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Um, yea.  Last fall?  I registered myself for Ironman Wisconsin.  Kind of on a whim.  More of a “just on the weird offchance that I decide I want to do it, then I’ll have that option open” kind of thing.  And then decided not to tell a soul about it, you know, because I’m all about the drama.  Or something like that.

I don’t know that I was ever really serious about doing it.  All along, while secretly wanting to be called an Ironman, there’s a large part of me that has absolutely no desire to put the time and effort needed into the training.  I mean, it’s not like my idea of fun is climbing on my bike for a “short” 3 hour trek after having spent 7 hours in the saddle the day before (and let’s not even mention the running and swimming that most likely was squeezed in there as well).

And so, here I sit:  it’s January and I feel like I ought to make a decision.  I thought it would be an easy decision — don’t do it, never tell anyone that you signed up.  But now… but now… there’s this little voice that wonders if it might be possible.  Wonders if all that’s holding me back is that the enormity of this task scares the pants off me.

And what am I scared of?  Scared of failing – of course.  Scared of being too lazy to train for it the way I’ll need to.  Scared that my body won’t hold up through the training.  Scared that I’ll do all the training and then have something stupid happens that ends my journey before the race is finished.  Scared that I’m not fast enough.  Not committed enough.  Not up to the challenge.  Just not good enough.  And that then – epically – publicly – everyone else will know that too.

Being rational about it, though, the ability to successfully complete an Ironman takes more than just will, heart and a butt of steel.  It requires time.  And resources.  And more time.  And money.  A willingness to forgo a social life.  And some time on top of that, of course.  Coming into play are whether I’d be able to ever get enough sleep to support the long hours of training each week.  And the necessity of having to not only give up softball, but also anything else that didn’t fit into the training plan.  That’s a huge sacrifice.

But in the face of all that, there’s still this whisper, this call to do something great.  Doing something that only a very small percentage of people have ever done has this draw to it, and it’s slowly reeling me in, robbing me of all logical thought.

And so…. well, maybe… perhaps… I just… might… possibly… train for (gulp!)… an Ironman.

Maybe.

I’ve done my homework:  I’ve looked at the training plans.  Hyperventilated over the number of really, really, REALLY long bike rides I’d have to get in over the summer.  Grew physically tired looking at some of the peak 20-hour training weeks. And have now started mentally rearranging my life to accommodate the craziness.  I’ve tentatively told my softball teams this would be a year of just being a sub.  I’ve talked to my boss and got the okay to work the later shift one day a week to ensure that I’d get at least one full night’s sleep a week.  And – most importantly – I’ve begun the work of putting in base miles to prepare for training to start at the very end of April.

So, I guess – right now at least – I’m in.  Kind of.  We’ll see how things go between now and the official start of training.  I totally am reserving the right to reclaim my place in reality, though, and back out.  Yes, that’s my big ol’ disclaimer to my little announcement.

So… who wants to go for a bike ride?  Just something short?  You know, like, 7 hours or so?

On Saturday, I had to run 7 miles at marathon pace. 

First off – marathon pace??   I have absolutely NO idea what marathon pace may or may not be.  Well – that’s not true – there’s the marathon pace I’d LOVE to run.  There’s the marathon pace I’d be pretty excited about running.  There’s even the marathon pace that I’d be pretty satisfied with.  And then… there’s the marathon pace that lives in reality instead of in my dreams.

So, I decided to start off at what I thought was a conservative pace and get faster from there to see if I could find a “sweet spot”.  That turned out to be one of those “good in concept, not so good in implementation” ideas.  I started out somewhere around 10 minute miles, and moved down to about 9:30′s for the last few miles.  And, as it turns out, anything sub-10 is more a of tempo pace for me these days.  How frustrating!

But, in the end, that run felt good.  I worked, sweat a lot, finished up feeling like I had accomplished something.

And then – Sunday.  14 miles.  Uh oh.

I decided to tackle it in two 7-mile loops to give me a break to refuel (and, uh, defuel, if you know what I mean).  The first loop? Not exactly my definition of “fun”.  Legs started out feeling heavy and sore and my mind was set on trying to get me to stop.  Running at my long run pace was difficult – and long run pace is supposed to be the speed where you feel like you could run forever.  Me?  I could barely fathom finishing off the first 7 mile loop.

But – I somehow managed to squash my basic instincts to stop and toughed it out.  And once I hit home and took in some more nutrition and water (and took a minute to stretch out my incredibly tight achilles and calves), the second loop didn’t seem quite so daunting.  Or, at least, I couldn’t come up with a good, believable excuse not to go out and run it.

The second loop was an interesting little thing.  The first three miles went by with a “whoosh!” kind of feeling.  Like, when you’re driving somewhere and look up and realize that you’ve missed your exit by 20 miles.  All of a sudden I was done with 10 miles.

Miles 11-12… working, working, working… but getting it done and feeling mostly okay.  The end of the run seemed tantalizingly near.

Miles 13-14?  Well, let’s just say that every car that passed, I was hoping it was someone I knew (or even just a car I recognized) so that I could flag it down and tell them to bring my broken, beaten body back home.

And that was only 14 miles.  Last time I checked?  Yea, a marathon is 26 miles. 

It freaks me out that this itty bitty little 14-miler did that to me.  That it pushed me to that place that I only associate with the end of half ironmans and the last few miles of a full marathon.  Seems to spell trouble, doesn’t it?

And then I rationalize:  I ran 7 miles the day before.  I didn’t eat like I should have the night before.  I ran much later than I usually do.  That all makes a difference, right?

I suppose I’ll find out.

You know, in one of those eleventy billion weekends I have ahead of me.

Vegas.  December.   Marathon.  26.2 miles of suffering misery challenge and wonderfulness.

The training is just starting to pick up and become more hard work, sweat, aches and pains and less about the pure joy of running.  And it’s not like I’m even doing the Really Long Runs yet – just the Itty Bitty Long Runs so far.  This week, in fact, is the first time I even edge over the half marathon distance.

Things so far have been going pretty well, considering that I went from full training down to 50% mileage down to 0% mileage and then sky-rocketed to “Hello MARATHON TRAINING!  Here I come, ready or not!”.  I’m pretty pleased that my ankle hasn’t really caused me any trouble yet (though it’s a sneaky bastard, so I’m keeping an eye on it) and I haven’t managed to mangle any other body part yet.

This weekend scares me a little bit, though.  I’ve been following Hal Higdon’s marathon training plan, and the hallmark of this training is the marathon-paced run on Saturday followed by a long run on Sunday.  As a concept, this is pretty revolutionary to me:  I’m a hard-core rest-before-rest-after the long runs kind of gal.  So, to go out on Saturday and put down 7 miles of marathon-paced running before hitting the pavement for 14 more on Sunday makes me just a teensy bit nauseous.

But it’ll be good, right?  Sure, my legs will be tired and all whiny when I go out Sunday.  But that just means that when race day actually hits — and after I’ve taken the requisite rest days — my legs will feel like wings.  Just like if I drank a Red Bull – I’ll have wings! (and no, I get no money or free product for that plug…heh…).

Until the wings grow in, though… if you see me on the side of the road, napping or otherwise not moving forward any longer, please call the numbers on my Road I.D.  You’ll do that for me, right?

Yup, that’s what the inside of the Dove Chocolate wrapper told me.  And it can’t be wrong, can it?

As I licked the wrapper clean of specks of chocolate (we wouldn’t want to waste any!), I contemplated this little nugget of wisdom.  Be fearless.  Without fear.  Boldly go where no man has gone before!  Uh, sorry, got carried away there.  Not quite sure what to do with this yet, I picked up yet another delicious dark chocolate goody (dark chocolate is healthy, you know), and lo and behold, more insight in the form of a shiny, red wrapper:  ”Think without boundaries.”

Whoa.  I mean, whoever thought chocolate could be so smart?

Be fearless.  And then – think without boundaries.

And now’s the time of year when I have friends who are embarking upon the ultimate adventure — Ironman Wisconsin. A commitment made a full year ago that required fearlessness and thinking beyond their comfort zone.  Some are now going crazy with the taper, others are guessing and second-guessing their training, and some fluctuate between thinking they’ll fly through the day and worrying about whether they’ll make the swim cutoff. But all have taken that step to shove through the fears and uncertainties, putting in the time, sweat and tears even when the end result wasn’t so clearly in focus.

And now:  it’s here.

And I can barely imagine being in their position.  The nervousness, the angst, the anticipation and excitement.  A year’s worth of preparation, all stuffed into one glorious weekend, then into one 17-hour stretch of time.  And I admire them all greatly; some day, I want to be in their position, that’s for certain.  What courage it takes to sign up for a race like this!  2.4 miles of swimming, an interminably long 112 miles on the bike, topped off with 26.2 miles of running. Most will finish after the sun has gone down, navigating through the dark towards the high-energy finish line to the cheers and whistles of their friends and family, all who know the sacrifices it took to get to that one moment in time.

So, good luck to everyone out on the tomorrow!  You put your heart and soul into training, now’s the time for the payback

Mostly, it’s dead.  And I’m bummed about that.  Seriously bummed.

In the end, good sense had to prevail:  after 5-6 weeks of limited running and then 3 weeks of absolutely no running, I couldn’t just start up training where I left off (never mind starting my training at the point of the program that I should have progressed to by now) without risking re-injuring the ankle or developing some new-and-improved injury to some other body part.  It just wouldn’t have been prudent.

And lord knows, I’m nothing if not prudent.

Or something like that.

What’s the new plan, y’all ask?  Well, let me tell ya:

I’ll still run part of the Chicago Marathon.  I mean, I paid for that race and I’ll be damned if I don’t at least eat some of the post-race food (how many bagels do I have to eat to match the $125 entry fee?).  The plan right now is to keep a triathlete friend of mine company for whatever my long training run is for that weekend.

Wait.  Training run?  Long training run??  Oh yea -so, out with Chicago and in with VEGAS, baby!  I’m targeting the Vegas Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon on December 6th.  There’s a full and half marathon option – something for everyone!  Who’s with me?

Oh – that’s right – able to leap tall buildings in a single bound!

Life over the past couple of weeks has been a blur of swimming with a pull buoy (wouldn’t want to have my legs kicking or anything!), doing upper body strength training and physical therapy.  Lots of physical therapy.  Three times a week at almost 2 hours a session, in fact.

When I went into the PT place on the first day for my evaluation, it was funny – because my other, non-hurting ankle was swollen (softball injury from earlier in the season… we’ll call this “Good Ankle”), they thought that was the one they were working on.  Uh, no.  Yea – see that other ankle that looks perfectly fine?  Yea, that’s the one I can’t put weight on first thing in the morning (“Baaaad Ankle!”).  After a half dozen quizzical looks and a game of 20 questions (Good Ankle measured out worse than Baaaad Ankle! in terms of strength and range of motion… huh…), they finally believed me. Mostly because they had to, because I kept insisting I knew what I was talking about.

PT turned out to be this funhouse of poking and prodding and electrical do-dads being hooked up to me, along with more exercises than one person could keep track of without the aid of a large computer, practically.  It was like a time warp – every time I walked in there, masked behind their good humor and funny stories, they managed to keep piling on more things to do until I almost felt like they should assign me a permanent table since I was there so long.

But – it was all for my own good, right?  All in the name of getting me back on the road.  So, I was on board.  I put in my time, did my home exercises and worked my way back to perfect health.  Easy as pie (though, really, unless you’re “baking” at Baker’s Square, pie really isn’t so easy, now, is it?).  I routinely informed my physical therapists of my rather modest expectations:  ”just a miracle, please.  That’s all.”  One told me that all it took was wishing hard and little bit of pixie dust… so, I figured I was good to go (they told me they just got a new supply of “the dust” in)!

In the meantime, I was a really good girl.  Honest, I was!  Even though my PT didn’t believe me, I didn’t run at all, didn’t hop on my bike, didn’t do ANYTHING (well, except become a world-class snacker… I do have me some mad bad-food snacking skillz).  Really, with the exception of a 5-hour weed wrestling session (don’t even ask…), I gave my ankle the rest the doctor said it needed.

And the ankle?  It felt better for the resting.  Really it did.  Of course the rest of me suffered… this is – by far – the longest I’ve gone without running in about 6 years.  And, really, who knew how critical it was at keeping me from becoming a raving lunatic?  Go figure.

Fast forward:  it’s time for me to see the doctor again.

I knew my fate was in my own hands.  In truth, they weren’t going to x-ray me, or get another MRI and the whole enchilada was going to based on how I said I was doing.  I started out with “It’s a miracle!  I’m healed!” … unbelievably, that was received rather skeptically (I need an acting class, apparently).  So, I figured I might as well go with the truth (quite a concept, I know):  it’s feeling much better, but since I haven’t been allowed to run, I can’t really tell you how it’s feeling.

And with that (and a few more probing questions where she tried to figure out if I was lying to her), I was released back into the wild and told to return to my normal life.

Now perhaps I can cancel the APB put out to search for my sanity…

And I didn’t even try taking a flight somewhere and end up sitting on the runway for hours on end, waiting for bad weather to pass.

No, I was grounded – by of all people – my doctor.  For three weeks.  THREE WEEKS, people! Seems rather unreasonable, doesn’t it?

Okay, let me back up a bit…

It all started innocently enough.  I’d finished my strength training for the day, and I was just getting in a quick little 5-miler on the treadmill before heading out for softball.  Then, right at around 3.5 miles into the run, WHAM! – pain in my ankle.  Like a light switch, it went from feeling just fine to, well, not so fine.  Not good.  So, what did I do?  I kept running of course.  I mean, what runner doesn’t experience weird pain from time to time?  After another few minutes, the pain didn’t abate and so I did the lazy smart thing and stopped running.

After that, it never really hurt as sharply as it did the first time, but it didn’t feel right.  Hurt a few miles into every run.  Would kill me to walk first thing in the morning until it loosened up.  Even just sitting around I could feel it aching.  But the problem was that it didn’t hurt badly enough.

Why’s that a problem, I hear people out in blogland asking?  Because it made it easy to ignore.  Right after it started bothering me, I made a half-hearted attempt to rest it.  I was in Vegas for 5 days, so that made it easier – I only ran once while I was there!  That’s resting it, right?

And so, having given it 6 whole days where all I did was just a teeny tiny bit of walking around Vegas, bowl in a bowling tournament and just one small 6 mile run, I felt like I had given it a total reprieve and more than adequate chance to heal.  It’s not like I was asking for miracles or anything.

Of course, that wasn’t the way things went – even after this loooong rest period, it was still bothering me.  So, what does a good runner/triathlete/fool do?  Ignore it.  Keep going.  Don’t skip any softball games and god forbid you back down on the marathon training.

After doing this for a few weeks, I was convinced by my trainer (yes, you read that right – I had to be convinced by someone else – this wasn’t my decision) to go see a doctor.  It could be a stress fracture, it could be nothing… but with the marathon training looming I agreed that it would be best to find out exactly what I was dealing with.  You know, be proactive and all that.  VERY un-Laura-like but probably the best choice.

And so, that’s what I did.

I went back to the doctor who had initially treated my arm.  The good news is that I wouldn’t have to explain to him how much the marathon meant to me, or get across my point that it was important to me to stay active.  The bad news is that he already had some idea of how hard-headed I am and that my high tolerance for pain sometimes causes me to make, well, ill-advised decisions.

I told him what was going on, how it hurt but not too badly, how it bothered me but not so much that I couldn’t run through the discomfort.  His initial diagnosis after x-rays?  Tendonitis (doesn’t that sound so… benign and un-injury-like?).  Probably not a stress fracture, though he suggested I get an MRI done just to be sure (you know, since I’m “not like a normal person” who would be limping if it were actually a stress fracture).

While waiting on the MRI and its results, I was advised to cut down on the activity and take an anti-inflammatory.  ”That should help matters” the doctor confidently told me.

Fast forward 2 weeks:  um, yea… not so much.  In fact, while I was running less than 50% of the volume I had been (with no speedwork or other taxing workouts), my ankle was still hurting.  And if you really want to know, it was hurting WORSE than before.  Yup.  Lucky me – once again, I defied medical odds.

So my question to the doctor – what’s next?

I’m thinking, “well, let’s just ignore it and continue on and see what happens.”  or (my favorite!) – “the MRI shows that it’s all completely made up in your head and you’re perfectly fine and healthy!!”

Instead he comes back with:  ”I think you should completely rest your ankle for 3 weeks.”  And the remainder of that conversation?

Me: *dumb silence*
Doc: As in, absolutely no activity at all.
Me: So… no running?
Doc: No running.
Me: Probably no softball either?
Doc: No softball.
Me: But I can bike, right?
Doc: What part of “absolutely no activity” did you not understand?
Me: *sigh*
Doc: I could put you in a walking boot if you need it to keep you honest?
Me: *SIGH*  No… I’ll be good.
Doc: Just think of it this way — if you’re not sure if you should do something or not, pretend like you have a walking boot on and if you could do it with a walking boot on, then you’re good to go.
Me: I could totally ride my bike with a walking boot on.
Doc: This is not — I repeat — NOT a challenge for you to see how much you can do with a walking boot on.
Me: *SIGH SIGH SIGH*
Doc:  *eye roll*  Just do what I tell you.

So, I’ve got a three week prison sentence plus some physical therapy to go through.  Does it work?  Am I healed?  Cured?  Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound??

… stayed tuned for Grounded, part II…

… that I had a money-making idea that was easy to implement, would bring in loads of cash and allow me to live without the obligation of having to get up at 4am every weekday morning. Winning the lottery would qualify, though I’d have to figure out some way of doing this without buying tickets….soooo… any exceptionally lucky lottery players out there that need a new best friend?

… that I had the motivation to train for an Ironman.  Because while I *do* have the motivation to want to say I’ve completed one, I don’t have the motivation to do the work to get me there. Do you think I can hire a sherpa to do all the work and then claim the success for myself, much like some do when they climb Mt. Everest?

… that I lived somewhere slightly more temperate than Chicago.  Don’t get me wrong – I love this city and I love that my friends, family and life are here, but I do wish that winter wouldn’t last as long and that the summers wouldn’t get so dang humid.  Whine, whine, whine…

… that I could run fast.  Just cuz.

… that the lunchroom would clear out so I could surreptiously go get a candy bar from the vending machine (uh… did I just say that out loud..?  Busted….).

… that I wasn’t always so hemmed in with “have to’s” and “shoulds” instead of “want to’s” and “coulds”.

… that I could eat ice cream and pizza for every meal and still lose 10 pounds.  Or at least not gain 20.

… that I could not only survive, but be coherent on 5 hours of sleep a night.  Think of how productive I could be!

… that I had time for a dog.

… that I was skilled at going to parties by myself where I know practically no one, making small talk, mingling and feeling comfortable enough to really enjoy myself.

… that some of the many things I’ve ordered recently would be delivered.  Online shopping is both instantly gratifying and painstakingly aggravating.

… that I could write more prolifically.  When I’ve got an idea in my head, I can write for days. But oftentimes, those ideas are few and far between.  At least the ones suited for public consumption, that is.

… that I could take a mulligan on some of the decisions I made during high school and college. Even though college was an especially awesome time, I feel like there were some basic-to-me decisions that would have drastically changed my life had I the courage to have done things differently.

… that I had a good singing voice so that once summer comes I can belt out tunes while riding in my car with the windows rolled down and not worry about piercing some poor soul’s ear drum.  Not that it stops me.

… that I could hit a home run at every at bat.  Or at least not ever make an out again.

… that I could dance without embarassing myself.

… that I could figure out a good way to end my “I wish…” list….

So then – what are your wishes?

I was a little trepiditious going into this race – as I drove into the city Friday night, I was reminded that not everywhere is as flat as the Chicago area.  Actually, just about NOWHERE is as flat as Chicago!  Out in Cincy, though, the hills were alive… with the sound of me cursing them, mostly.

I had intended to do hill training.  Really meant to.  Honest.  Somehow that never happened – weather, lack of time, over-abundance of laziness – these all conspired against me.  Which is how I ended up at a very hilly half marathon with nothing but concrete flatland miles under my belt.

Race morning came early – a 4:30am wake-up call to give me enough time to eat some breakfast.  Seeing as how the hotel was less than a mile to the start line, I had time to kill. So, being the lazy camper I am, I grabbed my bagel and crawled back into bed with it. Remarkably, one of my new-found skills is simultaneous eating and sleeping (hmmm… now that I think about it, perhaps I can blame all my weight gain on “sleep-eating”…).

Finally, I grudgingly roused myself from sleep and got ready.  The weather was iffy:  low 50′s but rainy.  Then, not rainy.  Oops, raining again.  Now just misting.  What to wear, what to wear…  After a couple of wardrobe changes, I settled on my cuter-than-cute running skirt and a long-sleeve tech shirt.  With the temperature being so low and with there being some precipitation, I knew I wouldn’t overheat and I’d rather be too warm than too cold any day. Being cold makes me whiny, and believe me – no one wants that.

About an hour before the gun was to go off, we left the hotel and started following the mass of people down to the riverfront.  Luckily, there wasn’t some other kind of gathering congregating at 5:30am in downtown Cincinnati.  Imagine my chagrin if I ended up at, say, a morning service for recovering meth addicts, or something like that.  But, I digress.

The air was buzzing with excitement down at Paul Brown stadium, where the morning festivities were being held. The morning was still dark – the sun wouldn’t rise for another 90 minutes –  but that didn’t stop the music from blaring and the hubbub from, well, hubbubbing. We wandered in and out of the stadium, staying out of the rain, using the facilities (just like any good sporting event, there were lines for the women’s rest room!) and then finally made our way out to the starting area.

With just about 10 minutes to the starting gun, the corrals were getting a little tight.  As I made my way forward, I got an overwhelming urge to use the porta-potty just one more time. I sprinted out of line, and found an almost unending row of them – and no lines!  Huh??  What a rare sight!  So, last minute business taken care of, I once again started (politely!) pushing my way towards the front portion of the corrals.  I got as far up as the 9:30m/m pace group and couldn’t go any further without having to start hip-checking people, so I took my spot and began waiting for the gun to go off.

As I stood there, I reviewed my race plan in my head.  Oh wait – that’s right – I didn’t really have a race plan.  See – remember – I’m not actually “racing” this year … I’m just going to races and participating.  At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. So – my non-racing plan for the day:  conservative through the first 5-6 miles of the race — I didn’t really train for this, so I wasn’t sure what kind of pace I could expect out of myself.  Survive the 3 miles of uphill.  Trust gravity and ROCK the 3 miles of downhill.  And with those not-at-all-a-race-plan thoughts – I was off!

The first mile suffered from the too-many-people-too-little-space malady that is inherent with most races.  The tip-toed dance around the walkers or people who seeded themselves too far up, the excuse-me’s and the death glares when someone cuts you off without a backward glance.  It plays almost like a video game, and as frustrating as it can be, I choose to see it as s challenge to find running room (without tripping and eating pavement).

Bridges and state line crossings were the name of the game for the first 3 miles or so.  Did you know that the Ohio river is rather wide?  And that bridges across it would be considered Big Hills in the Chicago area?  Well, if you didn’t know before, now you do.  The course heads south into Kentucky for a spell, and then back into Ohio with some great views of downtown. At this point we’ve hit some hills, but nothing too major – just enough to wake the ol’ legs up.

My split times were all over the place — between the hills and dodging people, I had a hard time getting into a groove, but didn’t worry about it too much, figuring that if I just kept kind of moving along, I’d get where I needed to go.  Knowing that the first 6 miles were just rolling hills, my main goal was just to stay strong and keep the legs as fresh as possible for the climb that was awaiting me.

The next 3 weren’t all that memorable – a little industrial, a little bit of downtown Cincinnati, a few crowds cheering as I ran by.  Net downhill rather than uphill, but felt very rolling in nature. Legs, amazingly enough, were still feeling pretty fresh and rarin’ to go.  And then – the uphill started.

The middle of mile 6 began “The Climb”:  about 2.5 miles of nasty uphill.  This was the part that I had dreading because I hadn’t prepared for it in the least bit.  And it kicked my ass.  Handed it to me on a platter, in fact.  But – I was expecting that, so it didn’t crush my spirit.  Like an audio loop playing in my head – “just keep moving, just keep moving” – I knew that I needed to only make it through this section and then I’d be close to home free for the rest of the course.

Luckily, the uphills came with some scenery to take my mind off the fact that it HURT like HELL and that my knee, hips and legs in general were screaming at me.  My labored breathing did nothing to assure any of my fellow runners that I was going to be okay and not just collapse and cry uncle on the side of the road, but I climbed upward anyway. And then Eden’s Park – looking much like the Garden of Eden to me – suddenly appeared.  And the hills flattened out and all was right with the world.  Made it.  Whew.

It was then that the race started in earnest for me.  I couldn’t believe how easy the flat-land running was; quick turnover meant a quick pace and it didn’t even feel like much of an effort. Not having reached the 9-mile sign, I knew I shouldn’t push too hard, but couldn’t help it – I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that good at that point in a half marathon before, ever.

The 9th mile brought a somewhat cruel twist … you could see all the way up the street, and while not a hill, just a gentle incline, it was mentally a chore to work through.  See, the downhill was near; I knew it.  And I wanted to be there SO BAD.  And that kept me going.

And then…. WHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE………!!!!!!

Downhill!

Major downhill.  Like head-over-heels, somersaulting down downhills.  FUN downhills.

I was totally surprised at the number of people I passed – I was literally weaving in and out of people who were putting on the brakes, trashing their quads trying not to go too fast.  Me?  I couldn’t have had more fun if I put my arms out at my sides and made airplane noises as I wheeled downward (and believe me, I gave some thought to doing just that… I was having an awesome time out there!)

Aside from a bit of flat and then a small uphill heading into the Finish Swine (it *is* the Flying Pig half marathon, after all), the last 5k was fast, fast, fast!  And oh-so-enjoyable – I think I must have had the biggest grin on my face the entire time.  It’s a wonder what 3 miles of downhill will do for your attitude during the last part of a half marathon.

And so, with a rush (though the very end had an unexpected – and therefore evil – short uphill) my first half marathon of the 2009 season was over.  And I had beaten my pie-in-the-sky goal by a couple of minutes, even!  I bopped along through the medal and water crowd, then finally got to the food tables.  JACKPOT!

What an awesome spread!  I just wish I had a box or bag to fill because it turned out that I wasn’t even able to carry everything I wanted.  My eyes must have been as big as saucers as I kept coming to more and more tables filled with all sorts of delicious goodies, from Doritos/chips/fritos/cheetos to 3 different kinds of animal cookies (regular, iced and frosted, no less!), yogurt in a tube, ho-ho wannabes (the little debbie’s version, perhaps?) and even more that I can’t even recall anymore.  I stood there thinking, “Yes.  This is the reason I race.”

After that?  Get a picture taken, then wander about fruitlessly attempting to figure out how to get back to my hotel (finally found a cop who pointed me in the right direction).  Hoof it (uphill!) back to the hotel.  Shower.  And then – the long drive home, back to the land where curbs can be mistaken for hills.  And I don’t think the big grin left my face the entire time.

This race turned out to be a great re-introduction back to the half marathon distance; I had almost forgotten how much I enjoy racing it, in fact.  And this race was just plain ol’ FUN.  I don’t think I’ve ever had any race speed by as fast as this one did – I was almost surprised a couple of times that I had already hit mile markers!  That’s the kind of race it was.

And I think it’s kind of given me a half marathon fever – I was just strolling around teh interwebs and such, not even looking for anything in particular and found one for this weekend.  Oh, and then next weekend, too!  Oooo… and a 10k/5k double race for Memorial Day weekend… I got a fevah…

I suppose I can’t call this my “season of no racing” anymore, huh….