MORE THAN ANOTHER HALF

It was more than just another half marathon.

To start, I didn’t sign up for it. My hubby did that for me.

Midway through the summer I hurt a calf muscle and the pain just wouldn’t go away. I finally saw a doctor, and although it wasn’t deemed a serious injury, I decided to wait to train for any kind of running until I was pain free. June ended. July ended. August was around the corner…the pain seemed to be going away. But I still felt unsure about a race. Then just like that, my hubby pulled the trigger. He signed me up, texting me the details.

“I guess I’m doing this!” I told friends.

While I was excited to have a goal, I was still hesitant about everything from my body to my schedule to my motivation. Could my babied calf take the repetitive impact? How would I get the long weekend runs in with travel soccer, tennis, church, and call weeks? To add to that, it had been three years since I had trained for a half marathon. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me anymore. But with money paid and a shirt and medal guaranteed, I made a decision. I would go for the goal, despite the fact that I wasn’t sure I could complete the training or the race series, specifically the big race, as I’d always done before.

Enter the next team player.

My 12-year old son.

My oldest and I ran on the weekends together, which we both discovered we enjoyed doing. On one particular September Saturday, we even ran the long way, two miles, to Starbucks, enjoyed a lovely fuchsia refresher–dragonfruit, I think–and then found another three mile trek back home. What an unexpected delight to run with the 7th grader! He encouraged me more than once with his effort and enthusiasm.

After 13 weeks of my hubby encouraging, my son motivating, and my training plan getting marked off day after day, I found myself having completed about 80% of Hal Higdon’s prescribed workouts as printed off. I was proud of this. That last week of training as I tapered down to a few four-mile runs, I even found I was enjoying myself!

Woo hoo!

Then came race day!

Before the race!

On the day of the race, the weather was wonderful! In the 40s, just a touch warmer than crisp. Not a drop of rain in the sky, not a block of road too bright. The route itself had been reworked, and it seemed to me that most of the sun was behind me rather than in front.

I managed to run three miles before I peeled my shirt off. It was quite the process…unpinning my bib from my shirt while running…then pinning it to my tank. Also while running. I felt light and high on my feet despite the discrepancy between my watch and the signage, which told me I was half a mile behind my tracked pace/distance.

I swallowed my disappointment with my watch (and my time) and pushed on.

One of my favorite parts of the half is crossing the bridge pictured above! I have no idea what the name of it is, but I always feel that all is wonderful in the world when I hoof it over this section.

The miles piled on. 6. 7. 8. 9. Then I came to a screeching halt. Well, I’m sure there wasn’t any audible noise, but suddenly my tank was empty. I was holding to a 10-10:30 pace, and all at once, like someone blowing out a candle, I felt all the light in my body had gone out.

The camera man caught this too.

I did walk at all water stations. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. But after 9 miles of an excellent, exuberant pace, my body forced me to slow down, and I ran the last four miles about a minute slower per mile.

As I ticked off those last miles, I began to anticipate that finish line with more gusto than I ever have. I pondered whether I would put myself through the grueling task of a 13.1 mile race. Ever. Again. As high and lifted up as I had felt in miles 1-9, the last miles felt the reverse. They were wobbly, clunky, and marked by physical pain.

By the last mile, I was alternately running and walking. I would run for 60 seconds. Then walk for 60. I kept searching for that finish line. Where in the world was it?

I contemplated the parallels between running this race and life in general. How many times was I looking for a permission to slow down, a crowd of volunteers to encourage me, or a friends to come alongside? In a race, it’s a given. We have to keep going, all the way to the finish line. Many, many times in life too, we have to just keep going, I reflected. Though we might slow down. Allow encouragement. Take offered partnerships…

But back to the end of those 13 miles! The entire last mile, while wondering if my foot might rub straight through my shoe to the pavement, the pain was so sharp and all-consuming, all I could think about was the finish line.

And then there it was. That beautiful, purple, all-caps sign.

It was a tough run.

But it was more than another half. It was a goal I needed a team in order to complete. From the very beginning when my hubby signed me up, to the training my son got me through, to race day, when I leaned on everything from the signs, to the volunteers, to the friends on the other side of my texts who were rooting for me–I absolutely give the credit to them all. By no means did I get myself through the half on my own.

I put my feet one in front of the other. But my hubby signed me up. My son ran with me. And on race day, it was the route, the road, and the well-timed encouragement from friends that supported me to the finish line.

No way could I have done any of this on my own.

As to whether another half is in the future?

We will have to wait and see!