: Canal Park, still more idea than inevitability. Duluth, not yet convinced it could sell itself as a destination. A young race organizer, Scott Keenan, walking into a restaurant with a pitch that sounded, at the time, a little insane.
A marathon. Along the lake. From Two Harbors to Duluth. In June. Sponsored by a local restaurant.
This wasn’t Boston. This wasn’t Chicago. This was a port city still shaking off decades of economic self-doubt, being asked to believe that thousands of people would willingly travel here, pay money, and run 26.2 miles toward Canal Park.
The meeting mattered because of who was on the other side of the table: Andy Borg and Mick Paulucci, Canal Park entrepreneurs who didn’t just run businesses. They bet on Duluth before betting on Duluth was fashionable.
They could have said no.
They could have said the city wasn’t ready. That the risk was too high. That their restaurant brand didn’t need a long-distance running experiment attached to it. They could have wished Keenan luck and gone back to worrying about lunch service.
If that happens, Duluth tourism looks very different today.
Instead, Borg and Paulucci said yes. And that yes did more than name a race. It gave Duluth permission to imagine itself differently.
That’s the part that gets lost when people talk about Grandma’s Marathon purely in economic-impact language. The dollars matter — they matter a lot — but the original decision wasn’t driven by spreadsheets. It was driven by instinct. By a belief that Canal Park could be a finish line, not just a postcard. That Lake Superior wasn’t a backdrop, but a feature. That Duluth could host something big without apologizing for it.
Grandma’s Restaurant didn’t just sponsor a race. It anchored it. It gave the event a name that sounded human, welcoming, a little quirky — exactly like the city it represented. “Grandma’s Marathon” didn’t sound corporate. It sounded local. Approachable. Trustworthy.
That mattered then, and it still matters now.
Fast-forward to today and Grandma’s Marathon is one of the most powerful tourism weekends on Duluth’s calendar — not because it was inevitable, but because it was chosen. Chosen early. Chosen locally. Chosen by people willing to attach their reputations and businesses to a long-term idea rather than a short-term return.
The ripple effects are everywhere. Hotels filling months in advance. Restaurants stacking reservations. The DECC humming. Canal Park doing what it was always supposed to do: connect people to the lake, to the city, and to each other.
But zoom out a little more, and the deeper impact becomes clear. Grandma’s Marathon didn’t just prove Duluth could host a national event. It proved that locally rooted businesses could drive destination-scale outcomes. That you didn’t need an outside corporation to validate the city. You needed locals willing to say yes when the future knocked.
That’s a lesson worth revisiting right now, as Duluth debates tourism strategy, downtown vitality, and who gets to shape the city’s next chapter.
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: if that original meeting never happens — if Borg and Paulucci pass, if Keenan walks out empty-handed — there is no guarantee someone else steps in. Maybe the race limps along under a generic name. Maybe it never finds traction. Maybe it never exists at all.
And if Grandma’s Marathon never becomes Grandma’s Marathon, Duluth loses more than a race weekend. It loses a proof point. A calling card. A once-a-year moment when the city stops explaining itself and simply performs.
Tourism success stories rarely begin with consultants or slogans. They begin with people who understand place — and who are willing to gamble on it.
Grandma’s Restaurant did that. So did Borg and Paulucci. So did Scott Keenan.
Their yes didn’t just launch a marathon. It helped launch modern Duluth.
And every June, when runners crest that final stretch toward Canal Park, they’re crossing more than a finish line. They’re finishing a conversation that started decades ago in a restaurant — when saying yes changed everything.
