On Stupid Decisions
AKA Half Marathon

Oh what a neglected space. Let’s see if that can be changed.

Ramblings and images that have nothing to do with the words to follow.

I figured I would write about why I just did something I hate. What drove me to commit to something so out of my comfort zone (something Sam pointed out to me is practically everything) and actually finish it.

That thing is running. More specifically completing a half marathon. The optional bits were running the entirety of it and smiling at the end – which somehow also happened but more on that later.

I signed up this past summer. A dear friend from my university days and I committed to running a 5k and laughed our way through that with some walking and arm dancing and general shenanigans (sidenote: if you are getting into running in the Calgary area I highly recommend MEC Runs. They are inexpensive, supported, chip timed, and pretty relaxed). On some unexplainable runner’s high, or as I prefer to put it poor decision, I signed up for the Austin Half Marathon. And then I forgot about training. For months. Oh sure I ran a kilometre here or there in the meantime but would lose my breath, become mentally exhausted and just be oh so done with it. I mean I knew most of the training plans were 12-16 weeks so I’d get back on it in the winter (stupid child).

But why save for that moment of overzealous naivety? Welp, I have issues. As we all do, because that’s the human condition. Mine are mostly rooted in self-doubt, self-dislike, and a touch of melancholy. Now please don’t feel bad or pity or whatever else – that’s how it is and who doesn’t like a lifelong challenge where the other player is yourself? My life seems to be series of events where I have a goal and procrastinate on it until the time pulls up short and then I hurriedly put it all together all the while chastising myself for putting myself in that position all along. This includes growing out of childhood habits to the not-so-empty threat of not being able to go to preschool, sucking my thumb when I was alone until I was 8 (holy embarrassing batman! But, I do have two different size thumbs to show for it, so that’s nice), writing my honours thesis (yup, nope, don’t do this), and less important things like how to actually stylize my hair, how to dress without looking frumpy, and makeup (I know precisely one look, but that should be sufficient forever I figure). For years I have been plotting to get on top of my health. Hell, look back in my personal blog post and there are declarations of living a healthier lifestyle (as I sip an Italian soda as I write this… right). Which I have never done. I reminisce back to my junior and senior high days. When I was all into sportsing, I was a size 0, and any amount of weight gain was lamented. And that leads to the next bittage.

Self-image. Now here is a topic addressed, discussed, studied, debated, and all the other verbages hered. So I won’t stick on this one long because everyone is baller in their own way and your self-worth should not be measured on other people’s standards – yada yada. But to put it simply, I don’t really see what people see in my physically. Now, I (think I) have a pretty candid approach to it. So much so disliking myself is part of my identity. And I’m okay with that. Unless you try to take a photo of me. Cue panic, hiding, glowering and protests. I figure that is something I will never conquer. But at the very least I want to make an effort to improve it. Lose the jiggly bits, get fit, hike all the things and get outside. So, between wanting to get more active and pursue a healthier lifestyle and never following through, it seemed like a perfect recipe to sign up for a race of impossible proportions.

Then there was that final reason. Something that has become a normalcy I don’t embrace. An overhanging sense of melancholy. I won’t go so far as to say a depression, a little something I had the pleasure of experiencing in university that I can gladly say with some support and refocusing on what I actually wanted to was all but squashed. But this boding dread and inadequacy that manifests in a lack of desire to pursue what I am passionate about. Depression was akin to swimming without being able to lift my head above water. This is more like bobbing at the surface, it’s fine, I can do what I need to, but each wave causes a rise and a fall along with a reminder that things aren’t as good as they probably should be. And perhaps this is simply something we are all experiencing except everyone else appears to be much better at managing it. Or mayhaps I just need tread a bit more and pull myself up – I’m not sure but it’s something I acknowledged a year ago as something I had been experiencing for the year previous to that. Most of the time it is fine, but it’s posts popping up in my feed from years previous where I yearn to feel that far into the happiness spectrum and statements like “I haven’t seen you smile like that in such a long time” that are a reminder.  In the grand scheme of health it’s a blip, it’s manageable and fine. But it’s also not fair to just be okay, not for myself or for Sam. So I am ever so slowly crawling out of this rut. And the process of training and running the half marathon was a major step in the right direction.  And mayhaps just admitting to it is another.

And back to the original point. On poor decisions and running a half marathon. Halfway through November I looked at the calendar, counted the weeks and felt that knot in my stomach. Whatever had I done? Not only was I committing to be in Austin at that point but I had also invited my mum. So I printed out my training schedule and told Sam we were hitting the gym (because I am in the 1% of runners who prefer the treadmill to the road). And I asked him to make sure I followed through (See: Point self-doubt and not following through). And so we did. Three to four days a week we drove to the YMCA. We scoured Austin for a bathing suit for me to swim laps in for cross training. We impulse purchased a FitBit. I enthusiastically started strength training apps, and then would drop them a week later. He would pick them up sometime after I dropped off and I’d start up again (confession: I still suck at keeping to them). Through December and January this continued. I’d get frustrated with my music choice for treadmill runs and he insisted I use his iPad (that I somehow turned off WiFi racking up a really lovely data bill. My bad). He got me hooked on Drunk History (that I like to say I enjoy running while watching since I know the person presenting will feel all the shittier the next day than I felt at that current time). He would wake me up early to go for runs around the lake and wait with our dog at a local coffee shop. Admittedly put up with my muttering and disappointment at not being able to complete whatever the set distance was.  Smile when I found a water bottle that read ‘I hate running’.

Then it was race day.  The longest I had run was a flat 9 miles around a track. A couple days previous we madly googled what to eat before a race (stellar pre-planning I tell you). The night before he made sure I got to bed early, and after months of me declaring I needed to put together my race day playlist did just that. He titled it I Hate Running. As one does.

That decision months previous felt all the more stupid waking up at 5am. Two days previous I had read to put on my running gear right away. So I did just that. Drink 500mL of water. So I did. I jumped around and jived and tried to shake the nerves. Sam brought up one bagel (because something about math and carbohydrates) and peanut butter (because I’m not sure? Protein?). Hobbit stared at me jealously as I ate it on the floor while stretching. I kept reiterating I didn’t care about my pace or that I would have to walk. Especially up the last hill at the start of the last mile (fricking masochists who plotted that course). And off we went.

I probably walked up and down Congress ten times between the start and finish line. Warming up or something like the other people around me. Watching people stretch and doing the same thing a block down. I am going to say that everyone around me seemed to look pretty damn confident. And fit. And ripply muscled. And all I really wanted to do was go to bed.

We can skip the whole waiting part and the likes because meh. But what I do remember is crossing the starting line, as the mass went from walking to running, and up he went on South Congress. The energy is really something you can’t compare. I’ll be honest with you there are about four points along this run I choked up a bit and this was one of them. I’m positive the first time was for dread and disbelief of the 13.1 miles that were ahead. At Mile 1 and a bit I missed the first water station (whoops) but had figured out at Mile 3 and a bit how the water stations worked (and got a bit of a high off of littering legally for the first time ever).  It was at Mile 5 as we were looping back into downtown that I became aware of the fact that was I indeed still running and feeling pretty damn good. By Mile 7 my legs reminded me that they were not exactly keen but I read online (because who needs real world experience) to slow down the pace until they recovered. And sure enough they did. And that is the moment I learnt that stopping wasn’t always the best option (a la training). The next three miles were a yoyo of ‘holy shit I am doing this, maybe in a few years I can run a full marathon’ to ‘holy shit my legs hurt a bit, I want to finish this thing and never do it again’. At Mile 11 I truly wanted to walk, it was two miles more than I had ever done, I had surpassed the goal I had set for myself, and the majority of people I met on hills had slowed to a walk. But I figured at that point why not run the extra two and a bit. Somewhere in there Don’t Stop Believing (I know, I’m rolling my eyes as well) came on and I had to hold back this strange cumulation of a sob and laugh. Because if you know my father you know his adoration of Journey and that moment hit all the feels, because if he knew his not-so-athletic daughter was actually running a half marathon I am pretty sure he would be delightedly flabbergasted. So back to that brutal hill in the last mile. As you head down Enfield it reaches a point where you have this vantage point view of downtown Austin. The capitol marking the finish line. But then the road dives down and on the other side of the valley is what can only be interpreted as straight up recovery. As the people around me so that there was a mix of “oh shits” and “oh my god” and murmurs and mutters. I shared in all of those sentiments. I can tell you there is no pleasure in going downhill when you know each step downs means two more on the way up. As I focused on my posture (because the internet told me so. Because who actually trains for hills before a half marathon? Psh) the most glorious of sounds was heard. Eye of the Tiger. Frickity frack you guys. I still get excited at this divine moment. I’ll be honest I don’t know if I could have ran (read: shuffled viciously) up that hill without the delight of the most inspiring song of all time (slight stretch). And then it was done, the last bit, lined with people, and there at the last turn was Sam and my mother shuffling towards the gate marked by a heart eyed emoji balloon. And oh how I smiled. Probably a bit of delirium and excitement to see them. I sprinted (read: shuffled viciously once again) to the finish line. Crossed the first timing pad thing (words? what?), only to look at the ground and discover there was a second (oh cruel fates).

And that’s that. How my stupid decision and hatred of running ended up in something I am actually capable of saying I am proud of. Do I like running? Nope. But I will keep doing it. Because it gives me a reason to wake up early, I feel more in-tune with my health, and accomplishment. And it feels damn good.

Holy rambling batman. That’s all.