Not-So-Happy Half-Marathon (the sordid details)

I was sweaty, my feet had blisters and my legs felt tired, but didn't want to stop moving.  I was so exhausted that felt like I was going throw up, and my stomach was sending me all sorts of painful mixed signals, forcing me to run to the bathroom.

Bittersweet success...  I completed a half-marathon.  The culmination of many months of dedicated training had paid off in a reasonable finish time (that would have been "perfect" for me, had I not taken a potty break).  My smiling husband and children showed their pride in my completion, but for now the world was blurry and surreal as I walked back and forth in between the finish line and the bathrooms, waiting for my muscles to relax somewhat, and for my body to cool down.

I had expected a sense of elation... I mean, this was an event that I had envisioned and planned for since the spring, knowing that it would take a great measure of dedication in order to complete.  Weirdly, I wasn't thrilled, I was just "done".

Running this race was probably one of the most physically grueling things I've ever done in my life.  I pushed myself harder than I ever have before.  What's difficult with running such a long race, is that you MUST pace yourself, or you will fall apart before you even reach the half-way point!  I started up a bit faster than I normally would on a long run, but in the excitement of a race, with athletic bodies swiftly moving around me on every side, it was difficult to not become totally caught up in the wave of runners.  It's hard to remember to breath and find your rhythm and pace.

Thank God for pace bunnies!  These are experienced runners, who have numerous races under their belt and can comfortably run at a consistent pace, knowing within a minute or two when they will arrive at the finish line!  At the start line, you are typically expected to line up according to how fast you anticipate you will be running.  I parked myself close to the 1:50 pace bunny (meaning, that he would complete the 22 km in 1 hour and 50 minutes), thinking that perhaps by being in a race, I'd be more likely to have the gusto to complete this distance faster than ever before.  It was such a comfort to follow the lead of a steady runner.

As the miles passed, I became less concerned about keeping up with the pack, and less interested in the competitors beside me.  Instead, I tried to focus on the beauty of the run, as we circled the Glenmore Reservior and weaved through treed areas, up and down hills and through the occasional clearing.  I pictured the distance in my mind, and for the first half of the race, eagerly approached each kilometer marker with vigor and spring in my step.  Slowly but surely, the zippy pace which I had started out with began to take it's toll on me.  Not only that, but my bladder felt as though it was going to burst.  I kept thinking - should I jump into the bushes, and hope no one sees me?  But no, I'd continue on for another km or two, hoping that I'd soon see a bathroom.

At one point, after taking a quick stop at a drink station (I can never drink and run at the same time!), I lost sight of my pace bunny.  Panic filled my being, and I attempted to quicken my pace and hopefully catch up.  That tall, lean, athletic man with the white baseball cap and black shirt labelled "1:50" on the back was my knight in shining armor! He was the one who kept me going and prevented me from giving up.  If I could just keep his skinny runner legs and Nike shoes in my sight, I knew I wouldn't fail!  This time, I managed to catch up enough to see him after some little hills, but eventually, around the 14km mark, I lost him!

Now I was intent upon staying in front of the next pace bunny... "Mr. 1:55".  He was a stalky little guy, and I didn't have as much faith in him because he started out so quickly, racing ahead of the 1:50 pace bunny.  About a quarter of the way through the race, he had slowed down, and all of the 1:50's had overtaken him.  I figured that his strategy might be to start out strong, then settle into a steady, slower pace, and once near the finish line, pick up the pace again.

Everything was going great, except my mind became quite unstable.  As the blisters on my feet began to swell, I was asking myself "What the heck am I doing out here?"  I'm so competitive, though, and quite stubborn as well.  I LOVE challenge.  Maybe that's why I embrace the whole "natural childbirth" idea, and even it's more extreme expression of "unassisted childbirth".  So on one hand, here I was doing the most difficult thing of my life (next to having a baby), yet... it was 100% my choice and supposed to be something that I enjoyed!

For a while, my spirits sank to new lows and I didn't even want to check the GPS on my phone to confirm my pace, distance and time.  I still had to pee really bad, too.  Then came an enormous climb out of the valley, and I was passed by numerous runners.  I started to make excuses for myself so I wouldn't feel bad - thinking that the majority of these people had probably run a lot more races than me, and many of them were probably in running groups.  As for me... it was just lil' ol' me.  I had picked my race alone, planned my training alone and ran alone.  This thought process actually made me feel a little more justified in my weariness and I began to contemplate not having a great finish time, but merely finishing the race!  (And I still had to pee!)

Something wonderful and beautiful happened around the 16km marker.  There, parked on the side of the road, was a green mini-van with a crowd of my fans standing beside it.  It was my family!!!  They were jumping and cheering and raising their hands in the air.  I quickly picked up my pace, with a spring in my step and new vigor infusing me from their encouragement.  It was the best thing ever... and so timely.  (But I still had to pee.)

Finally, another km or so later, I saw a "washroom" sign pointing across a patch of grass.  At this point, I couldn't deny my bladder any longer.  I sprinted across the grass, only to see a lock on the door. I guess I'd be using a tree after all!  Dismay and anger quickly fizzled out when I realized that it wasn't locked, but that they stored the lock on the door bolting mechanism.  I burst inside the door and fumbled to shut it securely.  Thank God, I made it!

This was one of those times where it was a great inconvenience to be a girl.  Sitting down was the last thing my legs needed to do, and they were shaking and my muscles were twitching.  As soon as I jumped out of the bathroom, I lurched forward across the field and back onto the path.  I was determined to find my place back in the human chain of racers.  It was then that I noticed the 2:00 (2 hour) pace bunny ahead of me, and thought to myself:  It's alright.  I'll follow her lead, and then pull forward in the last km or so.

Unfortunately, it was extremely challenging to keep up.  My breath was uneven and I was all messed up from stopping to use the bathroom.  I knew I had to take it easy for a little bit, or I'd end up passed out on the side of the road!  "Well..." I thought, "as long as the 2:05 pace bunny doesn't catch me..." (and at least I didn't have to pee anymore!)

Running for such an extended period of time leaves you with a lot of space to think.  I thought about how this race was like my life - filled with effort and challenges.  Sometimes all you can do is keep your eyes on someone who is farther ahead of you, and think: "I can keep up.  I won't quit."  I've had many of these times in my life - where things were so tough, and I was exhausted - but I was encouraged by the progress of others in front of me.  Likewise, when it came to the drink stations, these reminded me of times in my life where people have provided much needed refreshment, giving me strength to continue my journey.  Also, a lot of this refreshment comes to me by seeking the Lord, and prayer.

Anyway, we were nearing the finish line and I felt myself drooping.  I kept losing track of how many kilometers were left, and then would try to lie to myself whenever I did see a marker along the road, and I'd pretend that the distance remaining was shorter than it really was!  When the athletic centre and track where the finish line was set up was finally within sight, I though "Yay!  I can do this, I'm gonna make it."  Then I realized that we were taking the long way around, and that we'd have to complete three quarters of a lap around the track to actually cross the finish line.  At this point, all I could do was put one foot in front of the other.  I so wanted to walk.  No, what I really wanted to do was collapse on the side of the road and cry.  But still, I plodded on.  Sometimes, the face of one of my athletic friends (a personal trainer) would come into my mind, and I thought of how tough and fit she was, and how I wanted to be like that!  So I kept running... and running... and running.

Crossing the finish line - 2:02:32

Along the track, my husband caught up with me (although, I'm sure I wasn't going very fast at that point) and took a few snapshots with his phone.  Then, around the curve and I could see the finish line!  I managed to pick up my feet and gave it everything I had, sprinting on through, my electronic chip registering and recording my time as I stepped over the finish mat.

And it's over.

After logging hours and hours and miles and miles of running in my training log, I finished the race.

Would I do it again?  Ya.

Mayhem in Montana - July 4, 2011

I can now add "stunt-double" to my list of accomplishments when asked to provide a resume for any future employer.  Seriously... I believe I have earned for myself a badge of accomplishment as far as being involved in a crazy (though fairly unnecessary) stunt and remaining mostly intact and, most importantly, alive!

I must admit, all my life I've been a stickler for pain and punishment.  As I've mentioned in other posts, I've been quite a tom-boy most of my life; the type of girl to pick at my scabs, run in the rain despite having pneumonia, hunt in sub-zero temperatures, and, more recently, live in an extremely unfinished home with my newborn and 5 other kids!  Give me a challenge, and I'm apt to face it head on and try to make it more challenging, somehow.  Case in point, I'm racing in my first half-marathon (22 km or 13 miles) on Sunday, after just about a year of getting into running.

Something seems to draw me into difficult situations, like wasps are drawn to a spilt slurpee on the sidewalk.  I don't like being told "you can't do that" and I do enjoy being seen as someone who can do almost anything.  Yes, I admit there is a measure of pridefulness that I should be more repentant of, and if it wasn't for my stubbornness and trying to prove my point, I might not do so many crazy things.

This recent "stunt", however, was not something I willingly submitted myself unto, and it revealed something within me that was surprising.

It was a notorious Fourth of July evening, on a beautiful, crystal clear mountain lake in Montana.  The previous day, we had stopped in a nearby city to purchase food and fireworks to compliment our celebratory days at the lake.  Every couple of miles, we'd see another trailer (or two) full of fireworks for sale, set up alongside the main roads of the city.  After shopping for food we stopped at a "wholesale fireworks supplier" amid all the other patriotic Americans who were stocking up for the big day.  I don't think my husband would be embarrassed to admit this, but he was like a kid in a candy store.  He strolled up and down the length of the trailer, scanning the shelves for the ideal explosives - the kind which are not available back on our tamer, more regulated Canadian soil; the kind which are responsible for emergency room visits from daring (and probably cocky) individuals who derive great pleasure from blasting and burning and blowing up things.  To give even more perspective on this wonderful, tantalizing yet calamitous event, I found the following statistic on the University of Rochester Medical Center website:

It’s a daunting statistic: More than half of the 11,000 annual injuries associated with fireworks and grill fires occur within the first week of July, according to the National Fire Data Center.

Yay!  What fun!  This wonderful holiday season in July was the most fantastic excuse ever for my pyromaniac husband to get himself into a competitive atmosphere of destructive, explosive spectacles involving gunpowder and FIRE!

In all honesty, I quite enjoyed the sparklers and pretty colors of the smoke bombs and various smaller fireworks.  I didn't care quite so much for the noisy firecrackers that blasted loudly and repetitively and succeeded in making our toddler cry in fright.  Later on in the evening, however, I tucked our youngest (18 month old baby) into bed, hoping that the cabin walls would be enough to deaden the sounds of our raucous celebration.  (Thankfully, he slept soundly through the night!)

As the dusk covered the mountain sky, the displays of fireworks became greater, louder and longer all along the homes of those who lived and vacationed at the lake.  We happened to be celebrating with a fairly young crowd, including a group of guys with obviously dangerously high levels of testosterone; as testified by their daring behavior.  One of the 'coolest', yet clearly audacious things they would do, was to light a smaller firework in their hand, then, at the right moment, throw it out over the lake so it would explode mid-air, shining and sparkling over the water!  Of course, right among that crowd was my wily husband - although for most of the evening he was occupied with lighting smaller, tamer fireworks for the kids - firecrackers, smoke-bombs, "bees", and "UFOs" to name a few.

I was happily toasting myself near the bonfire with a bunch of the children and the 'more sane' of the adults, when a commotion drew my attention to the dock.  I heard my husband yelling "Oh shoot!" and could vaguely see several of the guys scrambling frantically away from the dock.  There was a sparkling, newly lit firework in progress where the guys were, and suddenly the sound of booming explosions began.

"Ruuuuuuunnnnn......" yelled one of the guys - and a stampede of onlookers, in a state of panic, began to turn from the glorious sight of bursting fireballs, and run towards safety.  In that instant, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong, as the fireworks were blasting not up into the sky, but parallel to the ground, towards the spectators!

My adrenaline surged and I had but one thought: escape!  Amid the noise and chaos, I ran a couple of feet towards the cabin, only to stumble headlong into a Powerwheels jeep - slamming my knees into the frame and landing across the metal roll-bar with my ribcage while jarring my already sore wrist (which I had hurt the previous week while learning to rip-stick).  At that moment, this could have been mistaken for a Hollywood set - only the colorful fireworks should have been plain white; emulating the blasts from grenades and bombs as the soldiers and innocent civilians (me) dove for cover from enemy fire!  I literally had the air knocked out of me, and felt lightheaded as I untangled myself from the jeep and crouched on the ground.  There were a few more blasts as the final explosions took place, and then, when it became apparent that the crisis was over, there were loud guffaws and nervous laughter as the guys reveled in their survival of a potentially perilous extravaganza of masculine entertainment.

I sat in a bit of a daze, feeling slightly miffed at the event and wondering who was the brains behind such a obstinate act of disregard for the safety of innocent bystanders.  Then my mind suddenly cleared as I heard the voice of my 3 year old calling for me and I realized that I had plunged to cover with no regard for my darling children and the potential threat to their well being!  What sort of mother was I?  For those moments, I became purely instinctive, allowing the adrenaline to direct my body in panicked self-preservation.

My son came over to me and cuddled onto my lap as we sat on the grass.  "That was loud, Mommy!"  he proclaimed.

I slowly caught my breath and found myself strangely tired and feeling weary at the idea of more fireworks and festivities.  My husband came jogging over to me, and with a gleam in his eye, exclaimed:  "Did you see that!?  I was in the middle of exploding fireworks!"  He had a maniacal sort of grin on his face, and went on to profess excitedly: "That was crazy!"

Then he noticed that I was dull, quiet and seemingly shell-shocked.  "What's wrong?"  he asked, puzzled at my lack of jubilation.

I sighed... not entirely wanting to be a spoil-sport, but needing to be honest about the situation.  "I ran for cover and fell and hurt myself" I explained, lamely.

"Oh...I'm sorry" he apologized.  He went off to join the guys as they searched for the rest of the surviving fireworks available to explode, completing the evening's show.

I felt a growing sense of disdain for the careless young guys who foolishly caused terror and mayhem (resulting in me getting hurt)!  As much of a daredevil that I am, this situation had been out of my control and I was left feeling guilty for my lack of care and concern to my children in a time of danger.

Not too much later, everything that could have been exploded had been lit up and there were no more noisy combustibles left to deploy.  I herded the children off to the cabin, to tumble in contented exhaustion into bed after a long, exciting day and evening outdoors.  I was more than willing to tuck myself in as well; easing my battered and bruised body onto the soft mattress, and tentatively resting my sore, swollen wrist on some bunched up blankets beside me.  We survived the fourth of July...

The next day, after counting my bruises and deciding that they made decent war-wounds to commemorate our active vacation, my husband and I were discussing the previous evening's events.  As I listened to his colorful description of the "disastrously amazing explosion", I suddenly came to the realization that it was my husband, not one of the juvenile hooligans who had been the cause of my suffering and near-heart-attack!  With a sigh, and a sense of resignation to our lifestyle of adventure and danger, I found myself slightly proud at his antics, while maintaining a hint of anger, considering the wounds which I had suffered.  Apparently, he had innocently tried to light one firework, when some sparks flew and lit some of the other fireworks next to it.  In an attempt to stop a disastrous situation, he tried to push the sizzling, sparking tube off of the dock and into the water, but only succeeded in knocking it sideways so it was aimed at the crowd on shore.  This was when the explosions began, and the only option left for the guys was to run (and scream at the crowd to run for their lives)!

"Well, I'm glad you had fun."  I consented to him, trying not to encourage this sort of behavior, yet not wanting him to feel guilty, either.

That concludes the story of our Mayhem in Montana.  I'm not sure if I learned much of a lesson from our short stint of celebrating with patriotic Americans.  As I said before, what surprised me the most, was realizing that in the face of panic and danger, concern for my well-being outweighed concern for my children.  I've often engaged in that sort of "every man for himself" attitude when it comes to sports, and it's no surprise that I prefer solitary, endurance-related activities.  Perhaps I need to work more on a sense of partnership and team-spirit - especially when it comes to my family!  Anyway, I guess not everything I write about needs to teach a life-changing lesson.  At least I'm left with a life-long memory...