I’m back. Did you miss me? Sorry for not posting very much, but I’ve been busy. I was preparing for a trip, then I actually went on a trip, and I’ve spent the past week recovering from a trip—and also working like a mad dog. And mad dogs work a lot, apparently.
So what’s new since my last socially awkward adventure? Oh, yeah. I ran a half-marathon.
If you’ve known me for more than a year and a half, you might be able to appreciate the humor in that last sentence. Lots of people run half-marathons. I just never thought I’d be one of them—or even have any kind of interest in being one of them. But last year, the running bug bit me, and I decided I wanted to be one of those running people. And now I’ve got a bumper sticker on my car to prove that I’ve run a half-marathon.
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| ...this is also proof that I'm half sane, right? Right? |
Okay, okay. So having a bumper sticker isn’t really proof. I mean, anyone can go online and purchase a bumper sticker that claims he/she ran a half-marathon, or ran a full marathon, or won a pie-eating contest, or whatever. That’s what I did (not for the pie-eating contest, but now that I’m thinking about it, I really could go for some pie). It’s just that I waited until I’d actually run a half-marathon before going online and purchasing a bumper sticker that implies I ran a half-marathon. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
Well, okay, there is one other thing I have that proves I ran a half-marathon. It’s the shiny medal they gave me.
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| Yes, but where will I wear it? |
I remember when I first decided I wanted to run this particular half-marathon. I chose it because 1) I was where my sister lives, which gave me a good excuse to visit my family while also crossing “win a pie-eating contest run a half-marathon” off my hypothetical bucket list; 2) It was a week after Mother’s Day, my dad’s birthday, and my oldest niece’s birthday (which all conveniently coincided on the same day this year), which gave me an opportunity to belatedly celebrate these occasions; 3) This was one of those half-marathons where they gave you medals if you completed the 13.1 mile race.
I’m not sure if most half-marathons come with medals or not. They probably do. But since I was (and still am) kind of new to the whole running scene, the whole medal thing was pretty impressive to me. I remember reading about the half-marathon online, then turning to my roommate and exclaiming, “If I finish the race, I’ll get a medal! It’ll be like I’m winning the Olympics!”
My roommate gave me the “bless your heart” look. And I deserved it.
Well, it wasn’t much like the Olympics--there was no podium. A volunteer just uncerimoniously handed me the medal and a bottle of water. And I didn’t really win. I actually came in 1732nd place. If they give gold medals to 1st place, silver medals to 2nd place, and bronze medals to 3rd place, then I figure my 1732nd place medal should have been made out of a spork. But it was a nice medal cast from something far more substantial than plastic eating utensils, and everyone who finished the half-marathon got one. Hmm, when I think about it, it’s like those little cheap-o medals they make for kids’ parties that say “WINNER.” Everyone gets one; everyone’s a winner; everyone is special. Aww. My medal should just have “I PARTICIPATED” engraved on the front. I don’t know whether to feel a little ashamed that I got the same medal as the people who finished 1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc. place, or whether I should be angry that the slowpoke who finished 2439th place got the same medal as me. Yeah. Yeah. 1732nd place doesn’t sound so bad now, does it? Okay, so it kinda does.
BUT, despite my epic slowness, I still beat the goal I had set for myself. I wanted to run the half-marathon in under 2 hours and 40 minutes. 2 hours, 39 minutes, and 59 seconds would have been perfectly acceptable. However, I ran the half-marathon in 2 hours, 27 minutes, and 51 seconds. I ran it in under 2.5 hours, which isn’t really that impressive if you compare me to the people who ran it in under 1.5 hours, or the people who can run a full marathon in under 2.5 hours. It was still enough to make me call my mom and cry into the phone (my “runner’s high” involves sobbing) after the race was over and I got my results. I was really happy with my time, but I still didn’t win the Olympics.
Ironically, while I was visiting my sister, the day before the half-marathon, I was riding in a car down some random back road, when we saw some runners being escorted by police cars. All of the runners were wearing shirts with the Olympic logo, and one of the runners was carrying (I kid you not) the Olympic Torch. I tried to take a picture. It didn’t work.
But anyway, I kinda sorta did have an Olympic moment the weekend of my half-marathon. Aww.
I also have developed a new appreciation for the Port-a-Potty. When I crossed the finish line and got my 1732nd place medal, I began another, much more desperate race for one of those warm claustrophobic smelly germ-ridden upright coffins of evil. Seriously, they don’t even come with sinks (and it’s like torture for me not to be able to wash my hands after going to the bathroom), but all of the sudden, Port-a-Potties are like my new BFF. They used to make me shudder, but now I see them at construction sites while I’m driving down the road, and I want to stop and give them a hug.
Lots of people have asked me if I want to do another half-marathon. I do. There are lots of reasons why. First, I really enjoyed it. Even if I came in 1732nd place and was being passed by men and women in their 90s who can run faster than I ever will, I really had fun. A year and a half ago, I never would have thought I’d get a kick out of running—but there’s something really neat about testing your endurance and doing something you never thought you could. Even if you’re slow.
Another reason why I want to run another half-marathon? I want to bring Disco back.
WHAT YOU SAY?!
Okay. Here’s the thing. I wasn’t feeling well the day of my half-marathon, but I didn’t know it until after the race. I’d been sick the week before and thought I was over it…but I wasn’t. After the race, I got back to my sister’s house. I took a shower. All was well. But as I was getting dressed, I realized that there was a Disco party going on inside my head. There was this pulsating dark blob between my eyes that I kept seeing whether my eyes were open or closed. It was black, but pretty, bright rainbow colors kept flashing around the blackness. Disco was back! Oh, yeah! I was starting to hum, “That’s the Way, Uh Huh Uh Huh, I Like It” when I slowly realized that I really didn’t like it (nuh uh, nuh uh). I realized that I was starting to black out, and I’d better hurry and finish getting dressed before I passed out. I started humming a more appropriate Disco number “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Staying Alive,” and I went to lie down.
After about twenty minutes of lying down and not being able to lift my head, my stubborn streak won out (“Oh, No, Not I! I Will Survive!”). I was with my family and I wanted to spend time with them, so I got out of bed and lay down in the floor where my nieces and nephews were watching Dinosaur Train. The Disco lights had stopped flashing, but my head was hurting worse than it ever had before, my stomach was a mess, and I generally thought I was going to die.
A few minutes later, I rushed to the bathroom and puked my guts out. Then I took a two-hour nap. Then I felt almost ready to run another half-marathon.
Almost.
So, even after my near-Disco experience, would I run another half-marathon again?
Abso-stinkin-lutely.
Part of me thinks it might even be cool to run a full marathon one day. If a half-marathon brings Disco back, I figure if I run a full marathon, the Beatles will get back together.
Hmm.
Or maybe I’ll just enter a pie-eating contest.
Pie-eating should SO be an Olympic sport. |
| That's me! |
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