Yep. I've been pouting like a petulant child for several weeks now. For a few weeks there, I was just in a foul, uninspired, whiny, bitchy mood. Partially because my personal life has been a bit of a shitstorm lately. (And I mean that in the most literal sense possible... among other metaphorical crap going on, I came home from work one morning to once again find my basement full of actual, very real crap. For those of you keeping track, that makes THREE epic plumbing fails in the last 9 months. Mr. Rooter and I are NOT on good terms at the moment.) On top of that, my post-Open weeks at the box have were depressingly anticlimactic. I hadn't been PRing on most of my lifts, still couldn't figure out my kip and thus have to jump for every single pull up (which, PS, takes for-freaking-EVER), I almost decapitated myself a few weeks ago trying for a back squat PR (another epic fail... note to self: never fail forward, because taking 215 pounds to the neck and head does not feel nice), my shoulder had been a pain in my ass... and, worst of all, my April Scared Shitless event, 5K Gone Bad, was worse than an epic fail. It was an epic CATASTROPHE. I was a mess... physically, mentally, and emotionally. Total train wreck. To the point where I'm not even going to write about it, because I'm still so effing disappointed in myself that I don't want to think about it. I was that bad. So I went from my post-Open euphoria of feeling completely unstoppable and confident, to feeling very much like my basement: shitty and devoid of any and all previous worth. Hero to zero in no time at all. It really is amazing how fast I forget the good stuff, and how vehemently my brain insists on dwelling on the bad stuff.
Throughout all of this, two of the most terrifying Scared Shitless events of all time have been looming ominously in my future: the Pittsburgh Half Marathon, and the Patriot Games. Two big red squares on my May calendar, staring me in the face every morning, mocking me for my absurd unpreparedness and inevitable impending failure. I prefer to focus my panic on one thing at a time, and chronologically, the half marathon demanded my more immediate attention.
Here's the thing about the Half... I had absolutely no desire to do it. First of all, I don't like to run. I did, at one point, but then I found CrossFit and never looked back. Which led to point number 2: I haven't been training. At ALL. I fell off of that wagon back in February after my 10-miler didn't go as well as I would have liked, and then I started to focus on CrossFit and getting stronger for the Open... suffice it to say, by the time I realized that the big day was practically upon us, the wagon had packed up, shipped off, and was halfway to another country. There was no catching up. Thirdly, I just didn't really care anymore. CrossFit is what I do now... it's what I love, what I want to be good at someday, and what I choose to focus my attention on at this point. Nothing (repeat: nothing) about running 13.1 miles sounded like fun to me.
So, you're probably asking the same question I've asked myself a hundred times over the past few weeks: Why do it? Why do something that you don't enjoy, for which you're drastically unprepared and under trained, and about which you don't actually care very much? What's the point? What do I possibly have to gain by attempting this? Why bother?
The answer: because I'm stubborn as hell.
You see, before there was CrossFit... before I ever met Fran or knew the difference between a "box" and a "gym" or had any idea that there was a non-sexual definition for the word "snatch"... before all of that, there was a fat girl with a big goal and a pair of running shoes. This whole rather amazing journey started out with running. It was how I lost the first 70 of the 120 pounds I've shed. It was the first kind of exercise that I ever actually enjoyed. It gave me my first taste of a world that I've since fallen completely in love with: the world of fitness. And although it is no longer my fitness method of choice, it still played an enormous role in getting me to this point in my life. Before I had dreams of a 200-pound front squat, a 300-pound dead lift, or an RXed Fran, I had only one major fitness goal: to run the 2013 Pittsburgh Half Marathon.
Before TPA came into my life and changed everything, this was it. This was what I was working towards... the end-all and be-all. The ultimate goal in my journey. I felt like, if I can achieve this seemingly unachievable goal, I will have succeeded. Back then, the half was my Super Bowl, Stanley Cup, CrossFit Games, and Kentucky Derby all rolled into one. The epic grand finale of an epic journey.
I signed up for the half the first day that registration opened. It still felt like a bit of a pipe dream at the time; a distant goal in the very distant future. But I thought about it often. You see, I had big dreams for May 5th, 2013. I had it all planned out: my sister was coming into town to run with me, and two of my close friends were going to run with me as well. My husband and parents and the rest of my family and close friends would be there to cheer me on... this was a big one. I was completely convinced that these people would be there. That I would see them scattered along the course, cheering wildly, waving embarrassing but totally awesome signs. And when I finally crossed that finish line... when I finally achieved everything I'd ever dreamed of... there they'd be, going crazy, faces full of emotion and pride... because they would understand how truly EPIC this moment really was, and how hard I'd worked to get here, and how much it all meant. I would collect my medal and be met by a sea of hugs and congratulatory exclamations... and it was going to be beautiful. This image, the image of me crossing the finish line and sharing that moment with my husband and family and friends, was the ultimate motivator for me for a long time. When I came home from a craptastic night shift and just wanted to go to bed, I would think of that moment and make myself go for a run instead. When I was out on the trails and felt like quitting early, I would conjure up that image and let it push me through those last few miles. Even later on, during a tough WOD or before I tried for a PR, that image would occasionally pop into my head and give me strength. It was my happy place.
The Pittsburgh Half became a symbol of everything I've been trying to achieve in this journey. My family, my friends... most of them don't understand CrossFit. They can't truly appreciate how much it meant to me to get my first bandless pull up, or why I care so much whether I can get a 215-pound back squat instead of 210, or why my worse-than-mediocre score in 13.5 made me deliriously happy and changed my life. They just don't understand; and not for lack of trying. They've tried to be supportive, and at least pretend to listen when I go on and on about my snatch and what I've been jerking lately. But the truth is, I've never met a non-CrossFitter who really understands what we do and why we do it. My friends and family are among the masses of people who just... don't... get it. Because of this, I think people have a hard time relating to what I'm trying to do with my life. But a half marathon... that people can understand. Girl who weighed almost 300 pounds fifteen months ago runs 13.1 miles. People get that. People can understand how big that is. Which is why, even though I didn't really care about running the Half... I kind of did. I wanted the people in my life to be able to understand and appreciate what I'm attempting, what I've been working so hard for. To share a piece of it with them; to show them what their support and love has helped to create.
So, despite my hatred of running and my seeming inability to stick to a training plan, I planned to run the damn thing if it killed me. I was going to make that image a reality. I was going to have that moment, no matter what.
Then, a month or so ago, the image started falling apart. My running buddies started dropping like flies. My sister found that she wasn't going to be able to come into town from Texas after all. Then both of my friends dropped out... one because of an injury, and one because she wisely realized that voluntarily running 13.1 miles for no apparent reason is just plain crazy. So, all three of my planned pace people were out. Then, my cheering squad started to disintegrate. Various friends had various obligations. All of my TPA buddies were running on relay teams, so they would be otherwise occupied. My mother decided to go out of town that weekend. Dr. Gold hates nothing more than large crowds, except for possibly long waits... so expecting him to stand around and wait for long periods of time in a large crowd was pretty much out of the question. And then, the final straw... my husband informed me that he would be working on May 5th and wouldn't be able to come cheer me on.
And, just like that, the beautiful image I'd been carrying around like a lucky charm... died.
There would be no moment. On May 5th, I would run 13.1 miles and cross the finish line victoriously to be met by... no one. No signs. No cheering. No hugs. Just a banana, a foil blanket, and a long walk back to the car alone.
Fail.
I almost dropped out. There were posts all over Facebook from people wanting to buy bibs, and I seriously considered just scrapping the whole thing altogether. It was bad enough to be doing something that I didn't really want to do in the first place... doing it alone was just the nasty icing on the shitty cake.
Enter Jeannie.
Wonderful, glorious Jeannie, my dear friend who is constantly saving the day, comes through again. After listening to my rather pathetic sob story, she took pity on me and offered to be my one-man cheering squad. In addition, she offered to drive me to and from the marathon (because she knows me well enough to know that, by race day, I would be in no mental state to operate a motorized vehicle), get me to my starting corral on time (because, again, she knew I would be a total basketcase and probably could not find my own way there), and promised to be at the finish line to watch me achieve this long-time and admittedly somewhat epic goal.
Best. Friend. EVER.
So, with my cheering squad intact (albeit smaller than initially intended... quality over quantity, right?), I had no excuse. The Pittsburgh Half Marathon 2013 was happening, and I was running in it.
Once I committed fully to this fact, the trademark Emily freak-out began to set in. Slowly, at first. Oh so gradually. But then I woke up one Wednesday, and realized that it was May 1st. MAY 1st. There was no more "it's not until May," or "I have time, I'll start training next week," or "at least it's not until next month"... there was no more time. May had come. HOLYSHITBALLS HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?!
Panic. Instant 10/10 on the freak-out scale.
Despite a constant stream of amazing text message pep talks from Jeannie, I was pretty much a ball of nerves all week. Then my newly refinished basement became a giant feces receptacle, and that pretty much did me in. I was a freaking mess all day that Friday. There was some crying, some hiding in bed with my head under a pillow, and one fairly spectacular angry-pseudo-Jew smackdown on the fine folks at Mr. Rooter. It was not a good day.
Saturday didn't start out much better. After spending my morning dealing with plumbers, contractors, insurance agents, and a disaster restoration crew (love having that van parked in my driveway... makes the neighbors a little nervous, I imagine), I had to go to the Health and Fitness Expo to pick up my bib and race packet. This was completely overwhelming for me. The sheer number of people at the Expo totally freaked me out... I'd known that marathon day in Pittsburgh was a big deal and attracted big numbers, but seeing all those people in one place made me realize just how huge this thing was. And that was a mere fraction of the people I'd be running with the following day.
THE FOLLOWING DAY. GAH!!!!
The race I'd been imagining/planning/dreading was TOMORROW. I hadn't trained. I had no strategy to survive this thing. I had no idea what to expect on race day, or where I needed to be and when, or what the hell I was doing once I got there. I was clueless... feeling very lost, and completely scared shitless.
So, I did what I've learned is the smartest way to handle fear: I asked for help from people who are smarter/stronger/more badass than myself. I sent out a plea via social media, asking for advice, pointers, suggestions, anything to make the upcoming event seem less scary. I texted my oldest friend Ericka, admitting that I was freaking out and hoping she had some words of encouragement. I leaned on Jeannie (that poor woman...), soaking up her infinite wisdom and trying my best to believe all of her positive talk. I did anything I could to get through the day... with a little help from my friends.
And, wow, did they ever come through!
My phone, inbox, and Facebook wall were inundated with the most incredible flood of pep talks, supportive sentiments, race day tips and pointers, strategy suggestions, and more encouragement than I ever could have hoped for. Friends from the box, coworkers, family members, people I hadn't spoken to in years... so many people came forward to show their support and offer their advice. It was overwhelming, really, but in the best possible way. Ericka, in typical BFF fashion, pulled out an award-worthy pep talk full of Will Ferrell references (because everything in life worth doing can somehow be linked back to a Will Ferrell movie) that managed to make me laugh amidst my ridiculous freak-out. Jeannie outdid herself with an all-day, non-stop stream of awesomeness via text message, giving me no choice but to smile. (Have I mentioned that I have the best best friends ever?) Just amazing. All of it.
With so much love and support coming in from all sides, even my crazy brain wasn't able to stay in a bad place for long. By Saturday evening, I was feeling surprisingly calm. My 10/10 freak-out had dulled to a buzz of anxiety... but, good anxiety. Slowly, I started to realize what was really happening. I was going to run my first half marathon. I was going to accomplish an enormous goal. And although it might not go as I'd always envisioned it would, crossing that finish line was going to feel pretty incredible, no matter who was or wasn't there, or what the time clock said. I was going to face an enormous fear, yet again... and this time, I thought, I would come out on top. How could I not, with so many people on my side?
I spent that evening doing as many calming things as I could come up with. Spent some time with my horse. Went for a long walk with the dogs. Pulled some weeds. (Yes, I find this oddly relaxing. I'm a freak.) Read a book. Read and reread all of the wonderful, kind things people had written to me throughout the day. Then it was time for an early bedtime. I tried to fall asleep visualizing that moment when I crossed the finish line, as I had on so many occasions throughout the past year... but somehow, the vision wouldn't come. Maybe because I wasn't sure what to expect now, or maybe because I was still disappointed that my cheering squad would not be what I'd originally envisioned. But in any case, I just couldn't see it. So instead, I conjured up the image of my favorite Girl WOD, Grace, and fell asleep to a string of beautiful 95-pound clean and jerks. (Yeah. Freak.)
Surprisingly, I slept like a champ until just before 3am, at which time I shot out of bed like a crazy person, wide awake as could be, in true pre-Open-WOD style. The first emotion that set in was pure dread. Shit, I thought to myself... it's here. It's time. I have to run 13.1 effing miles today. 3.1 more miles than I've ever run before in my life. 13.1 miles more than I've run in the past three months combined. And I'm doing it ALL ALONE. WHATTHEHELLAMIDOING?!?!?!?!
But after a few minutes of panic, I was able to calm down significantly. I took a few deep breaths, grabbed my phone, and once again read through all of the amazing advice and pep talks and words of encouragement I'd received the previous day. Read through the hilarious message from Ericka, and the beautiful words from Jeannie. And I realized, as I let their words really sink in, that I wasn't alone at all. Jeannie would be there. Ericka would be there in spirit. All of the wonderful people in my life who have encouraged me and cheered me on and wished me well... they would all be there, in a way, because I'd be carrying them with me. The strength they'd given me would be with me through every step of those 13.1 miles, driving me forward and pushing me through when the going got tough. And there was no question about it... the going would get tough. But suddenly, I felt like I could handle it. My friends had given me what I needed most: faith. The rest of it... courage, strength, drive... was already within me; already a part of who I am. I just needed to trust that it would come out when the time came.
I was ready. Wanting it... every piece of it.
The morning went by in an anxious but excited blur. Before I knew it, it was time to meet up with Jeannie for our drive into the city. On my way out the door, I grabbed a Sharpie in a moment of inspiration. Before heading out to start my day, I wrote three sets of initials on the back of my race bib: "VT", "WG", and "TPA." VT for Virginia Tech; all of my Hokie friends, Ericka, my VT equestrians. WG for Walnut Grove and two of the best friends ever that I met while working there, Lynn and Alexis Layne. TPA... obvious. My box family. These people, my dearest friends and greatest inspirations, are the ones I wanted to keep near to my heart while I tackled this beast. As an afterthought, I also scribbled "EVERY PIECE" on the inside of my left wrist with Sharpie. That way, I could keep some of the most important people in my life with me as I ran, and if I needed a reminder of what I was running for, it was right there where I could see it. A few small reminders to keep me focused on the goal ahead.
When I got into Jeannie's car at 5:30am, and she immediately asked me how I was feeling, I was able to answer honestly: good, but scared. That fear continued to mount throughout the (WAY too short) drive into the city, but my glorious chauffeur did a wonderful job of keeping my brain occupied with intermittent periods of loud music (you'll never guess what we listened to...) and distracting conversation. Before I could really process what was happening, we were parking the car, gathering up my shit, and starting the walk to the corrals. Thank God for Jeannie... that walk would have been the perfect opportunity for a 12/10 freak-out had it not been for her. Instead, I was able to breathe, focus on her words, get out of my head a little bit, and take in the views of the city at sunrise. It was a gorgeous, clear, cool morning, and the sights were breathtaking. As we crossed the Roberto Clemente bridge, I was struck by how beautiful it all was, with the colorful sky reflecting off of the river and giving the city a surreal glow. And for a moment, I felt the excitement from the night before creep back into my brain. I was going to be running through all of this beauty. That was going to be awesome.
But the closer we got to the corrals, and the more congested the streets became, the more my nerves chased that excitement right out of my head. After waiting in line for a porta-john and a little bit of wandering around in search of our final destination (all the while with panic starting to creep up on me all over again), we reached the corrals.
I immediately felt terrified, and lost, and completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the apparent chaos of everyone crammed into small spaces, being herded to their respective corrals like cattle. In addition to terror, I was also hit with a wave of enormous gratitude that Jeannie was with me. She calmly guided me through the masses, me following along behind like a scared puppy, and led me to a relatively quiet spot just outside of the corrals so I could get situated before heading in. There wasn't much to be said as I stripped off my layers, pinned on my bib, and did a last-minute gear check, but I was so glad not to be alone in that moment. I was terribly scared for the rapidly approaching time when I would have to part ways with my friend, join the masses in my corral, and line up to start the race. So, I did what any logical person would do: I put off that moment as long as possible. I readjusted my number... twice. I fiddled around with my SPI belt. I re-tied my shoes five or six times. Switched my iPod holder from one arm to the other, and then back. I was stalling like a champ. But all too soon, the race volunteers started closing off the corrals, and I knew it was time. After a final frantic hug, I was swept off with the thousands of other people shoving their way into the corrals at the last minute.
And just like that, I was on my own.
Inside the corral, it was mayhem. People were practically standing on top of eachother, and I couldn't even stretch my quads out without kicking three other runners. Chaos. I realized a bit too late that I was in Corral C instead of my assigned Corral E with the other slow people, which caused additional panic, but by that time it was too late to make the switch. So instead, I stood in my 18 square inches of space in Corral C, trying not to freak out, trying to think of positive things. I went over all of the advice I'd received the previous day: drink at every water stop, even if you don't feel thirsty. Read people's signs, because they are entertaining and make the time pass more quickly. Stay to the outside so you can high-five the kids. Let the crowd carry you when you get tired. Take the foil blanket at the finish line, even if you don't think you need it. Eat a gel every 45 minutes. Save your energy for the hills at the end. Just keep moving forward, no matter what. Remember to breathe. Don't give up. Just keep moving.
As the moments before gun time ticked away, my panic mounted. I couldn't help but think about my family and friends, at home in their cozy beds... perhaps they were onto something? Perhaps this really is a freaking crazy thing to do on a Sunday morning? In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I grabbed my iPhone and started scrolling through my carefully compiled "Songs To Make 13.1 Miles Suck Less" playlist for the perfect starting song. As I was hunting for an appropriately energizing tune, a text message popped up. From Jeannie.
Love you! So proud of you. Time to fuck shit up, Emily. Want it. Every piece of it. Every step. See you at the finish line. 3, 2, 1... go!
And just as I finished reading this, "Renegade" started blasting over the loudspeaker. Suddenly, the energy in the corral swiftly changed from anxiety to excitement, and people started moving to the beat of the iconic Yinzer tune, some shouting out the lyrics. And I felt the excitement, too. I don't know whether it was the well-timed text message, the music, the crowd, the hugeness of the moment, or a combination of everything... but whatever the reason, I suddenly felt invincible. Energized. Ready. I wanted to run.
As the ten-second countdown blasted from speakers and filled the city streets with an incomparable energy unlike anything I've ever felt, I knew I was ready. 3.. 2... 1...
Somewhere ahead of me, the gun sounded, and I knew that some insanely speedy Kenyans were embarking on a 26.2-mile adventure that would probably take them significantly less time than half of that distance was going to take me. But I wasn't worried about them. Or anything else, really. It was a beautiful morning in a city I love. The energy was amazing. Somewhere out there, my best friend was waiting to cheer me on. And I was moments away from attacking my biggest goal. This moment, this day, this journey... already epic. Now all I had to do was run.
Everyone around me surged forward as first Corral A, then Corral B, emptied out. Before I knew it, I was approaching the enormous yellow archway that marked the starting line. The congestion began to thin out slightly as people began to find their stride, and I did the same. And as I crossed under that ugly yellow archway, I felt an enormous smile spread across my face, because I knew that I wanted it. Every piece, every step. Let's do this.
Usually in any run of any distance, my first mile is by far the hardest. But that morning, I felt amazing from the first few steps. Between the adrenaline, the crowds, and the amazing energy from my fellow runners, I was glad for the congestion during that first mile, because I'm pretty sure I would have taken off like a bat out of hell and been completely shot by mile 5. Instead, I remembered some of the wise advice I'd been given: don't waste energy weaving around to pass people in the beginning. Go with the flow, and make up time when things thin out. So I did just that, pacing myself behind a random girl with a shirt that said "If you're reading this, I'm not last" on the back (vowing to pass her later) and let myself enjoy the rhythm of my strides, the cheers from the people lining the street, and the incredible atmosphere around me. That first mile flew by, and as I'd been so wisely advised, the congestion started to thin out significantly by mile marker 2 as everyone found their pace. Feeling good, I decided to pick it up a notch as I started through the Strip District. Passed t-shirt girl and a few others. So far, the course was wonderfully flat, heavily populated with spectators, and full of excellent signs. There were a few iffy moments on that Strip District stretch: first, when the relay runners from a later corral started blowing past me like I was at a dead standstill, and again a moment later when a woman running next to me ran past a huge crowd of people who were cheering for her, holding posters with her picture on them and going completely crazy as we approached. For a minute there, my energy faltered. I felt slow for the first time, and the sight of my fellow runner's enormous smile as she ran past her enthusiastic cheering squad conjured up thoughts of my original vision of this race: my friends and family, the posters, the cheers. I wouldn't be having that moment today, and for just a second, the thought threw me off a bit. But then I remembered the hastily scribbled lettering on the back of my race bib, and thought about my Hokies, and Ericka, and Layne and Lynn, and Ericka, and my TPA family. And I looked at the Sharpie reminder on my arm: Every Piece. And I remembered two things: first, that I wasn't really alone. And second, that I really wasn't doing this for anyone else, anyways. This one was for me. I surged on.
By the time I hit the 16th Street Bridge, I was feeling good again. I was right on pace for where I wanted to be time-wise, perhaps even a little ahead of my original plan, and I continued to feel strong. The spectators on that bridge were awesome, and energized me further. It occured to me, as I high-fived a particularly excited bunch of super-cute children, that I wasn't just surviving this race... I was actually enjoying it. Loving every minute of it. Who would have thought?
I picked up my pace even a bit more as I came off the bridge and rounded East Ohio Street. Near mile marker 4, I encountered my first familiar face in the crowd: my friend Becca and her adorable daughter Emma. Emma's dad (a fellow TPA athlete) was also running the half, so she had constructed a sign for him, and a sign on the back of that cheering on the rest of us. So freaking cute:
It was a wonderful surprise, and a great feeling to have a sign and a cheering squad after all, even if they weren't specifically intended for me. The familiar faces gave me a much needed boost as I approached the second of six bridges on the course. I felt another big smile spread across my face, and another rush of adrenaline hit me. And then, as I started across the Rachel Carson Bridge, I heard my name being shouted and I knew I'd found the one person who was there specifically for me: there was Jeannie, my one-man cheering squad, waving and yelling encouragement from her perch on the bridge. I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my entire life. It was an awesome moment, and one that I will remember for years to come: running strong, the cool breeze, the morning sun reflecting off of the river, the amazing city views all around me, the enthusiastic spectators, and my dear friend among them, telling me what she knew I needed to hear... that I could do this. And as I caught her eye and waved, I knew she was right. I had a total girl moment then, as tears welled up in my eyes, completely overwhelmed by the pride and adrenaline and gratitude that came crashing over me. As I ran on and Jeannie's voice faded into the background behind me, I felt a renewed determination. I cranked up the volume on my music and increased my pace. You've got this, I told myself with a smile. You're killing it.
I continued to feel amazing as I looped around to cross back over the river via the Andy Warhol Bridge, and as I passed the first relay exchange and the 6-mile marker on my run through the North Side, I glanced at my trusty Garmin to realize that miles 4 and 5 had been my fastest yet, and were significantly faster than my original planned pace time. I was starting to feel pretty winded at that point, but kept telling myself to keep pushing until mile 7, at which point I would allow myself to slow down a bit. Something about mile 7 being more than halfway through seemed like a good place to pace myself and take a breather. I could keep up my current pace until then.
Or.. could I? The spectators had thinned out significantly at that point, and I could feel some of my earlier adrenaline slipping away. As the buzz wore off, it was replaced by other feelings... feeling tired. Feeling sore. Feeling the beginnings of blisters that I'd only just then begun to notice on my left foot. Feeling a little bit of aching in my knees, which hadn't seen this much pavement since February. Yep... it was definitely starting to get hard. But, on I ran.
Crossing the West End Bridge, I finally made it to mile marker 7, and backed off of my pace somewhat. By then, I was definitely getting tired. And I quickly realized why everyone had told me to save energy for the second half of the course... none of the lovely flatness of the first 7 miles. Shit was getting intense. But there were a ton of hilariously rowdy spectators on Steuben Street, some magnificently awesome signs, and a water stop coming up, so that helped to keep me moving. At the water stop on Carson Street just before the 8-mile marker, I let myself walk for the first time. I told myself it was because I was tired of spilling water all over myself by running through these hydration stations... but in reality, I was pretty well gassed by that point. Definitely feeling my lack of training.
So I made my way to the far right side of the road to get out of everyone's way, and slowed to a walk. I told myself, You have 30 seconds to walk, and then you are going to get your ass moving again. Well, let me tell you, that was the fastest fucking 30 seconds of my life. By the time I'd had a chance to suck in some air and slurp down a dixie cup of lukewarm water, it was go time. But as soon as I started running again, I knew instantly that walking had been a bad idea. Getting moving again was a bitch. I started to feel all of my aches a bit more acutely, realizing that the family of young blisters I'd noticed on my left foot a few miles back were now full-grown adults, and had been joined by small cousins on my right foot as well. Knees felt rough. Ankles were starting to ache a bit, too. But the crowds through Station Square were great, and I pushed through, slowly but surely.
By the time I hit the South Side, I was pretty sure I was screwed. Perhaps it was because I've never spent any time there in the light of day (or sober, for that matter), but somehow, that stretch of Carson Street felt infinitely longer than I'd ever realized. Miles 9 and 10 were a blur of absolute misery. Like, horrible. I found myself regretting my relatively speedy pace for the beginning of the race, and cursing the day that I fell off of my training plan. By that point, I was alternating periods of walking regularly in between short and rather pathetic bursts of running/jogging/rapid stumbling. I. Was. STRUGGLING. All of the excitement and pride and unadulterated joy that I'd felt earlier were gone, replaced by some serious pissed-offness. Who the hell runs for fun, anyways? Who actually wants to feel like this? What the HELL was I thinking? This is FUCKING HORRIBLE.
There was some slight consolation when the half marathon course turned left to cross the Birmingham Bridge, and the full course continued on towards miseries unknown, and I thanked God, Jesus, Buddha, the guy next to me, and anyone else within earshot for the fact that I was not, in fact, crazy enough to ever want to run a full marathon. As we crossed over the final bridge of the course and I dragged myself past the 11-mile marker, the initial notes of Enter Sandman by Metallica came floating through my earbuds. If you're not a Virginia Tech Hokie and have never been to a Thursday night game at Lane Stadium, you probably have absolutely no concept of why this song is so freaking awesome. But, just trust me on this one. The timing couldn't have been better. For a moment, my brain was transported to a happier place: I wasn't limping my ass across a bridge in Pittsburgh... I was on the 50 yard line with all of my friends, jumping up and down like lunatics while the Hokies take the field. I suddenly felt reenergized. I was ready to finish this bitch of a run. I would bust out these last 2.1 miles as fast as I could and finish this thing strong. Yes. That's the plan. Finish big. Bring it!
And then... the hill.
That
I need to start cleaning up my language, helping old ladies cross the street, and regularly attending some kind of church, because I imagine hell is a lot like that hill, and quite frankly, I have no interest in ever facing that again. It was awful... just a cruel, cruel joke. "Hey, you're almost done with your first half marathon... JUST KIDDING! You still have to survive this evil, life-sucking bitch of a hill that NEVER, EVER ENDS! Ha ha!"
I wasn't laughing.
I tried. I tried to run up that hill, I really did. But I couldn't do it. My knees were absolutely screaming. I couldn't breathe. There were continent-sized blisters exploding on my feet with every step I took. Everything hurt. I went to my last-ditch strategy... distraction. The signs and spectators just weren't doing it anymore. I'd been prepared for this; I'd come up with a whole arsenal of thoughts for this exact moment. I thought about my friends, and how excited they would be for me if I could finish this thing. I thought of my grandma, who was one of my favorite people in the world and the first person to believe that I could ever do this... she passed away last Memorial Day, but I knew she would have been so proud. I thought about Boston, and how so many of the people injured there would probably give anything to be running up this hill right now in my place. Thought about the prospect of never running again after this stupid race was over. Thought about how many calories I was burning. But in the end, the one thought that kept me going was the thought of my TPA family. The ones running the relay; the ones who were already finished and were gathering to cheer on their teammates. Jeannie, waiting for me at the finish line. The biggest badasses I have ever met, without exception... we are CrossFitters. And CrossFitters don't quit. And sometime, in the not too distant future, I'd be with them, and there would be a spectacularly enormous margarita in my hand, and this damn hill would be nothing but a memory; just one more particularly beastly WOD in the books.
So, I kept going. One foot in front of the other. Walking (barely), but moving forward, moving towards that finish line, towards those people, towards that margarita. I felt like I was dying through every step of it, but I didn't stop. And eventually, finally, I was at the top of that stupid
HALLELUJAH!
If the hill in Oakland is what hell looks like, I'm pretty sure heaven is very similar to the feeling when you reach the top, round the bend, hit mile marker 12, and realize that the entire rest of the race is DOWNHILL. Thank you, God, (and course designers... you are almost forgiven) for that beautiful, blessed, magnificent 1.1 mile stretch of significant downhill slope. Absolutely glorious.
I don't know where it came from, but I was able to dig down deep and pull out some last emergency reserve of energy for the final mile. As soon as I hit that downhill stretch, I broke back into a run, vowing to ignore the pain and the sweat and the inability to breathe... vowing to bust out this last mile and finish in a way I could be proud of. I glanced at Garmin, and was shocked to find that the seemingly endless hill had not taken up as much time as I'd thought. 2:16:58. I realized, with no small amount of surprise, that despite walking almost the entire 11th mile, I still had a shot at making it across the finish line in less than 2:30:00, which had been my original goal back in December, when I was actually training and had high hopes for this race. 13:02 left to exceed my own expectations... to finish this thing in what I considered to be a respectable time for a former fatty who hates to run. 13:02 to run 1.1 miles. Doable.
I took off.
For that last mile, the pain and suckiness seemed to evaporate. I was focused on one thing and one thing only: crossing that finish line before 2:30:00. I could barely feel my legs at that point, but they seemed to be following commands, so I pushed on. I knew I was moving fast (for me, at least) because I was passing people. I refused to look back at my watch until after I crossed the finish line, because I knew it would just throw me off. So, I ran. I pushed. I refused to let my mind stray from my mantra, which I repeated over and over again in my head: Every Piece. Every last step. Want it.
I don't think I've ever felt as strong as I felt at the moment when the giant finish line arch came into view, and I knew without even looking at the clock that I was going to make my goal. It just pushed me to run faster. The sidewalks near the finish line were packed with cheering spectators. As I ran that stretch, I heard Jeannie's voice coming from somewhere to my right, and it put a huge smile on my face. But I didn't look for her... there would be time for that soon enough. For now, I was focused solely on that ugly yellow arch. I passed the 13-mile marker, dug deep, found my finish line sprint (thank you, Tammy, for the warm-up sprints that I am constantly bitching about... I swear, I will never complain about them again!!!), and went for it.
I didn't even need to recall the advice I'd received about smiling for the cameras as I crossed the finish line... I was already grinning like a lunatic. I couldn't have smiled any bigger if I tried. With a final push, I was at the arch... under it... beyond it. And then, I was finished. I'd done it. I'd finished my first half marathon. The finish line clock read 2:36:18. And, according to my watch, I'd done it in just over 2:27:00.
For a few minutes, it didn't register. My mind was blank of anything but relief as I slowed to a walk and lined up with all of the other finishers to collect my foil blanket, water bottle, snacks, and a random commemorative plastic cup. Even as a smiling volunteer placed my medal around my neck and congratulated me, it still hadn't really sunk in.
And then, as I was filing out of the finish line area with everyone else, I felt my phone vibrate in my arm holster, and checked to see who could possibly be texting me at a time like this. To my surprise, it was another text from Jeannie, this one containing only one word:
Epic.
I looked up, and there she was, pushing through the crowds to get to me. And as she rushed up to give me the biggest hug ever, it all hit me. The most enormous wave of emotion you can possibly imagine... joy, relief, excitement, accomplishment, pride... so much pride. There weren't even words for what I was feeling, so I said nothing, just hugged her back and let that wave crash over me, revelling in it, basking in it. Because at that moment, I knew that Jeannie was right: this was epic. Completely, unquestionably, 100% epic. And it didn't matter that there were no posters and no giant cheering squad to greet me at the end. Because I had accomplished my biggest goal to date. I'd punched fear in the face, yet again. I'd done something that I honestly never thought I could do, and I did it better than I ever could have expected. And at that moment, all that mattered to me was that I'd done it, and that the one person in the world who could truly, fully appreciate what that meant was there with me. And that was more than enough. In fact, it was everything. It wasn't the finish line moment I'd been imagining for so many months... it was better. It was perfect.
I was still in an elated daze as we made our way through the crowds, Jeannie once again navigating because I couldn't seem to wrap my brain around anything but the enormously satisfying weight of the hard-earned medal around my neck. This part of the day is a happy blur. All I remember, as we made our way back past the starting corrals and through the same crowded streets we'd walked that morning, was thinking how much less scary it all looked than it had three hours ago. It felt different. I felt different. Braver. Stronger. Invincible.
After a bit of wandering, we found our way to the designated TPA meeting spot near mile marker 25 of the full marathon course. And you know what? That finish line moment in my head... the one I'd always imagined and was so sad to be missing out on? I got it, right there on a random crowded sidewalk, when I least expected it. Only it wasn't my parents, or my sisters, or the rest of my biological family. It was my TPA family. And it was freaking perfect. I was met with an unexpected but completely touching round of enthusiastic hugs and congratulations, one after the other, until I was completely, delightfully overwhelmed with emotion all over again. These people... my coach, my boxmates... are complete badasses. These are people who could have lapped me twice in that race and still finished without breaking a sweat; people who could have run that distance carrying me on their shoulders, for God's sake. Strong, fast, amazing athletes, every one of them. But the fact that, despite all that, they still got excited for me about my admittedly mediocre half marathon time... amazing. They just get it. And somehow, through some lucky twist of fate, life had brought me into their midst. And I've never been more thankful for that fact than I was at that moment, on that sidewalk, sharing one of my very greatest victories with some of my very favorite people.
Epic. In every way.
We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon cheering on the TPA relay teams' finishers and the full marathon runners. The atmosphere was incredible, and although the time passed by in a happy blur, watching the amazing runners push through that last stretch was the perfect way to keep up the emotion and adrenaline of the morning. Afterwards, we all met back up at Mad Mex for some well-deserved Cinco de Mayo margaritas. I couldn't have asked for a better way to celebrate my accomplishment, or better people to celebrate it with.
After an hour of laughter and race recaps (and two awesomely enormous margaritas), my adrenaline had started to fade. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to go home, lay in the sunshine, and process the day's events. So after running a few errands (and wearing my medal to the grocery store, pet store, gas station, and several laps around the neighborhood... I have no shame), I went home, collected my dogs, and plopped myself in a lounge chair in the sunshine for the remainder of the afternoon. So many thoughts were swirling through my brain, but the one thing that I kept coming back to was the Sharpie reminder on my arm. It was faded and had smeared some, but the words were still there:
The day had been such a roller coaster of emotions. Like the half marathon course itself, the experience had contained fantastic highs and craptacular lows, and everything in between. But, taking all things into account, I wouldn't change a minute of it. Like everything challenging and scary I've faced this year, there were pieces that weren't fun... pieces that made me question what the hell I'm doing and why the hell I didn't just stay on the couch with a family size bag of Doritos for the past 15 months. But when you put all the pieces together, the result was something so special that it made all of those crappy parts completely worthwhile. Two years ago, if I had told anyone in the world that I planned to ever even consider running a half marathon, they would have laughed at me and told me to go eat a cheeseburger. And now, here I am... a different person in so many ways than I was back then. I can officially say that I've done it; I've run a half marathon. I can check it off the list. It scared the shit out of me, but I did it anyways. And I survived. Every time I do that... every time I look fear in the face and come out on top... I get a little stronger. Maybe someday I won't be so scared of these challenges. Or maybe I'll always be a complete basketcase before an important event or competition, no matter how many I face. (God knows I am currently in full-on FREAK OUT mode for tomorrow's Patriot Games... but that is a blog post for a different day, because just thinking about it makes me want to puke on my keyboard.) But either way, I'm going to keep on doing these things, facing my fears, getting stronger and braver and better as the years go by. Because it's the scary things that make me feel really, truly alive. And don't we all need that every now and then?
Like everything else I've done and written about in this blog, the half marathon taught me many things, about myself and about life in general. The biggest thing I learned on May 5th: just because something doesn't turn out the way you expected it to, doesn't mean it won't be perfect. Sometimes, the unexpected can so far exceed our expectations that we realize we've been expecting the wrong things all along. I also learned that the expression "You can't choose your family" is a load of crap. Sure, we all have a family into which we were born. But some of us are lucky enough to have another kind of family as well: the family we build as we go. People who support us, and understand us, and appreciate us for who we are... not because they're related to us and they have to, but because they love us. And sometimes, that's the family you want by your side as you face life's biggest challenges.
I also learned that I
So, a quick recap. Pittsburgh Half Marathon 2013: CHECK. Clock time: 2:36:18. Chip time: 2:27:03. (2:58 below my original goal time.) Fastest miles: 13, 5, 4. Slowest miles: 12, 10, 9. Worst part:
Will I ever run another half marathon? Probably. Despite all of my bitching and moaning for a full week after the half, as my blisters popped one by one and every joint in my body went through various stages of pain and agony (my suggestion: if you're going to run 13.1 miles, your body would appreciate it if you TRAIN FOR IT first), I imagine it won't be my last. I'm already considering running the Buffalo Creek Half this fall. And maybe next year I'll be on one of the TPA relay teams. Who knows? I have plenty on my plate to keep me busy until then.... not the least of which is tomorrow's Patriot Games competition at RAW, which is approximately 4.98 BILLION times scarier to me than running a half marathon ever was. But, again, we're not going to talk about that right now because it will put me into an epic panic spiral, and it's way too early in the day for that shit. I will say only this... please pray for me not to be a total screw-up and not to let down my ridiculously amazing team. (Someone please remind me how I ended up on a team with three absurdly badass athletes? Weakest link, anyone? I don't know how this happened, but I probably should have been voted off this island a long time ago...) But, regardless of my performance tomorrow, it will be another fear faced, another thing to check off the list. And my family will be there to cheer me on, no matter how badly I suck. And that, in itself, is pretty epic.
And, if worse comes to worst, I can always come home, put on my half marathon medal, and remind myself just how amazing this journey really is, when all of the pieces line up.
*This blog post brought to you by Operation Keep Emily's Brain Occupied,
courtesy of the Patriot Games.*
