13.25 < 13.1

On December 2, 2012, I made a decision. Well. A commitment, really. I've toyed with the idea of running a half marathon for about 5 years now. One morning (December 2, 2012), I finally realized that the only thing keeping me from reaching this goal was my head. All of my excuses had run out. That's all they were - excuses. I laced up my shoes that afternoon and went for a 3-mile run. Since that day, I have run 265 miles in preparation for Angie's Half-Crazy! Half Marathon.

Last Sunday, Doug and I set out to conquer this 13.1 miles together. I was nervous, excited, intimidated, and confident all at the same time. I knew I was ready. My training had paid off. This enormous goal I had set for myself was a mere 2:30:ish away. We stuck together for roughly 7 miles. Chatting some, sweating more, and generally enjoying being together on this journey. Around mile 8, I should have known something was wrong. This is Texas. Houston, no less. In April. And I was cold. Wait. What? Cold. I convinced myself that I was just really sweaty and the cross-breeze coming off the lake was making me chilly (this should have been an indicator that I was getting overheated). I plodded along, alone with my thoughts and my iPod. Somewhere around mile 11, I seriously considered offering a guy in a parking lot $10 for his bottle of Ozarka (and this should have been an indicator that I was dehydrated). When I saw the marker at mile 12, I KNEW I was going to make it. (let me interject here that while the course said mile 12, my GPS read 12.5)

My last turn on the course was onto the UHCL campus. At this point, I remember very vague bits and pieces of the course. I saw a photo of myself on a bridge I don't recall crossing (I look like I'm dying, by the way). I knew I was a mere .25 miles from the finish, and I knew I was out of gas. I stopped to walk - just for a minute - and I collapsed. My legs wouldn't carry me. Not another quarter mile. Not another foot. Two amazing ladies helped me get to the nearest aid station where I managed to lose what little bit of Gatorade and water I had left in my system. I fell into the grass and my whole world fell apart. Shaky, sweaty, nauseated, freezing, embarrassed, defeated, victorious (MY GPS said 13.25). I somehow managed to stop my RunKeeper so I would have an accurate record of my run, but after that, I just didn't care. The race director came. EMTs came. There was a sheriff there with a gun, but I can't remember her name or why she came to visit. Walter made me laugh. LT blew two veins trying to start the IV. Another guy held me down and covered my eyes while yet another guy dug around in my wrist with the largest gauge needle they had. In short, it sucked. Runners streamed by. Joggers plodded on. Walkers even passed me by. Somebody called my husband and my parents, but they couldn't get to me on the course. Gah. Four months of training for a ride into the finish line on a stretcher.

I picked up right where I left off with my training. I've decided to run another race this summer. My husband thinks I'm insane. My mother thinks I may be a bit reckless. My doctor thinks I'm doing the right thing by getting back out there and trying again. The feeling of disappointment and failure that I'm carrying around with me are both motivating and self-defeating. I just can't wait until November to try again. In my head, I know I ran 13.25 miles in 2:37:36. In my heart, I know I didn't cross the finish line. While simple math tells me that 13.25 is greater than 13.1, this time around, it's not.