If I had to make my relationship with the half marathon Facebook official, I’d classify it as, “it’s complicated.” Back in 2013, I ran my first half mary, and I swore that would be my last. But then I ran the Nike Women’s Half Marathon in San Francisco last fall. And I PR’d at the Walt Disney World Half Marathon a few weeks ago. And a funny thing happened: I found that I quite liked that distance. Maybe it was because of all the killer squats and lunges that took my legs from being two weak embarrassments to two fierce mile-eating machines, or maybe the years of running and the temptation to collect as many medals as possible have made me insane, but now I – dare I say – love the half marathon.
The half marathon and I have a relationship akin to that of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I signed up for my first half marathon, the Disney Princess Half, because it looked amazing: it was princess-themed, the medal was grand, and all of the pictures of people running it looked like this:
I wanted to be one of those people! But then I ran it and realized that distance was a complete asshole. A. Complete. Asshole.
And I swore never to
loverun another. But then it kept wooing me with its Tiffany necklaces and its firemen until I eventually gave into my feelings and fell in love. Ish. love-ish. Because overall it’s good, but parts of it still suck. Like hitting the wall at mile 7. Or my feet feeling like two bricks dangling at the end of my legs at mile 10. And the overwhelming desire for a burger and a beer at mile 12 and realizing that you STILL have another goddamn 1.1 miles to go before you can get them.
But crossing that finish line and getting that finisher’s medal and realizing that you’re not dead is addicting. So you sign up for another. And another. And before you know it, you’re committed. To the half marathon. NOT to an insane asylum, although sometimes you gotta wonder…
What’s next in my relationship? The Space Coast Half Marathon.