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 36 years, feeling every pound of baby weight, feeling every mark that three pregnancies have left on my body. It was stabbing shin pain, aching hips, and feeling like I'd been punked.
But it was also accomplishment. It was moving past every point where I had every legitimate reason to quit. It was runner's highs and new personal records and the satisfaction that comes with peeling your wet clothes off before stepping into the shower. It's that shiny new medal hanging in the foyer.
I kept waiting to "feel like a runner." Three mile runs...four mile runs...six mile runs...I was still just me, but me doing something out of character for me. I didn't feel like a runner. I didn't understand how I could spend so much time and energy on something and have it not take over and become automatic or routine or easy. It was discouraging to be dragging myself out the door and not eagerly jumping at it like my "runner" friends seemed to do. I didn't get it until we ran eight miles one night...and felt like we could go another eight. At least on that night, I felt like a runner. I understood for the first time that runners were just people like me, who'd kept going. And if I wanted to feel like a runner, I was going to have to keep going.
I'm still waiting to look like a runner, but even that discouragement was quelled when we woke up on race day and started seeing some of our 14,000 co-runners. All ages. All shapes. All sizes. All speeds. Taped and braced and cobbled together to get to the starting line.
Physical challenges and injuries had plagued my training, so much so that the longest I had run in the six weeks prior to the run was a five-miler the week before. I had never run more than those eight miles. As it was, we'd trained to walk/run the entire time. Now I'd be lucky to walk/run half of it. So with expectations low and an understanding that I may very well end up walking my first half marathon, we left the gate at 10:23 under the fireworks (yes, fireworks!) with the rest of Corral I.
Let me tell you something. Fourteen thousand runners is a lot of runners. Kind of like, say, trying to run through a crowded Disney park...So there was no need to be in any particular hurry. We tried to keep our planned pace, but dodging other runners in full costumes - from Tinkerbell to Darth Vader to the entire cast of Alice in Wonderland - made it tricky. We started passing mile markers and running through theme parks and honestly, the biggest victory of the night was that I can say this:
Miles 1 through 10 were easy.
I'm going to say it again, in case you didn't see that.
Miles 1 through 10 were easy.
Somehow, Disney worked their magic to make running 10 miles feel like some kind of weird party where people shoved cups of water in your faces every few minutes or squirted you with Biofreeze if you needed it. We were living it up - singing along with our playlists, high fiving characters along the way, running through dance floors and under disco balls and past our favorite rides, lit up at night just for us.
But then, like every good Disney story, something went terribly wrong. Miles 11 through 13 were the stuff villains dream up. Miles that went on forever and ever. Familiar stretches of land that seemed to literally be stretching in front of us. Entertainers who were getting happier and happier and more creepily desperate to encourage as our bodies ate themselves from the inside. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, that glorious mile marker from heaven appeared...
THIRTEEN.
I should have taken a picture. I would've appreciated the break.
And the last .1? Incredible. A happy Disney ending. Crowds cheering. Lasers. Loud music. Mickey and Minnie themselves there to congratulate every incredible soul committed enough to cross that line. It was the payment for every second of every minute of every run for nine months coming due in one 528 foot segment of pavement. I might have cried, just like I might be crying right now writing this.
With medals around our now-half-marathoner necks, we greeted our fans (sister cemented the role of best sibling ever by being at the finish line at 1:30 a.m.) and stumbled past the medical tent and through the bag pick up before ultimately crashing in what would be one of the most glorious nights of sleep, ever.
The million-dollar-question: Will I do it again?
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 36 years, feeling every pound of baby weight, feeling every mark that three pregnancies have left on my body. It was stabbing shin pain, aching hips, and feeling like I'd been punked.But it was also accomplishment. It was moving past every point where I had every legitimate reason to quit. It was runner's highs and new personal records and the satisfaction that comes with peeling your wet clothes off before stepping into the shower. It's that shiny new medal hanging in the foyer.
I kept waiting to "feel like a runner." Three mile runs...four mile runs...six mile runs...I was still just me, but me doing something out of character for me. I didn't feel like a runner. I didn't understand how I could spend so much time and energy on something and have it not take over and become automatic or routine or easy. It was discouraging to be dragging myself out the door and not eagerly jumping at it like my "runner" friends seemed to do. I didn't get it until we ran eight miles one night...and felt like we could go another eight. At least on that night, I felt like a runner. I understood for the first time that runners were just people like me, who'd kept going. And if I wanted to feel like a runner, I was going to have to keep going.
I'm still waiting to look like a runner, but even that discouragement was quelled when we woke up on race day and started seeing some of our 14,000 co-runners. All ages. All shapes. All sizes. All speeds. Taped and braced and cobbled together to get to the starting line.
Physical challenges and injuries had plagued my training, so much so that the longest I had run in the six weeks prior to the run was a five-miler the week before. I had never run more than those eight miles. As it was, we'd trained to walk/run the entire time. Now I'd be lucky to walk/run half of it. So with expectations low and an understanding that I may very well end up walking my first half marathon, we left the gate at 10:23 under the fireworks (yes, fireworks!) with the rest of Corral I.
Let me tell you something. Fourteen thousand runners is a lot of runners. Kind of like, say, trying to run through a crowded Disney park...So there was no need to be in any particular hurry. We tried to keep our planned pace, but dodging other runners in full costumes - from Tinkerbell to Darth Vader to the entire cast of Alice in Wonderland - made it tricky. We started passing mile markers and running through theme parks and honestly, the biggest victory of the night was that I can say this:
Miles 1 through 10 were easy.
I'm going to say it again, in case you didn't see that.
Miles 1 through 10 were easy.
Somehow, Disney worked their magic to make running 10 miles feel like some kind of weird party where people shoved cups of water in your faces every few minutes or squirted you with Biofreeze if you needed it. We were living it up - singing along with our playlists, high fiving characters along the way, running through dance floors and under disco balls and past our favorite rides, lit up at night just for us.
But then, like every good Disney story, something went terribly wrong. Miles 11 through 13 were the stuff villains dream up. Miles that went on forever and ever. Familiar stretches of land that seemed to literally be stretching in front of us. Entertainers who were getting happier and happier and more creepily desperate to encourage as our bodies ate themselves from the inside. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, that glorious mile marker from heaven appeared...
THIRTEEN.
I should have taken a picture. I would've appreciated the break.
And the last .1? Incredible. A happy Disney ending. Crowds cheering. Lasers. Loud music. Mickey and Minnie themselves there to congratulate every incredible soul committed enough to cross that line. It was the payment for every second of every minute of every run for nine months coming due in one 528 foot segment of pavement. I might have cried, just like I might be crying right now writing this.
With medals around our now-half-marathoner necks, we greeted our fans (sister cemented the role of best sibling ever by being at the finish line at 1:30 a.m.) and stumbled past the medical tent and through the bag pick up before ultimately crashing in what would be one of the most glorious nights of sleep, ever.
The million-dollar-question: Will I do it again?
The million-dollar-answer:
We'll see, one step at a time.
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