21.1

So, July is almost over and I haven't mentioned the central event - the freaking half marathon I started training for back in March. I've done so many 10Ks that I felt like I had to make the jump, but man, was I ever in bad shape when I started. Hauling my ass for just a couple kilometres was really hard. And from those first couple kilometres, the distances only went up. I started doing the Sunday morning runs when they reached 8K, which is generally the farthest I ever run if I don't have a number pinned on me. But then it was 10, 12, 14, 16...

I think my best ever run was 14K, down to Edworthy Park and back in the rain. Or the 18K run where I did the last 8K alone because I took a detour to the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary to use the bathroom, and never bothered to catch up. I knew the way back, and it was nice to finish up along, under my own power. Unfortunately, that one cemented my reputation as the Bathroom Girl, the one that always had to head off after an hour in search of facilities. In the back of my head I was constantly calculating distances and times to the nearest outhouse, gas station or wooded area. For this, I keep a mental map of every possible facility.

The last few training runs were pretty harsh - it was hot and I hadn't learnt the difference between the normal exhaustion that comes with running too damn far, and bad, dangerous, overheated and getting spaced-out exhaustion. Once I decided to stop running and lie down on the grass because it looked so cool and soft. Luckily, I snapped out of it before I passed out cold. Another run I started to feel weak and sat down and my whole body tingled while I saw starbursts. It passed, but I had to walk a mile before I could run again.

It was only during the race that I learned to tell the difference and was able to avoid the bad, throw-uppy type of exhaustion. I kept up with my pace group for the first 8K but then I had to fall behind. By the halfway mark I officially gave up any semblance of a time goal and decided that all I wanted to do was haul my ass over the finish line. Which I did, but it took a looong time. Two hours and forty minutes, actually. Which leaves with a pretty easy goal for the next one - come in under 2:30, and, if possible, ahead of the sweeper.

I can't really remember what I thought about for all that time. I tried not to think about time or distance, but it was hard to shut off the mental calculations. I tried to see it as a walking tour of the city, just speeded up. Which is a fun way of looking at it - we got to go through the Stampede ground before they opened, past the dormant corn dog vendors. Through the edges of downtown, into the Zoo, through Bridgeland, all the way down the river to Crowchild and back up to downtown. I remember how quiet it seemed when I became a straggler. I remember the buzz of excitement when the marathon winner passed me - around the 19th K for me, and the 40th for him. I know that must have dumped at least ten little cups of water over me at the last couple aid stations when it started to get really hot. Being cool for a second outweighed the embarassment of running around soaking wet.

So, I actually finished. Now I just have to make sure that this was just my first half marathon.