Thirteen-point-one
I don't know what possessed us, back at the turn of 2013. Holiday hangover, I guess. Tryptophan haze. Tight-pants syndrome. Whatever unicorn magic power it was held a wicked powerful grip - powerful enough to cause us to put pen to paper and credit card to internet and commit ourselves to completing a half-marathon by the end of the year. It seemed like we had forever. I mean, I could already run like a mile or so - before kids I used to even run 3 miles at a time sometimes - so "training" to run another 10-12 miles should be cake. You just add like a mile a week, right? And we had MONTHS! This was going to be no sweat. Except that it was sweat. It was lots, and lots, and lots of sweat. It was sweat and blood and pain and tears. It was torture and boredom and drudgery and second-guessing. It was commiserating and new shoes and babysitters and clean eating. It was earlier mornings and new playlists and slow paces and compression sleeves. It was feeling every day of my