Here’s how my first half-marathon went down: It’s 6 a.m. and I’m 15 minutes late to the start line (typical). We’re nearing the stadium and, yep, there it is – a long line of runners coming down the opposite direction. Becca is cracking up, as I scramble to get my shoes on in the passenger seat. “Becca, don’t take a photo of this!” I spring out of the car and start running.
2 kilometers in. “Hey! Are you running the half?!” I shout to someone ahead. “Nope this is the 10k, those guys left a while ago.” I speed up, and find someone else. She’s running the half and is at the back of the pack. Ok, bring it up a notch and find someone else. Pass, pass. Banana break. Pass.
Two hours later, I’m nearing the stadium again. The sun is beating down and everything aches. I round the very last corner, and there in the field I see the best thing imaginable. Becca and Clayton are way out there and they’re waving, and holding what looks like an ice-cold bottle of Mosi.
I come into the stadium and sprint across the line. The runner in front of me just won the full marathon. I consider pretending I just finished the full too. Nope, doesn’t matter, it’s over! It’s 8 am, I just ran 13 miles, and now let’s get the hell over to Roan and Sable for breakfast.