As I slumped down in the bathtub, awkwardly wedged between the
top-right and bottom-left corners, I honestly wondered whether I would ever
stand up again—not just because I was soaking my cramping muscles in hot
bathwater when a bucket of ice would have been much more appropriate, but
because I was pretty sure my internal organs were shutting down
one by one.
OK, now let me explain how I got there.
When my alarm went off at 4 a.m., I was 100-percent
convinced that it was going to be a glorious day. I wasn’t even tired. I
skipped down the stairs like it was perfectly normal to be getting up in the
middle of the night. I put on a pot of coffee and popped a piece of bread into
the toaster. As I sat in the dark kitchen, sipping my morning caffeine and
munching on peanut butter toast, I visualized my race plan one last time.
In my mind’s eye, I saw myself starting out at an easy,
relaxed pace—maybe finding somebody to chat up for a few miles before really
getting after it. Around the 8 or 9-mile mark, I would suck down a GU pack and
chase it with a few sips of water—all without breaking stride, of course. Then
I would kick it into high gear, passing people left and right all the way to
the finish line.
The thing about life, of course, is that it rarely goes
according to plan. For example, I didn’t plan on driving away from the house
without my GU packs and subsequently wasting precious minutes turning around to
retrieve them. I didn’t plan on getting caught in a bottleneck traffic jam on
the way to the starting line. And I definitely didn’t plan on waiting in line
for 25 minutes to use a Porta Potty before pushing my way through thousands of
people to arrive at the starting line exactly 5 seconds before the gun went
off.
I also didn’t plan on running the first two miles in a
long-sleeved pullover. But there was no time to ditch my warm-up top before the
start of the race, so I just sucked it up—actually, more like sweated it
up—until I saw my parents a couple of miles down the road.
Despite all of my pre-race snafus, I was actually doing
pretty well. I hit the first mile in 6:45, right on pace. I got a little
excited the second mile and sped up to a 6:30, but I was feeling great, so I
wasn’t too worried.
Even with the 6 a.m. start, the air was warm and I had a
nice sweat going. Based on my extensive knowledge of sweat rates—thanks Runner’s
World!—I decided it would be a good idea to
hydrate sooner rather than later. At about the 5-mile mark, I grabbed a cup of
water and gulped it down like a champ, refusing to slow down or stop.
About a half-mile later, my stomach rejected that water.
Emphatically. I slowed down to about 8-minute mile pace and clenched. Hard.
All I could think about was that food poisoning scene in Bridesmaids. (“It’s happening! It happened.”)
I was terrified of re-creating my own real-life version of
that scene right there in the middle of the race, which is why I resolved to
make a beeline for the first Porta-Potty I spotted. Fortunately, I didn’t have
to wait long.
There was a portable facility at the aid station right
before the 6-mile mark. There was also a team of high school football players
handing out water and Gatorade. I have never seen so many 16-year-old boys with
perfect hair and skin, and I mean that in the least-creepy way possible. I
tilted my head downward in an effort to hide the shame and embarrassment in my
eyes as I pushed past the group of Justin Bieber clones, swung open the
bathroom door and stepped inside to take care of business.
Even though I tried to be quick, I know I lost at least a minute in
that stupid plastic outhouse. But I emerged feeling refreshed and 10 pounds
lighter.
That feeling lasted for approximately two minutes. Then I
was back to feeling like crap, even though I no longer had to take one.
As I plodded along, I noticed that someone in front of me was wearing a T-shirt with the following phrase printed on the back: "Half the distance, twice the fun!"
If I'd had any strength to spare, I would have lifted my middle finger to that shirt. Instead, I grunted and shook out my arms.
By the 9-mile mark, I knew I was on the verge of hitting the
biggest wall in the history of walls. When I came up on the next aid station, I
tore open the GU pack I had been carrying in my sports bra because I didn’t
have enough time to properly secure it in my waistband before my hasty start.
(Luckily, my ample cleavage provided the perfect hiding place for my little
mid-race energy boost. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. I’m pretty sure it looked like
I had some kind of boob deformity.)
I slowed down to power-walking speed, downed my GU with a few
sips of water, and tried to settle back into a decent pace. About a mile down
the road, the GU finally kicked in, which made running suck slightly less.
I continued on in a daze. By this time, I was running
completely alone—a stark contrast to my visions of passing a continuous stream
of tired runners as I chased the lead female pack to the tape.
I could barely make out the form of the next woman. She was
at least a minute ahead of me, and although I gained on her a little during the
final miles, my cramping calves let me know that passing her was out of the
question.
By the time I reached the final stretch of road, my form had
deteriorated into an awkward loping motion that probably made me look like I
was experiencing gravity for the first time ever.
Then I crossed the line, and…it was over. At least, the
running part was over.
I felt sick almost immediately. I went directly to the
bathroom, where I camped out for about 20 minutes. As The Worst Stomachache of
My Life Besides the Stomachache I Got After Eating Seafood at Applebee’s set
in, I limped back to my family and told them there was no way I was sticking
around for awards. I needed to go home. Now.
And that, my friends, brings us back to the opening
scene—which is actually the closing scene. Clever, right?
Obviously, I made it out of the bathtub alive. I split the
rest of the day between my bed and my couch. I swore to myself that I would
never, ever run another half marathon ever again. Ever.
Then I looked at the results and saw my time—1:28:34. It was
a good time, and I was happy with it—mostly. But I couldn’t shake the nagging
feeling that I could have done better. Which is why I know that eventually, I will do
another one. And probably another one after that. And maybe even—gasp!—a full
marathon.
But next time, I’ll remember to stuff some Pepto Bismol in
my bra, too.
