The sky is ink black when my alarm clock dings uselessly at 5:30 AM on Sunday morning. I'd been lolling in bed for hours, thinking about stitches and adrenaline and heart gurgling. I'd been tossing all night as the rain poured down: this was an atrociously bad idea, I'm nervous, I'm stoked, I'm vibrating with regret at this appallingly bad idea.
Corey is awake beside me, his eyes are closed but I can feel his brain waves. I slip out of bed to make coffee and panic solo: the wind is howling and swirling through the tree tops and the rain is pounding the ashvalt so hard that I can see puddles springing upwards. But, half marathons don't get cancelled, and our folded running clothes laid out on the bed serve as a reminder that, oh my god, we're about to run 21.5 kilometers in the cold November rain.
"I am thinking about faking an injury,"Corey's voice floats from the bedroom.
I say something about getting coffee in an effort to combat my inclination to crawl back into the warm bed and concoct all kinds of logical reasons why maybe we shouldn't do this after all.
***
I ran competitive track when I was a kid, but man, that was almost twenty years ago. There's no reason to feel these jangling nerves. I know I can run this: we've been training for months for this. We've done long runs, hills, mountain paths, endless seawalls.
But when the gun goes off I feel the old rush of giddy, sickly competition: I want to keep up with that lady in front of me, she looks to be my age. I want to beat that kid over there, that grandfather there, I want to not only finish but I kind of want to kick everybody's ass. Not everyone, actually, the elite athletes can do their thing. But I want to beat every housewife in the crowd.
I also want to restrain myself, or I will sprint the first 3 miles and then promptly die. Corey keeps me in check with his even keel pace beside me.
***
The first 6 miles are surprisingly easy: Corey and I fall into a rhythm. He is listening to his music, Tiesto mostly, I have my bad pop and indie rock mix on maximum high. We dutifully take water at the side stations, politely pass people with a wide berth, match each other's stride.
But by mile 10 I am struggling: I feel like I've come to the end of my energy rope and all of a sudden my legs are cement and I am breathing through my heart, which has been minced with a cheese grater and chopped into hanging fibers. I feel like death on wheels, and my stomach is about to fall through my lululemons (which I am cursing, because I am running on top of them because they are meant for yoga and not for distance running in the rain)
I tell Corey to go ahead, he doesn't want to, but I know I can't keep up this pace and complete the last several miles without stopping.
***
The last two miles of my first half marathon was a conversation stuck on repeat, a grating, agitated, silent argument with myself.
"You can just stop and walk a bit."
"No, you will hate yourself."
"Walking never killed anyone, but a heart attack did."
"You'll be so goddamned disappointed. Don't to it."
And I didn't. I kept running, heaving my hulking Mr. Bean body, though my legs were jello, my stomach was lead, and my arms were as useless as two floppy, gigantic fish. I kept spitting and coughing and rain was pelting in my eyes and when I couldn't possibly do anymore, when I was convinced I was just going to die in a heap on the rainy UBC campus, I saw the Finish Line.
I crossed the line in under 2 hours, as I hoped. My first emotion was sweet, sweet relief, and then pride, and then a surge of real accomplishment.
"That sucked," I said to Corey and he nodded. But by the time we got in the car we were plotting our next one. And we have a goal run our next half marathon in under 1:50. Training starts Monday. I couldn't be more stoked.
***
Top 5 Things I Learned
1. Wear the right pants. I hate running tights, always have. They turn my body into the shape of a green fruit and I wear yoga pants to train in. But yoga pants suck when it's raining and there's nothing worse than tripping on your sodden pants when you have no energy left in your body. Suck it up and get a pair of running tights if you're planning to keep running outside through the winter months.
2. Choose the right music - and road test it first. I can't run without my music, and the right music can improve my pace (and mood) hugely. I messed with my mix the night before my half marathon and was disappointed when songs I didn't love came up when I totally would have rather had my tried and true Mother Mother or Muse.
3. Go slow at the beginning. The energy of the crowd is intoxicating and there's a huge temptation to burst forth and expel all your pent up energy. Don't do it. You'll need it at the end.
4. Don't assume that that lady shouldn't be in front of you. I kept getting preoccupied with the fact that I should be ahead of that woman because she's older than my Mother, and that man because he was overweight, etc. I would have been better off focusing just on myself: my cadence, arms pumping, breathing. I don't "need" to be ahead of anyone.
5. Draw off the energy of the crowd. I kind of wanted to kiss all of the volunteers and well-wishers who stood and held signs and yelled encouragement: "You can do it!" and "Looking good runners! You're halfway there!" I smiled at a lot of them, and raised my hand in greeting to a few and I swear their smiles back propelled me, energized me.
Also, I've been a solo runner my whole life, thinking I preferred the solitude and control of running alone. But running with a partner is a pretty cool thing - you spend quiet, solid time together, and feel like you're "in it" with one another. I feel like it's done very cool things for our relationship and bonus: we can schedule trips around running events without feeling too guilty. Maui half marathon, we're coming to see YOU next year.
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