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.