Conversation with my father: 

C:  “So, did mom tell you I signed up for the Half Marathon in November?”

D:  “I heard that.  Mmmmm.  And WHY would you do something like that?”

C:  “Good question.  No idea.  Um.  Stanley told me to?”

D:  “Is Stanley going to carry you across the finish line?”  (just kidding, he didn’t say that, but he totally should have)

C:  “I think I just need a goal.  Once I completed the 10K, I kept training, but it was anti-climactic to not have a race at the end of it.”

D:  “But. . . a half marathon?”

C:  “The real reason:  I’m batshit crazy.”

First run was last Saturday.  I wanted to hide under my car when it was done. I tried to keep up with the 9 1/2 minute milers on my team.  I did, for the first two miles.  I will not talk about the last mile.  This week has been marginally better.  Today I ran at Deep Run with John, and he neglected to mention that while it was very shady (good!), it was like running up a mountain (bad!).  I looked like I showered when we finally finished - water was pouring out of me.  Unfortunately I did not smell as if I’d showered.  I even went to Starbucks (had a free coupon) and subjected everyone there to my funk.  That’s how little I cared after that run. 

I remember thinking I’d never be able to run three miles without feeling like I’d rather rip my eyeballs out with sand-coated fingertips.  I remember thinking that I could never complete a 10K.  I also remember the first 5k I ran, and how I felt like I could have run forever. 

(I did not feel that way after running the 10K)

I try looking only one week ahead on the training schedule.  I try not to compare myself to every woman on the team.  I try to think about Theresa, Prissie, Mark, Todd, Kevin, Gina, and a million others as Gods with a Capital G.  Maybe one day long ago they were like me, forcing my body to do something it really doesn’t want to do.  Instead of Fat Girl Running, I’m Phat Girl Runnin’.  There is no alternative.  And at the end of the run on Saturday, there will be mimosas.