Anatomy of a Half Marathon

Since I recently did my fourth half marathon (after doing an 8K the day before), I thought it would be a good time to provide the dissection of what goes through one's mind.  Disclaimer: it is only slightly perverse.  In January I was kicking, and then for the most of February my body and the Lupus told me to f-off, so . . . I'm still delighted with the results and I ran 3.85 today with an average of 10:46 per a mile.  Good, indeed.

O'dark thirty, at the start.  Unless you are running in July, this start line will always be chilly or outright cold. In March, in Virginia Beach, it was downright cold.  July is the only time an 8 o'clock start will be on the borders of hot.  Joy.  

The gun goes off, corals start to cheer.  Those damn seeded runners are going to hit the finish line before the chumps in coral ten (like me) even hit mile one.  'Tis the life.  

Mile one: Let's not think about miles.  It's too early for that.  Your running partner mentions how cold she is and you tell her "Shut your pie hole about the cold.  Think about something else or you are only going to make it worse!" At this point you are wondering why you only wore running pants and a micro fleece top with some festive and cute fingerless gloves.  You contemplate why you aren't in long johns, a fur lined hat, and a warm cabin with a fire.  

Mile two: You are no longer cold.  Just perfect.  Your stride kicks in.  Game on Bitches. 

Mile three: You start to contemplate this decision.  There's still ten f-ing miles to go.  Ten! Dear Lord. Those Girl Scouts handing out water: nice and welcome, but they are too chipper right now.  Especially when they are at the BOTTOM of the incline.  

Mile four: This is a dead mile.  Nothing of particular interest crosses your mind.  Nor are the conversations of anyone around of interest.  It is just a dead stretch.  Usually this mile occurs at a part of the course that is about to get particularly boring.  Like, fall asleep if you were driving . . . but you are running with several thousand others and it is hard to sleep on your feet.  While slugging water, some chipper girl calls your name.  Your eyes bug, and she is proud that she got to read your name from your shirt and make you double take.  You silently chuckle while turning up the soundtrack of hell that you programmed for the race.

Mile five: What's that smell? Oh . . . my deodorant is giving out, which is correlated to the nice wet feeling you have running down your back.  Sweat is beginning to pour.  Perhaps it is a good thing I didn't decide to run in a parka.  Cold . . . not at all.  

Mile six: There's food! Ok, well gel packs that runner's consume in quantities equivalent to how drunks consume cheap vodka.  Oh sweet heavens, food! Slurping down the pomegranate-grape Boom gel pack, "That's nasty!," but you devour it with glee as it is on the course.  Any other time you would upchuck that skunk, but at mile six it is qualitative to a slice of Red Velvet Cake and Sweet Southern Tea.  Pure delish and divine for the half a second you have it.  

Mile Seven: Hey, more than half way! You look at your running partner and say "Now stop talking about going back.  Too late now Chickie."

Mile Eight: You see the clock and realize you are about to make a PR day.  You start to holler  which is also on the turn around and the volunteers, military troops, residents of the neighborhood chuckle at you . . . well, they did see you about three miles ago and heard you cussing the wind (literally) and making the sweet sound effects of "woooooo hoooo wonka wonka," which doesn't even make sense to you but it is damned funny.  

Mile Nine: Ok, these signs are wrong.  Someone screwed up and didn't calibrate their miles correctly.  That was TWO miles from the last sign.  You huff and puff while keeping stride.  You feel the need to fart.  Yet, horror stories of runners shitting their pants flash from pages in running magazines and those you met at the expo.  You hold that fart in.  

Mile Ten: Double DIGITS! There's water and it goes in your mouth and on your head.  Yes, even in 40 degree winter weather, when you know in two miles you are turning onto the bitterly windy and cold boardwalk of Virginia Beach.  Why? It's hot Bitches.  

Mile Eleven: Oh Dear Gawd.  Oh Dear Gawd.  That is all that goes through your head.  For. The. Entire. Mile. What was I thinking.  Won't do this again.  I've proven my Lupus infested self.  Screw this nonsense. Those damned size negative cheerleaders should step back or I might snap one of them.  Pfft.   

Mile Twelve: Bitches, game on.  One more of this shit.  Come on.  I still think someone f-ed up on those mile markers.  Surely, SURELY, this is a two mile stretch.  

Mile Thirteen, that there is no marker for.  How do you know . . . unless you are bat shit blind, you can see the semblance of the finish line.  At this point: Come on Bitches.  You look at your running partner and say "Buck up." At this point she is in near tears from exhaustion.  There's someone in front of you that you've been playing chicken with for the last four miles.  She is on the verge of collapsing, and you say "Come on.  We've been playing tag for four miles.  You might as well finish this with me!" The volunteers on the course begin to call your name (it is on your number). The flags of the finish line let you know you have about two hundred yards left, and as you chuck through them you are certain that damned line is moving.  Damn gremlins moving that shit.  

Your foot crosses the line, the clock is lower than it is has ever been, there are loads of chumps behind you (more than ever before), and your jaded snarky self is pleased.  As you chug your water, don your shiny medal, and eat your banana on the way to beer and party tents you realize that there is another half coming up in May.  You are so in.  

I should note that the husband ran . . . chump didn't train and comes in ahead of me.  Pfft.