Done. No hospitalization, no vomiting on course.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's begin at the beginning of the day of the half-marathon (aka day I now actually have to run for many hours because people gave me money for charity because they are wonderful and would not be impressed if I ditched because my bed was warm and running for 3 hours just seems so much crazier at 5:30 in the morning).
I wrenched myself out of bed at 5:30 am on a Sunday. Andrea and I motored around, shoving ourselves full of carby breakfast and pinning on our numbers. We arrived by bike at the course, where thousands upon thousands of other racers were waiting. After a last-minute visit to the port-o-potty (which even before the race was a thing conjured only in nightmares), we excitedly waited in our corral to start. And waited. I guess having thousands of runners all start at once isn't logistically possible, so we actually didn't start for about 45 minutes.
The first half of the race was surprisingly smooth. The weather was stunningly beautiful and warm, and I barely noticed the first three miles. Along the course were live bands (13 in total), lots of people encouraging the runners, and three different groups of cheerleaders (god love america!). By mile five, I was hurting a bit, but still felt pretty strong.
By mile 8, still running, I'd hit and overcome several walls. My problematic ankle was astoundingly not hurting. Unfortunately, everything else was. My legs were increasingly leaden, I had severe foot pain which had not occurred previously and my morale was starting to sink. At one point, I had thought I might make it through the race running, but at that point, I realized I would not. So for the rest of the race, I had to take several walking breaks. And there came a point at which I literally had to dig my nails into my palms to distract myself from the pain raging in my feet and legs and had to mentally battle myself to lift each muscle. I've rarely faced such physical trials and it was surprisingly demoralizing.
But then my hero, my training buddy, and the one who got me into this mess was there - Andrea. She could have kept running, and I told her to go on, but she was there, every time I flagged and had to walk, she walked with me. She set small goals for running so we'd run and then walk a bit and run some more. And in the last 50 meters, when I said I could do no more, she said "yes you can" (in an inspiring, Obama-like voice) and we ran across the finish line together. I was so happy to stop that I pretty much stopped in one place. Andrea, still heroic, pulled me out of the path of several other joyous finishing runners.
If Andrea had not been there, I might have made it to the end, but I can practically guarantee that I would have walked the last five miles. She pushed me and I'm glad she did, even though it was a painful trial, a horrid torture, and I'd rather pull each of my hairs out with tweezers than do it again, but I'm so, so grateful she was there. She was an inspiration, and an incredible friend. She also led me to the banana table afterwards, which, if it hadn't already convinced me of her loyalty, certainly affirmed it then.
End result? I had hoped to finish running and didn't. I had hoped to finish in under 2:45 and didn't. But I did finish. And I didn't finish last (actually, I ended at 2:57:34, in 7738th place, out of a total of 9300). Oh, and I didn't die. And in the process, did something I never thought I'd do (namely go for runs in blizzards and wear ridiculous running belts), and convinced lots of wonderful people to give a worthy organization money. Not a bad way to spend a few months, I think.
My legs are starting to move again and the giant blisters on my feet are just about to fade. But my gratitude to all my wonderful friends, especially Andrea, and my sense of accomplishment will only continue to grow.
Peace out homies. And remember: never sign up for one of these if you'd like to keep your body in working order.
