The Maiden Voyage

A couple of years ago I ran two half-marathons. And I felt like I could take over the entire world. I wore my medals around town for weeks. I was proud. Then I became a teacher. And I started planning lessons, grading, stressing and stopped running. And sleeping. But I'm getting better at balancing it all (I hope). And I'm going to do it again. I'm going to run another half-marathon. I'm going to have those moments where I get to run into my house, sweaty, red-faced, victorious, and get to yell, "NINE MILES! PWNED." I love having run. The problem with that is having to actually make my chubby self run. Minor detail, really.

Today was the day: my first training run for a half-marathon in June. I felt pretty fantastic lacing up my shoes this morning. Making my amazeballs running playlist. Smugly hydrating. Putting on my headband, arm band. But all the while I seemed to have forgotten one important think: I am not exactly an 'athlete.' And by that I mean I'm not. I'm not even PART Kenyan. And while I always want to think I am one of those people that goes outside and runs a "quick 6 miles," the truth is I want to shank those people. SIX MILES? Quickly? I want to stand outside, drink out of my flask, and tell all of those people off. I mean, I don't (usually). But I am always at odds with myself. Nonetheless, here I am, heading out to hit the pavement. Questioning whether or not I should stick some whiskey in my hydration belt. Just to, you know, make all of this tolerable.

I got started today and felt pretty great. For about a quarter of a mile. At first my inner-monologue was saying shit like, "Hey. Look at you running. You're pretty amazing. This song is great. Hey, neighbor. That's right. I work out." It quickly shifted to saying things like, "WHY are you running?! Did you FORGET how terrible this is? Go home. Now. Watch Downton Abbey. Maybe there are some more pretzels. WHO RUNS FOR FUN? FORGET ALL THESE NEIGHBORS." After about a quarter of a mile I am a very angry runner. 

After one mile my face was red, I am pretty sure I was muttering swear words (I know, you're surprised), and I was willing to hang my running shoes up and have a cocktail. But I pushed on. My goal today was two miles, and I was damn well going to make it. At about mile 1.5 I threw up into some ground cover. I mean, it wasn't a lot. Just enough to make me question every major life decision I have ever made that somehow brought me to that moment. No big. 

At the end I was running down the hill towards my house and nearly delirious. "Get Low" by Lil' Jon came on my phone, and there I was: a chubby white girl running (read: ambling) down my street screaming, "To the windows! To the walls! 'Til the sweat drops from my balls!" Don't judge; it got me home. 

I quickly drank a ton of water. My face is STILL red. And in a moment of clarity I realized it would have been another 11.1 miles to the finish line. Great.