Olympic Gold Medalist

So it seems that I all too easily forget how much I adore the thrill of a half marathon or the sense of accomplishment of crossing the finish line. And in doing so, I forget how much I really do enjoy the agony and the ecstasy of running. There is a reason that all thru my life no matter what, for 10 plus years I always find myself returning to the basic sport of running. I may not be the fastest girl in the world, hell, I may not even always be that excited to do it, but in the end everything, absolutely everything goes away when you are running down a goal; literally.

I cannot begin to tell you all the thoughts that pulse thru your brain over the course of 2 hours while you are running, sometimes in agony, sometimes in bliss. That is as varied as the thoughts end up being. There will never be another thing in my life quite as satisfying as the feeling of accomplishment from finishing. I don’t strive for perfection or fast. I am equally as excited every single time I can say I finished the thing. It will never get old. At least I hope it never gets old. I never want to take for granted that my body allows me to do such things. When I start taking it for granted is the moment that I am destined to fail. It is a miraculous thing to be able to push your body to its physically limits for 2 plus hours and come out on the other side. Running is mental. It is one of the most mentally challenging things you will ever endure. Sure, there is physical pain and torture but it’s your mind that you have to push thru. It is your mind that you have to control. And that is why it is total bliss for me when I finish and they wrap that medal around my neck. That is a moment of pure happiness.

I was scared to run. I don’t think I talked about it all that much because I retreated into my head a little bit. I was scared because I have not run very much in the last 2 months. Post Vegas half I can count the time I ran literally on my fingers. It was not a lot and of course the last time I ran it was not fun for me. I felt tortured. Sometimes you feel tortured because of reasons that have little to do with running itself. Maybe I’m over the monotony of treadmill running. Maybe I was just having a bad night. Doesn’t matter, it left me feeling scared and worried about this run. Like I said, I don’t think I’ll ever not be afraid of a half marathon. 2 hours of running is just physically taxing on one’s body. And when you have one of those brains that won’t let you quit it can be pretty torturous to think that your body might give out and you will disappoint yourself.

Post my gym, weight training world, I told myself that I would complete half marathons only if it remained fun and I didn’t have to train too hard for it. I basically wanted to be able to show up and run the thing and get my “high” feeling without putting out too much effort beforehand. Cause isn’t that what everyone wants, right? I was starting to doubt that was going to be the case for me. That whole this is going to bite me in the ass mentality was brewing. I started to feel like I didn’t actually know if I was capable of running for 2 plus hours solid. But here’s the biggest truth, in my heart, I believe I can. And do you know what happens when you believe something is possible? It simply becomes possible.

I have to admit that it did not start out terribly easy per say. I didn’t start feeling magical and happy and like I could go forever. I started out feeling like okay, let’s just run and see where we go from here. Where we went from there was around mile 3 my stomach started turning into knots. Excuse the too much information here, but the familiar knots of knowing you have to go to the bathroom but not the potty kind. And the kind of bathroom experience that was slightly diuretic. Yup, I honestly felt the horrible pain of diarrhea taking over. I really didn’t want to stop. I kept running. It would cut in and out. That feeling of needing to go and then it would subside. I kept on like this for a few more miles. Every time I’d run past a port-a-potty I’d wonder if I should stop, but then I’d see the line of people and I really wanted to keep running.

Finally, right after mile 7, after fighting solidly for 4 miles with my tummy issues, I decided that I could not go on for another 5 miles like this and I had to do the regrettable which was pull over and use the restroom. I saw a bank of potty’s, so at least there were like 6 of them in a row and I figured this would obviously move the line along faster and it would be less obvious if I was in there for a longer period of time.

I have no exact timing of how long I was in line/in the restroom but I’d say between 5-10 minutes. Probably closer to 5 minutes honestly. I tried to go as fast as I possibly could. As soon as I could I was back out on the course, feeling MUCH better, and right back on my running. Other than the bathroom break which I REALLY didn’t want to take, I never once stopped and walked. I ran every second of the race. I am even going to say I ran the whole 13.1 miles, because technically I did. When I stopped, I stood in place for about 5 minutes and then ran. Even with all that said, things turned out all right. In Vegas I finished in like 2:15, this official time was around 2:16, and that includes my potty break. I am going to say that in the end I ran this one faster. Yes, the official time shows slower, but that’s what an ill placed case of diarrhea will do to you.

I loved everything about this race. I loved the scenery. Can I just stop for a second to reflect on the beauty that is Phoenix. I am in love by the way. I completely love the area. Gorgeous! I loved the run course. I loved the support and the motivational signs. I loved the feeling of pushing myself yet again to achieve things that I didn’t think I was capable of. I smile because I can run 13.1 miles. Doesn’t really matter how fast I can run it, the point is I run every single step of that and this is my victory. When my body tells me that I should quit and walk, my brain has to take over and do the work. I tell myself… “I don’t stop when I’m tired; I stop when I’m done.” I told myself that a few times on the home stretch.

Once again at a few points along the race, deep in the heart of the battle I found myself getting teary eyed and emotional. It never gets old. The reality that I can actually do this. The reality that a year ago, even from now, less than a year ago, I never would have dreamed I’d be doing these things. Running a half marathon in Arizona. Who does that? Who wants to do that? More importantly, when did I become a person who does that? And I smile and then those tears well up in my eyes. Because while I may brush off the magnitude of what I’m doing, when I’m in the heart of the race and I see little girls holding up signs, those tears well up every single time. I have a thing for young girls. Not a creepy thing, but a sense of wanting to show young adolescents that females are strong and anything is possible. When I see an 8 year old holding up a sign it makes me want to cry out of happiness. I want to reflect to the world that you are worthy and strong and capable. That you can do anything you want. Like run half marathons. No matter what you’ve had to overcome in your life it’s never too late to achieve your dreams.

And so I ran, tears welling, pain rising and falling. And so I ran, thru water stations, thru people, thru spectators, thru traffic, thru cones. And So I ran with a smile, with an agonizing pained expression on my face. And eventually I saw that magical finish line in sight and I had to fight hard to not break into a full on cry. Because every single time that feeling is magical and something I cannot possibly explain. As soon as I crossed the line everything in the world seemed just a smidge brighter and shiner for a few moments. I felt a supreme sense of self-worth that goes beyond anything else I could ever experience. And all I did was finish. I didn’t win. I didn’t even finish in the top 25% of people, but all be damned if that medal around my neck didn’t make me feel like a winner. Despite over 17,000 of them being handed out on that day, mine seemed so much more important and significant and one of a kind. Because it was. It was mine. It was earned over 2 hours 17 minutes of my life, with all of my experiences and my sweat and sometimes tears. That medal is special and now every time I will look at it, which honestly will be often because I love it so much, I will be reminded of that 2 plus hours of my life and everything it took to get there to that exact moment.

For a few hours in time I felt like an Olympic gold medalist, or what I could only imagine one might feel like. And that is exactly why I keep coming back for more of this delicious torture. I never feel more alive than when I am in the middle of accomplishing my goals. It is a beautiful, magical thing.