Grape Gatorade made my already sweaty skin even stickier as I practically poured it into my mouth, looking for some final energy before the last mile began. It had already been about one hour and 55 minutes of running. Why did I ever sign up for this?
Three months earlier, running the Wisconsin half marathon seemed like an amazing goal to achieve. So I found a training schedule online and posted it above my bed along with a “GET OFF YOUR *SS AND RUN” sign. At first, with the end of Winter Quarter bearing down on me, establishing a consistent regimen was tough. But after a New Orleans rebuilding trip during Spring Break, my friend Dave became my spontaneous running partner. Once we got into a Spring Quarter pattern, we found ourselves running eight, nine and eventually 11 miles. The week before the race, we ran to Chicago and thought we were prepared for the 13.1 miles ahead of us.
I certainly wasn’t.
The night before the race, I slept at my aunt’s house. She is the reason I registered, because she consistently trains for these events and encouraged me to do the same. After an actual good night’s sleep, I woke up at 4:30 a.m.-the same time I usually go to bed during the week-and about two hours later we arrived with 10 minutes to spare. Having hardly stretched or taken time to adjust to my surroundings, Dave and I were off to a faster-than-normal pace. After all, I set the lofty goal of finishing in two hours (a 9.5 minute/mile pace).
The first three miles were simple. My spirits high, I even threw a thumbs up to a man with a “Run faster zombies are chasing you” sign. But per usual, my perfectionist tendencies began to take over. After just five minutes, I thought of the finish line and the fact that I already had to go to the bathroom.
As hundreds of other runners, including people twice my age and full marathoners, ran past me, I tried to ignore my sinking spirits and intense desire to walk the next seven miles. My mindset was different from training. I had a goal of two hours but a body that wanted to run it in three. So I played mind games with myself.
First game: Admire the scenery. Except the lake path was no different than Evanston. Fail.
Second game: Listen to other runners’ conversations. (Worked for about two miles.)
Third game: Narrate “Finding Nemo” with Dave. Best result, until I yelled at him to shut up because it gave me a headache.
Total score: Half Marathon-3, Becky-0.
Somehow mile eight arrived, and I could no longer ignore the pressing urges of my bladder. The threat of a spider above my head made sure I was back on the course as fast as possible to finish those last five miles. Animal instincts took control. My back hunched over as it tensed with the struggle. My once-positive attitude was left on the side of the road with the five or so empty water cups I had thrown to the ground.
“I want to cry,” I told Dave.
“It’s OK, you can do it, just don’t stop,” he responded.
“Shush, it hurts my head when you talk,” my exhausted self snapped back to him. Whoops.Something happened, though, once I was certain the finish line wasn’t a mirage. I picked up speed and grimaced to sprint to the end. After crossing the line and receiving my medal (in the shape of a wedge of cheese), I smiled. In retrospect it didn’t seem like that big of a deal. Everyone had medals, plenty of people had already finished and others were still running.
Truthfully, I was a little disappointed-disappointed in myself for not being stronger, for not compartmentalizing my pain and for not finishing in two hours (I ran eight minutes over). The only reason I was in so much pain was the lack of mind control over my fatigue. If I’d had more positive thoughts during the race, it would have been a completely different experience. But that’s why it happens every year, and that’s why I plan on starting a collection of cheese-shaped medals. Maybe next year I won’t stop at a half marathon. My new favorite number might just be 26.2.
