On Sunday I did what I said I would in a previous post. I ran a half marathon. Thirteen-point-one miles later, I am still here to tell you the tale. And aside from the run itself, the weekend was lovely. I set off with two of my girlfriends on Saturday morning; Google maps in hand, snacks a-plenty, with everyone in agreement that I should not be allowed to drive under any circumstances. I’m a slow, scared driver. It annoys California people.
We arrived without glitch, picked up our bibs for Sunday’s race, and then headed straight and without hesitation to lululemon. Just like many people, the Clark-Bonks are on a lock-down type budget right now. But the emergency fund has been set aside, and I’m not in the vicinity of a lulu very often. And those crack-peddling bastards are the last retailer on Earth to have no online store. In other words, my hand was forced. I left with some running capris and a headband that won’t slide in my hair. Such restraint was show by all.
A healthy mix of hotel lounging, pasta gorging, gelato binging, nail polishing, and 48-Hours-Mystery watching went on. And of course, sexy pajama pillow fighting. It was a typical girly sleepover. Unfortunately it was followed up by a six a.m. alarm, and a furious scramble to consume some fuel, get to the starting line, and stretch our short-legged bodies in preparation for the road ahead.
By the time we got home, the pain in my knees felt like nothing at all when compared to the knot in my stomach. Apparently, after approximately 13.1 miles my entire digestive system goes on strike. Stops moving. Despite the fact that running 13.1 miles seems like it would give you the right to eat whatever you want, absolutely nothing sounded good to me. The pain and hunger strike endured into the night, and even though I was able to eat the next morning, I had to substitute teach first graders so my knees definitely did not get a rest.
Three days out from the great race, I am finally feeling normal again. A little stiff, but able to walk and eat. And I’m scouring the internet for my next great race. Wine country in March? Michigan in June? Perhaps Chicago in August? I’m almost 100% certain I could never do a whole marathon, because that would literally have meant turning around and starting over after I reached the finish line at 13.1 miles. Considering that I limped to line-up for free breadsticks, then limped to the car, then barely was able to get myself into my bed, that doesn’t seem like a good idea.
Finally, if you care to see how frighteningly cheerful I look throughout the race, you can go here and type in 8744, my bib number.