21.1
Dear readers, I ache. I ache and hurt. My legs are throbbing and slowly stiffening, lending me a classy, John Wayne-style gait. My throat is dry. My stomach is queasy. My eyes are dull and heavy. And I feel on top of the world.
Today I ran my first half-marathon. That's 21.1 kilometres, or roughly 13 miles. I'd been training for most of the summer, and while my time was nothing to write home about, I'm pleased with my performance. I ran the whole way, handled the (few) hills easily, and actually picked up my pace in the second half, which I hadn't expected to do.
You see some neat things out on a race like that. There were something like 10,000 runners, so the adrenaline around the starting line was infectious. I saw the beautiful Kenyan runners leading the pack at km 17 (when I was at km 7, it should be noted). I saw two runners playing magnetic chess at km 5, and a man juggling (like, actually three-ball juggling, not the metaphorical kind) at km 12. At km 10 I cursed the wind and at km 15 I cursed the hills, but by the time I rounded the corner just past km 20, I tapped into one final reserve of energy and hurtled myself past the line. I felt triumphant.
Some context: I've been vaguely wanting to do a half marathon since I started running four years ago, but never really considered it when it came down to actual, you know, training. This summer, I seemed to find an extra spring in my step. I planned, prepared and laid down the hours and hours of training necessary. And not to sound cocky, but I'm proud of that.
I feel as if my initiation to this cultish, masochistic, time-sucking addiction of a sport is finally complete.
Today I ran my first half-marathon. That's 21.1 kilometres, or roughly 13 miles. I'd been training for most of the summer, and while my time was nothing to write home about, I'm pleased with my performance. I ran the whole way, handled the (few) hills easily, and actually picked up my pace in the second half, which I hadn't expected to do.
You see some neat things out on a race like that. There were something like 10,000 runners, so the adrenaline around the starting line was infectious. I saw the beautiful Kenyan runners leading the pack at km 17 (when I was at km 7, it should be noted). I saw two runners playing magnetic chess at km 5, and a man juggling (like, actually three-ball juggling, not the metaphorical kind) at km 12. At km 10 I cursed the wind and at km 15 I cursed the hills, but by the time I rounded the corner just past km 20, I tapped into one final reserve of energy and hurtled myself past the line. I felt triumphant.
Some context: I've been vaguely wanting to do a half marathon since I started running four years ago, but never really considered it when it came down to actual, you know, training. This summer, I seemed to find an extra spring in my step. I planned, prepared and laid down the hours and hours of training necessary. And not to sound cocky, but I'm proud of that.
I feel as if my initiation to this cultish, masochistic, time-sucking addiction of a sport is finally complete.
posted by D. at
1:46 PM
1 Comments:
Most runners, they get up to 21, and they say, "where can we go from here?" ... Nowhere! But when Deb needs that little push over the cliff, 21.1!
By
Lawyerlike, at 2:24 AM
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