Sundays with Stretchy Pants

I’m more of a 10K kind of girl. I know this now.I ran the 1/2 marathon here in Columbus yesterday. It was a gorgeous day and the race route was awesome and my great friend Mechelle came down to run the marathon and we had tons of fun together except for the part where we ran farther than sane people should. I did better than I expected at 2:28:26, but the mental mind-f*ck that is required for somebody like me to run 13.1 miles was something I was unprepared for. I had a great first 6 miles, beating my previous 10K (6.2 miles) and 5-miler times by a healthy margin. I was feeling good physically, but once I hit that 6 mile point, my mind said, “Good, only 7.1 more to go……..What the hell do you mean only 7.1 more to go? Is that 7.1 more miles or yards? ‘Cuz I can totally do 7.1 more yards, but miles is going to be iffy.”

I had 2 goals for this race: 1. Run it in under 3 hours. Check. My other goal was to not walk at all for the entire way. No matter how slow I had to jog, I just wanted to keep it at a jog. This goal was going well until the water station between miles 9 and 10, where I let myself walk to get my drink. Just to get my drink! All of the other runners were slowing to a walk at the drink tables, so I figured it must be part of protocol. So I grabbed my water, breathed a pathetic thank you to the best race volunteers ever and slowed to a walk, at which point my legs said something like, “Good luck getting us to speed up to a run again, sucker!” After that, I walked, ran, walked, ran, and begged my brain to tell my legs to run. My brain kept saying, “How ’bout I just make sure the rest of your organs keep on a-workin’ for you, ‘k?” At the last mile, I was ready to run and I did. I ran the last mile. I ran across the finish line. I got my medal, I got my warming blanket, I got a banana, a water, and two asiago cheese bagels from Panera. And I took comfort in the fact that I was done. I waited for the elation and the thrill of accomplishment to wash over me, but all I kept thinking was, that was too f*cking far. Who runs that far? Why would anybody do that? And why would anybody run twice that far? It doesn’t make sense! In fact, I think running that far is a sign of psychological illness (no offense Mechelle). There’s just no reason to run that far unless you’re trying to outrun, say, a lion or something. No, even then, I think I would rather be eaten. Yes, I would honestly rather be mauled by a lion (it would have to be a very slow, and maybe even an injured, 3-legged lion with arthritis) than have to run 13.1 miles to safety.

It’s just good to know these things about myself.

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