Running Girl

My first half

Today I finished my first half marathon. I stared down a race distance that’s been intimidating me for over a year.

I finished in 2:06:06, feet and legs burning, clothes sweat-soaked, with an enormous smile on my face. I ranked number 10 out of 39 women age 25 – 29, and ranked 143 out of 518 overall. (Results here.)

Going into it, my only goal was to run the entire distance. There would be other future half marathons in which I would allow myself to obsess about meeting pace goals. But not this one. This was merely an attempt to break through my 13.1 mile mental block. So I told myself I’d be thrilled to get it done in under 2:30 – a liberal guestimate I based on some of my slowest long runs.

That being said, once I got into it, I began obsessing about meeting pace goals. Stupid competitive juices.

In a lot of longer races, they offer a lovely amenity called a “pacer,” which is someone who runs the race holding a sign that says “2:00” or “2:05” or whatever, so if you know you’d like to finish the race in two hours you just need to keep pace with the person holding that sign. In this case they scrawled it on balloons tied to a long stick. I started off near the back-ish of the runner herd, deciding to keep pace with the girl holding the “2:25” balloons. I instructed myself to hold an easy, comfortable pace, and to not get too ambitious with speed. But if I passed her without too much effort then I decided that would be okay.

Well. That easy, comfortable pace floated me past a couple balloon girls, landing me neck and neck with the 2:00 pacer by mile two. Getting excited, I realized if I could stay with her the entire way and sprint it out at the end then I actually had a chance of breaking two hours. The idea of such a victory had me figuratively clinging to her like she was a life raft in a raging runner river.

That is, until about mile seven, which is when I slowed way down to guzzle water out of dixie cups without spilling it all over the sidewalk. I never caught back up to her after that. I began sternly ridiculing myself. How could I let this happen? Why didn’t I run with a hydration belt? Why couldn’t I make my weary legs pick up the pace? I felt myself slowing even more, weighted down by defeating thoughts.

After about two miles of this negativity, I regrouped, I told my inner ridiculer to shut-the-heck-up and refocused on my original goal: finishing. So what if I finished at 2:30, after all? Just keep running, just keep running, just keep running. I made this my mantra.

With one mile left to go, I heard one of the race volunteers call out behind me “Yeah, way to go, 2:05!” and realized I was still ahead of the 2:05 balloon girl. How could this be possible? I felt like I was moving at a snail’s pace. Right before the finish line, though, she sprinted ahead of me. But I was just thrilled to end up anywhere near her.

A word about something that got me through this race: um, well, God.

Let me explain.

I ran this race in honor of my grandfather who passed away last Friday. I had a race t-shirt made to make it all “official” and stuff. He was ordained a Catholic priest at the sprightly age of 77. He always sort of assumed I attended Catholic service every Sunday (I don’t, or any other service for that matter, see more on that in this post) and I never corrected him lest I break the old man’s heart.

So during the first mile or so, two guys running behind me were chatting, and one jokingly said to the other “So do you think I’ll get in trouble for not going to church this morning?”

The other replied: “Nah, I think if you spend at least 45 minutes of this run with God, then you’ll be okay.”

I wanted to laugh out loud. There was no doubt in my mind this was a sign from good ‘ole Grandpa Joe. I imagined him asking, “Why aren’t you in church today, young lady?” and also saying “Well, if you want to run a race in my honor, then at least think about God while you’re doing it. It’s Sunday, after all.”

So that’s what I did.

I focused on God, in an almost meditative way, imagining His light scattering away my negative thoughts when they penetrated my mind at mile seven. Instead of the 2:00 balloon girl pacer, God became my life raft.

And He carried me all the way to the finish line.

I don’t mean to get all religious here. I don’t like it when people get all religious on me, either. Religion is a very personal thing in my opinion.

But what happened today is undeniable, and so I must mention it.

I can’t wait to run another pace-obsessed, sweat drenched, muscle killing, meditative half marathon.

Just keep running, my friends.

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