When Stephanie pitched the idea of running a half marathon to me, I was a bit unsure if it was a good idea. When she told me she'd signed the both of us up I was a little bit terrified. She and I have ran a few 5k fun runs, and we both run pretty regularly, but 13.1 miles of running was really, really, really daunting. Running is something I do casually; I generally don't really care about what time I get per mile, how far I go, or if I place any higher than second-to-last in a race, but knowing I would be up against a longer course than I've ever tried to run before freaked me out. All I wanted to do was finish the race in once piece.
And, surprisingly enough, I did finish in one piece!
But it still felt like I was falling apart by the end.
We got registered, pinned our bibs to our shirts, stretched out a little, and made our way to the starting line. With the countdown, the race began and the mob of people began to run. The sun was just getting over the hills, my breath still fogging, so I was happy to get moving to warm up. It didn't take too long for me to start to zone out on my breathing and the sound and feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, so aside from a couple water stops the first few miles blurred out of my memory. The sun got higher in the sky and the green hillsides lit up as the morning unfolded. I was so happy to be in such a lovely new place with my girlfriend, and I was so happy to share that moment with her.
That is, except I wasn't sure where she was. I stopped for a little while and looked back, wondering if she'd passed me or if I'd passed her. I waited for a little bit in hopes of getting to her again, but realized I'd lost ten minutes of my run time by standing around. I didn't realize it at that moment, but that was the one time I honestly gave a shit about my final time. I'd been following the two-hour-forty-five-minute pacer from the get-go, occasionally passing her and watching her pass me, because that's who Stephanie and I opted to follow at first, so I got the lead out and caught up to that pacer while looking around for my missing girlfriend.
It was getting hotter, and I was trying to get as much water from my CamelBak as I could. After charging up a hill for what seemed like forever and getting to a narrower, winding downhill stretch, it seemed like my water was leaking. I was concerned; I wasn't sure if I could keep going if I only got a tiny cup of water every few miles. I kept going, drinking what I could, and realized water was getting all over my face. Was there something wrong with the nozzle? Was that why it seemed like it was leaking?
No. It was sweat. I was just really, really sweaty. My beard and mustache held in the sweat like a sponge, and my back was drenched with it too. After inspecting my CamelBak and realizing my gear was fine (and I was just an idiot) I slung it back on my back, and the shock of cold sweat on a pack hitting the cold sweat on my back propelled me further down the road.
By mile nine or ten-- I stopped paying much attention well before that point-- the cramping began. My right leg, sides, arms (for some reason), muscles I didn't even know I had, and muscles I'm not even sure I had were screaming at me to stop. Every hill seemed more and more vertical. Every GU pouch and tiny paper cup of Gatorade tasted like manna from heaven. The bonked out limping-then-running-then-walking world I found myself in was... well, actually kind of pretty with the rolling green hills and the sun hanging in the sky, but my brain screaming for my body to quit distracted me a little bit from the gorgeous day.
I continued on, bonked, sore, sweating, and beautifully miserable, thinking about how great passing out in a comfy bed would be and how long it'd been since I'd eaten Burger King, when one of the many high school kids that had been serving as a sort of cheer squad yelled, "You're almost there! It's, like, less than a mile!"
A dirt path leading up a hill and toward the final stretch greeted me. I thanked the kid and pushed myself to run a little harder, my muscles caught fire, my soul started to consider ditching the earthly vessel that kept running despite all protest. I wasn't going fast, but I was moving quicker than I thought I could considering how bad I ached, and once the finish line came into view I ran like I'd just gotten out of the gate. I walked as normally as I could to a booth where they gave me a medal. I stared at it, then got my true reward; a bottle of water and a shady spot to sit for a couple minutes. Once I met up with Stephanie, we hobbled to the shuttle back to her car, got Burger King, went home, showered, and died for the rest of the weekend.
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Somehow, even after
the race, my legs never
got any more tan.
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My time wasn't great, but I'm glad to have even finished (plus, I met the goal I'd originally set on Twitter! I win!). Thirteen miles in almost three hours isn't lightning fast, but I'll roll with it because I ran it for the sake of running it. The experience was enlightening, humbling, and kind of fun in a sadistic sort of way. I learned I can push myself beyond what I thought I could do, that sometimes it's okay to take a quick breather, and that it probably is a lot better to run, sleep, eat, and stretch before running that much. I'm very much okay with sticking to races under 10K from here on out, but maybe one day I'll get a half marathon in under two-and-a-half hours or better.
Until then, though, I'll keep my running casual.
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