After five (sometimes interrupted) months of training, two race postponements, and more tears than a grown woman should shed over any sporting event….

I’M FINALLY A HALF-MARATHONER!!

So, after chomping on vitamins, sitting out all exercise fun (sniff, Zumba, sniff), and willing my cold to go away earlier this week, it did.   By Thursday, I knew I’d be fine on Saturday for the run.  On Friday, I woke up to the pleasant realization that Friday would be the day of my dreams, the day I could indulge in all the bread I wanted because I was carb-loading.  Toast with oatmeal (which felt so decadent until I realized that I used to eat two slices of toast with my oatmeal every day, back in the rounder days), Cuban sandwich and fries, kibbehs and pasta…  It was BEAUTIFUL.

The thing that wasn’t beautiful was me seriously stubbing my pinky toe walking out of an ATM yesterday afternoon.  However, unless my toe fell off, I’d run, so I  didn’t let myself freak.

This morning, at the booty-crack of dawn (5:30 am) Mr. Man and I woke up, variously watered ourselves (him with coffee, me with water), loaded a water cooler and snacks bag, and headed to campus–site of the endless running around a mile and a half loop going down take place:

As the man settled himself on a bench–where he set up his very own race support/cheer squad/paparazzi/human carcass station– I set the Nike + on the iPod on half marathon for the first time ever:

Put on my game face, and I was off!

And I was off!

The first mile and a half went well, with a stop once I’d made it around the mile and a half loop to change glasses for sunglasses.  I paused my music, swapped blindy wear, and ran off again. I kept going for a couple more miles, after which one of the lovely ladies who walks that loop in the mornings stopped me to (gasp!) commend me on having slimmed down over the last year! Dear Lady In The Hijab, you TOTALLY know what to say to a girl to make her half-marathon go by with happier thoughts!!  I wanted to kiss her, I swear… but instead, I thanked her profusely and sweatily and made tracks back for my first gatorade stop at mile 4-ish.

And THAT was when I realized my Nike+ was taking its revenge on me… It hadn’t recorded a good mile or so that I’d run.  I instantly started doing math based on the distance I saw, trying to see how I could make it add that back in somehow, but gave up.  By the time I got to Mr. Man for Lucozade, we decided to restart it and set it for four miles less than a half-marathon, given the distance I’d run so far.  Dear Nike Plus, you can totally suck it and know I’m getting a Garmin as soon as my cheapness allows.

At this point, having reset my technology, I was angry and frustrated and all the kinds of irrational I get on long runs before hitting the half-way point.  I was questioning my math skills (fair enough) and I was questioning Mr. Man’s math skills (not fair at all) in terms of the technology resetting fiasco.  I was wondering how long it would take to finish if I walked the whole rest of the miles.  I was questioning why I didn’t take my last two disastr0usly-failed half-marathon attempts as a sign that I had no business dabbling with the serious business of serious running.  When I next stopped for water around mile 7, I was thisclose to tears.

And then… It all went away.  I realized that my stubbed toe, which should have been hurting by all rights, wasn’t hurting me, and that my knees were fine, and that I hadn’t for a second felt any stomach woes.  The sun had gone behind clouds, a few runners were now out, and, most importantly, I would never have to do this again…. unless I wanted to.

THAT was the magic moment of the run.  After I stopped having the psycho thoughts, the last five miles went by SO quickly!  My toe hurt a bit, but the rest of me felt surprisingly fine.  Like, REALLY fine for such a long run.  I saw runners come and go and I mostly evaded the morning garbage truck and its leery, sutting (making kissy sounds, in the West Indian parlance) men… except for the one time when the chief garbage truck sutting offender pretended to girl-run, ass in air and machete in hand, next to me as I ran by.  Dear Mr. Garbage Man, if you feel the need to harass me, I’d appreciate you putting the machete down, please and thank you.

Then the garbage men were gone, and there were two miles to go, and then a mile, and then before I knew it, I was 400 meters away from being done, and then, in the middle of my favorite running song of the moment right now (KES The Band’s Where Yuh From–download from Trinidad Carnival Diary here), it was OVER!!

I was right by Mr. Man, so he gave me a hug (poor, grossed-out man), handed me my Gatorade… and presented me with the most special, most coveted new medal in my race bling collection!

See that?  First place!!  So what if it the race had a field of one?  The last time I was first at anything was in high school… and being first in my Goose’s Gallop definitely beats being valedictorian.

Further proof that I look like an angry baby when I drink sports drinks after races:

Further explanation for how my sunblock came off and I have a slightly sunburned face:

Further evidence that I cry at too many sporting events–mine included:

Mores stats:  five months of training for a race I decided to tackle while drunk in August, 17 long runs, two bouts of illness (one silly, one fearsome), one badly-rationalized addiction to blondies developed (and somewhat curbed), and way more hours blabbering about training to my poor man and anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen.

It’s FINALLY DONE.  I can go back to focusing on other important stuff.  Like carnival and Zumba and cycling and making dresses and Zumba.  And carnival.  Did I mention carnival?

I’m off to celebrate in a fancy dress and very flat shoes!

_____

Oh, and on a semi-unrelated note, today’s unofficial snap of the day.  Apparently, walking your bird in a cage is a very Trini thing.  I still don’t get it, but it provides great amusement when  you’re running for hours on end: