ten days ago

I did it again.

I spent all of Friday snacking on pasta that I'd packed into tupperware containers for myself and the two fools I'd talked into joining me. I drank copious amounts of water that required us to stop at every small town on the 4 hour drive between here and there in order to use public toilets. I had a reasonably early night and suffered through nightmares about what was to happen next.

On Saturday morning I laced a timing chip to my running shoes and had some coffee and toast for breakfast. I pinned a number to my singlet and pulled my hair back off my face. With the two others, plus many more fools, I jumped on a bus that took us out to the vineyard where stalls were set up, nervous and excited faces stood around fidgeting, and the ominous FINISH sign waited. I chomped a few jelly beans, I deposited my hoodie and sunscreen and all other non-essential items in the gear tent, and I took my place behind the line.

After some instructions and spiels over the loud speaker, the bells rung and the crowd started moving. And there I was, slowly shuffling towards the start line for my second half marathon.

Seriously? I was actually doing it again? Even though I'd spent less time and had chalked up less kilometres in training for it than the previous attempt? Yes.

I find there are good running days, when my body picks it up right away and it feels effortless, like I could almost run for hours. And then there are bad running days, where I'm a little off kilter from the start, where my body feels heavy and my limbs unresponsive, and every step is a mountainous effort. Not even a minute in, I could feel that it was a bad running day. All the preparation in the world doesn't matter when your body just doesn't want to do it.

The cloud cover was thick, the sun hidden, the temperature cool. Perfect conditions. But right from the outset, in my head for the duration of the race I was on the verge of walking. It was a relief to reach the first drink station at 6km: walking through drink stations, and walking to consume energy supplements are the only excuse for me. In the first few kilometres I assumed that I wouldn't be able to run an unbroken race, that I would cave and end up walking in some points. I was afraid it was just a matter of time until I gave out. I told myself it would be okay, just as long as I secured a better time than my last half marathon.

But I kept jogging along. The long straights where the trail opened up ahead and the distance that had to be covered was clearly visible? That was hard. Every kilometre was hard. I lost my running buddy after the first drink station; I felt bad leaving her behind, but it's about running your own race. I figured she'd catch up again, anyway. I didn't care about the halfway mark when I finally reached it: I was too focused on the second drink station that I could see positioned a few hundred metres past it. Frustrated, I dodged the people who had just... stopped at the drinks tables. Stopped, standing still, right in the way. I actually enjoyed myself for about two minutes somewhere between kilometres twelve and thirteen, but that was the only time I felt happy about the whole deal.

I'd aggravated a muscle in my leg, what I think is my hip flexor, the previous week on a fast walk, but it hadn't bothered me too much since, especially not while running. I assumed that it would be fine for the race, as the motion between fast walking and running is slightly different, and my jogging stride is a lot shorter. Unfortunately, I felt it pulling after the first few kilometres and the pain, while not unbearable, certainly made itself known for the duration of the race. Likewise, because the terrain was over grass and dirt and twigs and stones and gravel, my shoes rubbed against the inside corner of the balls of my feet, and I could feel the blisters starting to surface at around the 4km mark. By 14km they were screaming at me whenever I stepped on a stone or bit of uneven ground that would press my shoes against them. I guess road running has a bigger appeal to me now than it did before. I endured that pain too, though, but was pretty scared to take my shoes and socks off to assess the damage after I'd finished (oh, the horror!).

Also because of the terrain (oh, did I mention? It was through vineyards, down rows of vines and gravel driveways and along stony stop banks overlooking a river - incredible scenery), a lot more energy was required to navigate the course, and it required constant attention to the ground in order not to roll an ankle. Leg muscles were put to the test to compensate for misstepping on uneven ground. My right foot caught on a branch at about 18km and I stumbled a little which caused my calf muscles to seize and cramp painfully like I haven't experienced before. I ran it out, fearful of it happening again and my legs actually giving out on me. At 19km I felt myself approaching The Wall and I sternly told myself it was almost over, that I just had to distract myself for the length of about three more songs, and I'd be home free. I couldn't have run so far in such a bad mental state, only to slow to a walk in the final few minutes. No way. I wasn't allowing that to happen.

I didn't even see the 20km marker, I was so intent on distracting myself from the fact that I was running. A lady I passed told me how great it was to be in the final kilometre and I was surprised, I almost didn't let myself believe it. I knew when I'd entered the final 300 metres because the map had shown a final trail down one more row of vines before a short stint on pavement. I'd hoped for a sprint finish and I still had a little energy to make it happen, but when I reached the tarseal and tried to open up my pace, my calves started cramping from the sudden change in the range of motion they'd had for the last 21km, so I had to pull back and just trot across the finish line.

Oh.

But I crossed it.

I pushed myself harder than I did in training runs, harder than I did in the previous half-marathon, and harder than I ever have before. I felt the pain of every kilometre. This course required so much more of me than the one I ran in February. My head was in a worse place and every step was an effort to just keep going. Physically, though, I felt I ran it better and with a little more energy. I felt a little more capable, despite all the aches and complaints and mental battles that were going on. I ran the entire way again, minus the drink stops and energy supplements - which were less than a minute of walking each. I ran it, even when I desperately wanted to fold my hand and take a breather and stop the movement for just a moment.

I didn't know my time as I didn't hear it announced and the results weren't posted at the after-race function. I knew it was somewhere between Fool Number One's time of 2:25, and Fool Number Two's 2:44. I desperately hoped for anything under my previous time of 2:39:07 but I wasn't holding my breath. It wasn't until I got home the next day that I searched, with anxious and trembling hands, and found it listed on the marathon website.

I came in at 2:35:13.

For real.

I didn't know the exact time we started the race, but I'd checked my watch at 8km and saw I was just under an hour, and then again at 16km to see I was just under two hours, so I was fairly happy that I'd been running at a solid 8km/hr pace. But of course, my speed slows drastically the longer I keep at it, so I wasn't expecting at all that I'd be able to maintain it for the final 5km. And when I finished I was too exhausted and relieved and distracted by the fact that I didn't have to run anymore that I didn't even think to check my watch.

So this was very unexpected. And wonderful.

Now you'll just have to excuse me for hobbling around over the next few days while I recover from all of my various aches. Everything hurts, but in that wonderfully accomplished way.

the start line

To refresh memories:

Three years ago, I was 40 kilos overweight. I loved food too much, and I never exercised because being out of breath made me panic (that's only partly true; it would be more accurate to say I never exercised because I was lazy).

Something needed to change. I don't know why it stuck this time after other failed attempts, but I started eating healthy and exercising almost every day. Reaching my goal weight after a lifetime of being overweight felt like nothing else in this world. It was an amazing accomplishment.

But what I liked better than being slight(er) of frame? The new and fun active nature of my life. I developed a dirty little habit in the form of running. It was fun enough, but after a year of doing it half-heartedly, I realised I needed a goal to really work my way towards. A challenge to sink my teeth into. So.


The new pinnacle:

On Saturday, I ran my first half marathon.

I ran a half marathon.

I ran a freaking half marathon.

My flatmate Renee and I were supposed to spend ten solid weeks training for it, but with the holidays and our other various commitments, we only really got stuck in for the last five weeks. Her biggest pre-race run was 15km, mine was 18km. But it had been a slow, painful 18km with many walk breaks in the last 8km. Neither of us really expected to make it to the start line on Saturday.

But we packed up our gear and drove to the west coast, drinking water and snacking on pasta the whole way. We stayed with friends and tried to distract ourselves on Friday night. We were mostly successful; it still didn't feel quite real.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 5.30am. The sound of rain pouring down outside dampened our spirits. We nervously got our gear together and laced our timing chips to our shoes, pinned our race numbers on, pulled hoodies over our singlets to stay warm. We drove to the square in town where buses lined the dark streets, runners clamouring aboard in hushed excitement. We were driven 21km out of town into the gorge. It felt like our bus was taking us too far; surely we weren't expected to run that whole distance, surely 21km wasn't supposed to be that long!

All passengers were herded out of the bus so it could turn around and pick up another load. Every bus from the west coast must have been called in for the occasion. The rain was torrential, the river was swift and muddy, the wind was roaring. Our shoes and socks were soaked through within five minutes, and there wasn't a dry spot anywhere on my body. We huddled around for an hour, no shelter from the elements, before we finally took our places behind the start line. The wind whipped the rain against my bare skin and it felt like needles stabbing me. Renee yelled to me over the roar that it felt like she was being bruised.

The gun went off! We stood still, shivering and waiting for the pack to start moving. It was a good two minutes before we actually crossed the start line. And then we ran. And we ran. The first half hour was a battle against the elements, running with one hand across my number so the wind didn't rip it off, and the other hand shielding my eyes from the stinging, blinding rain. Somewhere after the first 5km it stopped and the weather was no longer an issue.

I’ll spare you from most of the details, but let me say this;

I didn't expect a great time. My mantra was: I'll be happy with anything under three hours. Honestly, I expected to end up walking for large portions near the end. I expected my motivation to flag. I expected many things.

What I did not expect was the grit and determination that came upon me for every single hill. I ran them all. I dug deep and was determined to take my dad's advice; just keep jogging up the hill at whatever reduced pace is necessary, and once at the top it's a cinch to keep going.

I did not expect to be a grinning idiot for most of it. But I was. Especially at about 8km when I realised that I was really doing this thing. And it was fun!

I did not expect to have any energy to spare on others. But I chatted with fellow runners, and I thanked race helpers, and I joked with a man at a drink station as I jogged by. Everyone was so friendly, and my mood was unlike any I've had before; I was so happy, so interactive, so alive. Everyone was there because they wanted to be, and I was one of them, and we were all doing this together.

I did not expect to run the whole thing. But, aside from walking through three drink stations (for no longer than 30 seconds each time) near the end so I could drink easily, and twice to consume energy supplements, I ran the whole thing. The whole thing. With 4km to go I was really struggling and there was no way I could keep it up. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't run any longer; I needed a break! So desperately! But I started telling myself, over and over, you can walk as much as you like afterwards, but you are here to run this race! So I jogged pitifully, I struggled along, my legs ached and my face burned. The rain had stopped after the first 10km and the sun was weakly trying to break through the clouds. I made promises to myself; just get to the next corner, get across the next bridge, make it to the next drink station, and maybe then you can walk for a bit, but I knew I wouldn't let myself stop. I ran the whole way, against my desperate desire to walk.

I did not expect to sprint across the finish line. The thought had seemed plausible earlier in the day, but by the last 4km I had dismissed the idea entirely. After the sign indicating there was only 2km left, I didn't see any more markers and I had no idea what distance I had to go. It was pretty rough, but now that we were running through town instead of the deserted open road, people lined the streets cheering and I couldn't walk. I had to keep running in the midst of all those whose energy had flagged. I'd had a few nightmares in the weeks leading up to it about getting lost, about running and not knowing what direction I was supposed to go in, and that almost came true. Luckily I was close behind someone and followed her lead around a corner, AND.

I saw the finishing chute! I saw the triangle flags in the distance, the orange cones indicating the last stretch, and my pace picked up. I didn't even realise what I was doing, but from somewhere deep inside came this surge of energy and I pumped my tired legs as fast as they would go. I stretched my stride and it felt like sprinting, but that was only in comparison to the crawling jog I was doing before then. Still, it felt good to give the last twenty metres everything I had.

Official results were posted later that afternoon. I came in at 2:39:07. Though there is much room for improvement, and though it was slower than my average pace in training runs, I am very happy with my time.

Renee, who I'd planned to run the whole thing with, started lagging after the first few kilometres, and the man I was running alongside encouraged me to just run my own race. We still ran in sight of each other for the first half, but eventually I lost sight of her and stopped turning around to check on her progress. She later told me that she walked in a few places due to injury issues, but she basically sprinted the last 2km and clocked in at 2:40:20. Very impressive!

(I know. I said I would skip most of the details. But trust me when I say that I really, truly did.)




Photo was taken the day after, as we drove home and counted down the kilometres, realising again just how far we freaking ran. There are a few of me from the actual race that reside on the cameras of friends, but I am yet to be in possession of them, and they are bound to be terribly unflattering and full of pained expressions. (It doesn’t matter though, because I’m kind of a star. See?)



To summarise:

I ran a half marathon, and I ran it well. I am happiest about the second part of that statement; it is the icing on an already delicious cake. I even did it well despite the elements at the beginning, despite running the whole thing with dripping clothes and wet shoes and prune-like feet. I did well despite the hills. I did well despite having done all my training on trails instead of tarmac. I did well despite my history.

I can't stop thinking to myself, I did this! I did this. I did this. I did this. Over and over, the emphasis on words switching each time.

I have come so far.

(And I am totally hooked. My next is in May.)

emo racer

At one point during my run yesterday, I almost cried.

I had just finished the 10km loop track through the forest, complete with hills and tree roots and long stretches of sand. It's a pretty technical trail at some points and can be slow going at times.

I had started off again in search of the 4km marker. I was determined to run 18km. And a few kilometres into my second stretch I just suddenly thought, man. This is what I'm doing. This is my body, running. This is my body which used to be so out of shape. A body which never exercised, which was overweight and unhealthy, which felt the strain of just walking a few blocks. And I am running. I am flying through a forest and I am sweating and I am puffing and I am in pain and I am exhilarated and my back is dripping and my face is hot and there is music in my ears and I am doing this.

I have a feeling this is something I'm going to keep coming back to every time I increase my distance, every time I run a race, every time I push my boundaries.

I mean, given where I've come from? I honestly believe sometimes, as I'm running, as I'm running - something I dismissed a long time ago as an activity I would never consider attempting - that I can do anything.

It's similar to the feeling I had when I first started dancing. When I first learnt enough moves that I could dance an entire song with a partner; I could allow him to lead me around the dance floor, and I could follow, and this goofy grin would break out onto my face because I was dancing. Me! Me!

But 18km wasn't enough. I ran another 10km this morning which brings the weekend's total to 28km. I am astounded sometimes at where I am now. At where I am, given where I used to be.

The reality of what I'm doing keeps hitting me with every new goal that I achieve. And I am overwhelmed.

banishing the grinch

How am I kicking off another year of being alive?

For two nights in a row my girlish tendencies were allowed to flourish; Saturday night I had plans for dinner with wonderful old friends, and Sunday found me on a double non-date with someone I'm not actually interested in romantically. Both nights I departed the house in a flurry of activity, leaving a pile of tried-and-failed dresses on the floor in my wake, makeup still fresh and perfume trailing its scent behind me.

I relish evenings like that. They were a good end to 25; a year which brought more heartache and crushed dreams and closed chapters than I would have liked, than I could almost deal with. But 25 didn't break me completely and I am beginning to live again.

26 started with slothfulness, but only in the early hours of the morning. Midnight saw me quietly ushering in my birthday by watching old episodes of One Tree Hill online, in my absent flatmate's bed. I still don't have a room after returning from my working holiday of fail, but that is okay. A solution is pending, maybe, perhaps, possibly.

Defying the late night, come 10am I was pulling on my Mizunos and a few minutes later I was running energetically through my favourite forest. I took it gently, gently, not pushing myself too much, being kind to my body and just taking some time out to enjoy the scenery. I'm gearing up for another week of running followed by a 15km attempt this Saturday which is going to take all the strength and determination I possess, and then some. This half-marathon training is really calling on stores of energy and motivation that I didn't know existed within me.

After cooling down and showering I was straight back out the door for my next task. I downed some water, I gathered my thoughts, I filled out some forms, I answered probing questions, I had my finger stabbed. And suddenly I found myself in a familiar old chair, a pressure cuff around my arm and a squishy red ball in my hand, a nurse poking at my veins and frowning at their evasiveness. But we pushed through together and my body complied just enough to deliver another 488mls of blood into their care.

Though it's not the only day I donate blood, it has become my birthday thing.

The rest of the afternoon has been quiet but productive so far. If you consider purchasing large quantities of t-shirts online to be a productive thing. But there were also more important achievements amidst all the consumerism! Such as filling out an application to study, an application for a student loan, and scheduling a School of Engineering tour for tomorrow morning.

Yes. I am contemplating study. I joke about how I don't think I can stand the thought of becoming a student again, especially at 26, but it only requires a year to be qualified for an entry level position, and besides, after the disaster that was my last year I figure that I can handle almost anything these days.

My obligations for the afternoon have been tended to, so all that's left is fun. I never plan celebrations or events; I typically like to let the day slide by as unobtrusively as possible. I'll spend some quality time in the kitchen to create a culinary masterpiece (or rather, meat and three veg meal) for my flatmates for dinner, and in the evening I'll be found at Ceroc to dance the rest of the night away.

I imagine a well-deserved beer will be on the cards when I get home.

Not too bad a day for a birthday grinch, huh?