Finishing 13.1- Why My Proudest Moment Wasn’t Completing the Race.

Well, I did it.  I finished my very first half-marathon.  One half of a distance that only .05% of people in the US will run.  Something that I’ve trained for and hoped for and fantasized about for months.

So how come I’m not happier?

I wish I could tell you how elated I was to cross that finish line, how excited and supportive the spectators were.  I wish I was sitting here trying to put into words the euphoria I felt finally accomplishing something it took me so long to do.

Instead, I sit here and I’m not.  They weren’t.  And sadly, I don’t have to.  Finishing this race didn’t do any of that for me.

Please don’t misunderstand.  I am so happy that I trained and was able to successfully complete a half-marathon.  I know I’m lucky to be able to have that opportunity, as many don’t.  I guess I just fell into the hype a little too far, expected a little too much.

Before the race

The day began with an interesting conversation with my race chauffeur and husband en route to the event.  I asked him if he thought my completing a half-marathon was a bucket-list-worthy feat.  I asked because for some reason I wasn’t as excited as I hoped I would be.  The race took up a lot of my brain in the weeks leading up, but not from excitement. More so because I just kind of wanted it to be over.  The gun wasn’t set to go off until 1:00pm, and I had even heard myself explaining to a friend that I wish it was an earlier start time because I just wanted it done.  My husband agreed, that while completing a half-marathon is certainly nothing to sneeze at, it’s also hardly of American Ninja Warrior status.
We chatted, and I came to the realization that I already knew I could do it.  I wasn’t excited because I knew that I could run 13.1 miles already.  So why am I paying for it?  Why did I sign up for a race, in a town that I don’t live in, with a bunch of people I didn’t know and would probably never see again, to prove that I could do something that I already knew I could do?  A little late to be having an epiphany of sorts.

Fast-forward to the corral.  I feign the excitement that my fellow runners are feeling.  I make small talk with two older ladies about how the weather was supposed to be in the 40’s, and instead we get stuck with 20’s and a wind chill of 12. Yes, it sucks…I’m wearing four shirts…blah blah blah…lets get this over with.

Mile #1 comes quicker than I anticipate. I don’t have a Garmin, or a Tom Tom, or any other expensive gps device telling me how well (or not-so-well) I’m doing. I only have Nick, my Nike+ running app friend, who whispers in my ear that I am right on pace.  My ultimate goal for this race is under 2 hours.  My realistic goal (I know, I know, you’re not supposed to have a ‘back up’ goal) is closer to 2:10.

I get through miles 2 and 3.  I smell cinnamon.  No, that can’t be right.  Cinnamon?  Cinnamon…cinnamon….it’s coming in stronger.  I look to my left and realize I’m running by an LA Cinnamon Bread bakery.

Really?

I’d like to take this opportunity to sincerely thank the route planners of the Olean YMCA Polar Bear Half-Marathon for making the first quarter of the race way more difficult than it needed to be.  That’s psychological warfare in my book.  But moving on…

The race is pretty uneventful for the next few miles.  I follow “girl in the purple shirt” because I notice she has a gps watch and, as I mentioned, I do not.  I only have Nick.  And Nick is free.  And, no offense to Nick, but his unreliability is proof that you sometimes get what you pay for.

By mile 6 I’m (surprisingly) still right on pace!  Although, I’m skeptical.  Nick has a way of sometimes telling me what I want to hear.  I feel pretty good, so good, in fact, that I pass “girl in the purple shirt.”  I can see her looking at me as I pass.  Her face looks different from what I pictured it would.

Mile 8 finds me with mixed emotions.  I’m growing weary and my shin splints are starting to hurt.  The song Guardian comes on in my ears.  I know its kind of a strange song for a runner’s playlist, as it’s so slow.  Ballads don’t usually make for appropriate ‘pump you up’ songs.  But it’s one of my favorites.  It makes me think of my mom, and my girls.  I feel like Alanis Morisette wrote it with a mother’s love in mind.  Wow, I’m getting teary.  I’m crying.  All these endorphins and physical excursion must have raised my emotions right there to the top.  I am more than half way through a half-marathon and I’m crying because I miss my kids.  Does this happen to everybody?  I gather myself as “girl in purple shirt” passes me.  I follow.

I approach a water station at the turn-around point (have I mentioned how much I hate out-and-backs?)  I hadn’t taken any water at the first two stations I passed.  I didn’t have a portable hydration system while I trained, so I didn’t want to risk a cramp by drinking anything at any point that I wasn’t already used to.  I grab the cup offered to me by one of the younger volunteers.  I take a sip and realize its warm! It makes sense to give warm water on such a cold day, but I never really thought about it.  The warm water felt so good, I must have drank it a little to fast because then, I threw up.

I’m sorry if that’s too much information.  But it happened, so lets move past it.

I’m excited when I learn I’m at mile 10.  Half because I’m so close to the end.  And half because I honestly couldn’t remember whether I was at mile 8 or mile 9.  My brain is mush.  I eagerly search for another water station to rinse out my mouth.  I spot “girl in purple shirt.”  She’s walking.  I increase my speed to try to catch up, but she begins to run again.

Nick tells me I’m at mile 11.  He tells me my pace, but I can’t recall it even two seconds later.  It doesn’t matter.  He lies.  And even if he was telling the truth I’m too tired to do the math.  At this point all I can do is run.  I’ve been on, or at least close to, pace this whole race.  All I need to do is drag these two numb, heavy, tree-trunks of legs through the finish line.

Miles 11-13 were the longest miles of my entire running career.  My vain attempt to catch “girl in purple shirt” pulls me into the home stretch.  I see my husband.  When I spot him, I know the end is near.  Like a welcoming Grim Reaper of races.  Instead of a sickle he wields a camera- recording my finish to later explain how my form is lacking towards the end I’m sure.

I see the neon green of the race clock, but can’t make out the time.  Nick is useless to me at this point.  I squint to make out the numbers…I’m hoping for something resembling 2:10… I see them!

1:59:54 SON OF A BITCH!

The guy who’s truck the race clock is on and the guy who is cutting off the race chips both heard me and begin laughing.  I didn’t realize I had said that out loud, let alone shouted it out.  I’ve never hauled ass so fast in my life, trying my damnedest to make a sub-2 time.

I cross the finish line with an unofficial time of 2:00:16.  I can’t believe it.  Neither can my husband.  He gives me a huge bear hug and admits that I did better than even he expected.  Hearing him say he’s proud of me makes me happier than I can explain.  That’s where my euphoria is.  That’s where I feel over-the-moon excited.

Feeling good post-race

I knew I could run 13.1 miles going into this race.  I also knew my husband knew I could do it.  But to push myself and hear him say he’s proud of me was one of my proudest moments.  As adults, we don’t get the opportunity to make people we love proud of us.  We don’t have spelling bees to win, or tests to ace, or new friends to invite to our lunch table. We have to work harder to find opportunities to prove ourselves to those we love.  Even if we know deep down that they’d love us anyway.

But that just makes those moments mean that much more.