Half Marathon, Take Two

Thirty-seven months ago I spontaneously ran a half marathon in my basement. By spontaneously I mean that I didn't even know when I started my run how far I would go that night. I hadn't prepared a water bottle, I hadn't gone to the bathroom, I certainly hadn't trained. I was (and still am) incredibly proud of my accomplishment, but somehow as the months went on I managed to convince myself (quite possibly under the influence of others) that it didn't 'count'; it hadn't been an actual race. So this past March I registered for the May 25 Ottawa half marathon. It was time to quash those nagging doubts once and for all.

I didn't have a training/race partner at first, but I soon picked one up, and I was thrilled. I'd never run with music, let alone conversation, and it was great fun. I had a minor setback on my first long run. I caught my toe on the corner of an icy sidewalk and smashed my knee. But I picked myself up and kept going. Training went quite well, actually. I was feeling prepared and eager for the race up until week 10/11 of a 12 week schedule. That's when I lost my training partner. She decided we'd be better off going solo. Although I'd registered independently, I was no longer mentally or emotionally prepared to race that way. I was devastated. I wasn't even sure I wanted to race anymore.

But I'd paid my fees and invested so much effort, and my family had supported me the whole way. Both girls had gone on training runs in the jogging stroller, and Emilia was already coordinating her race day outfit with mine. My final (solo) long run was the fastest, strongest long run I'd ever done. I covered just over 12 miles in 1:46 with plenty of steam left to feel confident in my projection of 1:56-7 (for 13.1 miles) on race day. Mind over matter, I was going to take the half marathon by storm, or so I thought. 

Fast forward to T-3(days). I braved Ottawa at rush hour to pick up my race kit, both girls in tow, from the Convention Centre. I found my number and reported it to the clerk who handed me my bib and sent me upstairs for a test scan (and my shirt). Well, my bib was a dud. I was issued a replacement from a stack of extras, but it was missing my name, my corral, everything. And there was no way to tell whether the new bib chip was working properly because the transfer was still pencil notes on a clipboard at that point. I would have to wait and hope for the best. 

Which I did. In the meantime, I bought fabric paint and the girls made hand prints on a strip of fabric destined to become my racing headband. We also bought a helium balloon in the hope that I would be able to spot them more easily after the race if not as it was finishing. And purple sparkly adhesive letters to spell MICHELE on my bib. Everything was purple. 

Race day dawned clear and warm. I had been hoping for cool and overcast, as nursing makes me much hotter than usual, particularly when combined with physical exertion. I had also been hoping (for a week anyway) to run with music, but my ipod (a ten year old freebie with my sister's new-at-the-time macbook) picked that morning to die. Okay, fine; I had run for years in silence. Disappointing, but hardly the end of the world. 

So we got to Ottawa with plenty of time to spare, I nursed Eleanor one last time, and Martin dropped me off as close as he could to the starting line. I queued up with thousands of eager runners and began to drink in the energy of the crowd. It was actually pretty exciting, just as I'd been told it would be. Small talk with strangers, music playing, a multitude of beeps as everyone set his/her stopwatch, and we were off. 

I felt great for the first several kilometres, just as I had in training. But by thirty or so minutes in I knew I was in trouble. I was much too hot with much too much ground still ahead of me. I sipped water at every hydration station on the advice of a pace bunny and I threw another cupful over my head and shoulders, but it was a losing battle. I moved to the side of the road and slowed my pace; I even walked parts of the route, which I had never ever ever done before. I saw one runner on the ground and another on a gurney; I did not want to be next no matter what it cost me in time. I didn't care about my time anymore; I just wanted to finish and get back to my family. 

People along the route, spectators and volunteers, were wonderful. The positives I will take from this experience were their support and encouragement: the signs, both inspirational and humorous, the clapping and cheering, hearing my name from the mouths of complete strangers (read from my bib), all the sweaty little hands I high-fived. And the sound of thousands of rubber soles hitting the pavement at once. It sounded just like a drenching rain. I would have appreciated a drenching rain, come to think of it!

I crossed the finish line 2:10:09 after leaving the start, battered. I heard someone say, "She's going down." Two hands reached out to me from in front and two more steadied me from behind. I knew I wouldn't have gone down, but I wasn't feeling at all well either, so I didn't put up a fight. I spent the next few minutes sipping water in a wheel chair until my volunteer-attendant was quite confident that I did not need to see a medic. I subsequently drank eight more paper cups of water, collected my participant medal, filled my hands with snacks from the recovery area, and set off in search of a purple balloon. 

I seriously considered quitting the race at several points. No one would have stopped me, I don't think, if I had taken myself off the route and found a phone from which to call Martin and ask him to pick me up. I had nothing to prove to myself anymore; so I finished the race for my girls. Someday I want them to look back at my experience and simply know that I kept going. I didn't run the whole way, I didn't achieve the time I had hoped to, I certainly wasn't smiling when I crossed the finish line. But I did what needed to be done, as best I understood that at the time. People and things failed me, but I did not fail. I redefined success perhaps, by lowering my expectations, but I succeeded on some level.

Will I race again? Probably not. I've decided finally that I don't care what other people think is 'real' or 'counts'. I run for the fun, not for validation. Besides, races are expensive, and the waste/litter I witnessed yesterday was unconscionable. Hundreds of thousands of paper cups all over the ground, orange rinds and banana peels, gel wrappers, sponges, solar blankets, etc. Nevertheless I may volunteer/cheer at a race someday because the camaraderie and athleticism I also witnessed are two things I can definitely get behind.