Mini, My Ass!

IMG_9156

IMG_9158

Come on. You can do this. Beyonce is right here beside you. But, the heat. The heat is making every step so heavy. It’s making each step feel like I’m wading through water, or running in the desert. Speaking of which, my water bottle is almost empty. Okay, Jesus is running beside you. Just picture Jesus. It’s quite comical picturing him in tennis shoes. So, I just try to picture his face, and his kind heart keeping with my slow, slow pace. I swear the Sun has just gotten closer to the earth and beads of sweat have turned into pools. I’m drenched, and while Beyonce continues to pump me up in my earbuds, my body is slowing down. I am officially out of water. Just a little farther, I need to complete this milestone of training. How the hell am I going to run 13.1 miles if I can’t even make it to mile 3? Beyonce is quieted as my fitness app shares what feels like life-changing news that mile 3 has been completed. I slow to a walk, my lungs threatening to burst from my chest. It felt like the dead of summer, even though it was September, over 90 degrees. I shamelessly walk up to a random house, desperate for water. A preteen girl answers the door, unsure of who this disgustingly sweaty, out-of-breath stranger is who wants something from her. I ask for a water bottle and she’s seemingly excited to give me the relief I so desperately needed. I drank as I called my husband to pick me up, defeated that my 8 mile run had turned into a measly 3. Training for a half marathon isn’t for the weak. That day, I deemed myself as weak, not good enough, stupid for trying. But, the next week, I tried again. I got up much, much earlier, in efforts to beat the heat. I didn’t listen to Beyonce. In fact, I didn’t listen to anything, except for my breathing. I counted to three with each inhale and to three again with each exhale. I matched my breathing to my feet each time they hit the pavement. Because I didn’t have music pumping me up, my start was slower, which was actually a good thing. I ran around the lake to start, my heart rate climbing, telling myself, just get past that first mile and you’ll glide. And, I did. I did lap after lap, around the lake, in this cul de sac, around this block, again and again, and again. A neighbor was outside doing yard work for most of my 78 minute run. As I hit mile 6, I decided to venture into another neighborhood, one mile in, one mile out and I was going to do the damn thing. As I came running back ready to hit mile 8, I saw the neighbor look at me, realizing I’d been running the entire time, passing him time and time again. I cheered out loud for myself, and walked the rest of the way back to the house. I had done it. For 90% of my training, my shoes were too small. I would end my days with blisters, really, really intense blood blisters. Never in my life have I loved blisters like I loved these little guys. I could feel them forming in the last two miles of my runs usually, my feet aching, legs wobbly. I forced those feelings out of my brain, determined to focus on my breathing pattern. It wasn’t until I started walking back to the house after I’d completed my miles, that I’d feel each blister rubbing wrong. I’d chug water as I threw my shoes off to see the damage after each long run. My mom would make me little foot baths to relieve some of the pain. It helped a lot, but only until I ran again, ripping open the wounds that had just started to heal. Thanks to my mom, I was able to buy some new shoes before the race, but not long before. I hadn’t broken them in enough, but it was going to be good enough for me. I’d dealt with blisters this long, and I wasn’t going to let shoes stop me from completing the longest race of my life. Race day was here, November 10, 2019. And I was terrified. I had no appetite for breakfast, but I knew I needed it to last. It was like trying to eat breakfast the day of I-Step testing or of the SAT’s. You know you need it for brain power, but your nerves are making you nauseous. I shoved it down, put on my best running leggings, gloves, hat, and a half zip which so boldly displayed my runner’s bib. As soon as we parked, my body needed only one thing, the bathroom. My nerves had sped up the digestion process, which gave me relief. I’d heard so many stories of people having to poop in the middle of the race. I was not stopping for anything. If I was going to run a half marathon, believe me, I was going to run the whole damn thing. After I left the port-a-potty, runners were everywhere. Stretching, drinking coffee, jumping to try and warm up. I stood there with Jacob, feeling too nervous to do anything but shiver in the chill of the morning. It was ten minutes to race time and I felt the urge to use the bathroom yet again, this time only number one. I started to head that way, when I saw the line. It was backed up almost to the coffee stand. I would have to wait. Deep breaths.You got this. I made my way to the starting line with what felt like thousands of other people. I found a pacer who was running 8:20 minute miles. Mile 1 was complete and I was feeling good. Everyone was just getting warmed up, their bodies starting to come alive. My phone kept talking to me as friends and family typed messages. It read them out loud in a robotic voice, making runners around me laugh. Mile 2 was a bitch. I’d been training in Floyds Knobs, so I was used to hills, but it was still incredibly challenging to keep the pace. As I started to conquer it, a man behind me started making the weirdest noises. He sounded like a literal dog, growling. I’d never heard of that technique to get you up a hill, but hey to each his own. Anyway, he made it a little less painful, I laughed a little, but worked on maintaining my breathing as I climbed higher and higher. Finally, we were at the top, where several people stopped for water. I kept going. We weaved our way through the woods, making our way back down hill. It was fun, running with everyone, feeling like the hard part was over, we’d owned that hill and were keeping pace. I was still out of breath from it, but I wasn’t slowing, yet. I was keeping pace with a girl directly in front of me. She was wearing a purple jacket, gloves, and ear muffs. I kept telling myself I could outrun her, and I did pass her for a while. But, by mile four I had fallen behind the 8:20 pacer. I kept with my purple girl until mile 5, when she passed me, as well. But, none of that mattered. I had caught my breath from that treacherously steep hill finally, and I was still going steady. I wasn’t walking. I was doing this. I was running. Getting to mile six felt like a very, very long journey. Bon Jovi’s “Halfway There” played on speakers that were set up just before the halfway point. There was a water stop just up ahead. I hadn’t been stopping since I had my runners water bottle, but in efforts to conserve it I reached out and grabbed a cup. Normal people walk while they drink and then keep going. Not me. I refused to slow to a walk at any moment so here I was trying to drink the water while running. I choked, made the loudest coughing noises, and peed myself a little. All the while, I didn’t stop. I made it to the turnaround marker and was headed back. Only 6.5 miles to go! I was actually going to do this. On the journey back, I started with a group of people. We ran through the woods, along the paved pathway. We ran over water, which had a calming noise to it. Soon, I was no longer with a group. Those people had picked up their pace and were journeying ahead of me. The really slow people were behind me. I was still doing good on time. My goal was to finish in 2 hours flat. I hit mile 8 and reminded myself to keep going. I knew once I hit mile 9, my body would go on autopilot. It happened while I was training. I would just keep putting one foot in front of the other and I’d get there. I just had to get to mile 9. I could see it up ahead and I finally passed it, but as I did that, the 2 hour pacer had caught up to me. There was an entire group of people with her that seemed to have much more energy than I could spare at the moment. I ran ahead of them for a while, telling myself not to let them pass, but my body needed to slow. I could feel my energy draining. Then we were all running together for a little longer, but before I hit mile 10, they were ahead of me, pressing on. I kept telling myself, just keep going, it’s okay. You have to keep going. I hit the woods, traveling back up the hill that was so draining on mile 2. It wasn’t so bad this time, elevation-wise. The path zig-zagged, with a slow increase in grade. I passed several walkers, but I couldn’t see any big groups ahead of me or behind me. I was alone in the woods. I felt like Harry Potter in the Goblet of Fire where he’s in the woods and everyone turns on each other, and Sedric dies. That’s all I could think about and I started to panic. My breathing turned manic. I wanted to stop. I wanted to walk, but I knew I still had a few more miles to go. Then, I started counting. In 1, 2, 3, Out 1, 2, 3. I slowed my breathing, forcing myself to make it up that damn hill. Finally, I was there. I crossed the street to mile 11. Only two left. Come on, Nat. Keep going. Mile 11 went by quickly even though my pace had slowed. I was running down the forsaken hill I had run up the first time and I felt a sense of relief. I was on a flat plain again before I knew it and just had to keep going. I started playing Beyonce songs in my head to distract myself, and in efforts to pump up what energy I had left. Jesus was next to me, dancing, too. Mile 12 was just up ahead. One left! I was going to do this! I had caught up with a few people and we were all so close. A lady in front of me quickly rushed to the side of the road, and started gagging. “You got this, you’re so close!” I yelled to her as I kept going, unwilling for anything to stop me now. I made it to a stop sign and then there it was. The finish line. It was just up ahead! I could see it! I kept going. My husband was there, holding up a poster, the proudest look on his face. The Pacers who had passed me up were standing there, telling me to finish strong, begging me to finish faster. My body would not. It was still on autopilot, refusing to move any faster. I crossed the finish line at 2:04. I felt victory as I crossed and also severe thirst. I ran straight to the water table where a worker tried to hand me my medal. The word “water” was all I could muster to say. I put my medal on as I opened the water as fast as I could. I was officially walking now, but not well. My legs were complete jell-o. I couldn’t go any farther so I just sat down on the concrete. My husband met up with me at that point, congratulating me. All I could do was sit, breathe, and drink. I did not want to move. I had done it. Those four minutes would not haunt me because that was the most grueling task I’d ever completed, and I did it by myself. I finished the entire race without stopping. That feeling of beating your own mental and physical limits is a feeling you have to experience for yourself. It’s so rewarding and freeing, like you’ve reached a new level of appreciation for who you are, what you can do. Half marathons are no joke, I walked pretty funny for the next few days, but I walked while wearing my medal proudly for all to see. I wore it to Meijer, church, work, anywhere I went. Because I earned that damn thing. Mini is no way to describe the feat I had tackled. I had just conquered a giant, a thing that was once scary that now turned into a release and a love. I loved myself better because of it, appreciated my body, and learned to love the ugly, even my blood blisters.