13(.1) is my Lucky Number

On Saturday I ran in the Indianapolis half marathon.  I have run this race many times over the last ten years since we've moved here, but it is always a challenge, and always a thrill.  Last year I skipped it and while I had some regret, race day turned out to be cold, windy, and rainy,  and so it was with great satisfaction that morning that I smugly stayed in my bed and left the running to more dedicated types.  But this year I registered early and began my training in the summer.  It's really not a big deal .  Just run moderate runs during the week and then a longer run on the weekend.  Each week an extra mile on that Sunday morning trek out and back.  I ran on my own during training, my ipod keeping me company with audiobooks playing in my ears to distract me from the miles.  It is like having someone talk to you and not having to talk back, thereby saving precious oxygen.  Sometimes I would listen to music, but the books were preferred on the long runs.  It's great to read a good book and never have to turn a page! 

I capped out my training with some two-hour runs, figuring that this would bring me close enough to the 13.1 mile mark.  Anything extra I needed on race day would come from adrenaline, the spectator energy, and a prayer.  On Friday I went to the race expo and picked up my packet, which included my race chip, number (cool, it had my name printed on it!) and  tee shirt.  It is fun to go to those expos.  Lots of energy and excitement with the anticipation of the race the next morning.  There were also vendors with free samples of something called "muscle milk" (no thanks, my muscles do ok without their own milk) and runner gels (you squirt them out into your mouth as you run to get some extra energy).  I've never tried them and figure I'll leave those to the marathon runners.  I can make it a couple of hours without having to deal with that gooey mess. 

The night before I ate lightly and drank some extra water, not wanting to have any worries about a full stomach on race day morning.  I don't know much about carb loading, but figure at this point, what I eat the night before it not going to make or break my race experience.  I laid out my clothes for the morning, pinning my race number to my shirt, and including an old t-shirt of Bob's to wear on top and eventually discard when it warmed up a bit a few miles into the race.  Up early the next day and out the door before 7 a.m. for an 8:30 race start. 

There is nothing like the pre-race atmosphere.  When you get up early on a Saturday you feel like you are the only one awake in the world.  You drive out of your neighborhood and every house light is out, the moon still up in the sky.  But then you arrive at the race and can't imagine why everyone wouldn't want to be there!  People talking, laughing, and taking pre-race photos.  Lines at the port-a-potties, the smell of Ben-Gay in the air.  Some people jog around to warm up, others sit on a curb and gather their thoughts.  I found my corral, the area where you wait for the start, organized by your expected finishing time.  Music is blaring from speakers, motivational songs like the theme from "Rocky" and more contemporary tunes from the Black Eyed Peas.  Overhead is a humungous American flag, hanging from a giant crane.  This tradition began in 2001 when the race was run in the shadow of 9/11.  I was at the race that day and there was a palpable heaviness in the air.  Someone sang "God Bless America" that morning before the race and tears flowed freely. It was all still so raw that day and the emotions spilled over.   The flag always looks majestic, offset by the deep blue sky of the morning and this year a local singer sang the national anthem with a cool country twang.  Runners applauded their approval and waited for the start, bouncing, shaking and shimmying with pent up energy.   

When you are in corral G (for the slow folks!), the start of the race is a bit anti-climactic.  You hear the gunshot but rather than taking off, you just stand there.  Little by little you inch further up to the start line and about three to four minutes later you finally are off and running!  It takes time to settle into your pace; the crowd is thick (over 6000 runners) and the adrenaline is pumping.  I typically take a few miles to find my rhythm and I try not to run too fast.  I listened to my audiobook and thought about all of my training, reassuring myself that I could do it! 

The course was beautiful.  The beginning miles wind through older neighborhoods and up the main road off the highway, but then you get into the middle miles, which are in the park.  This time of year  there are moments that take your breath away.  The leaves were red, gold and brilliant orange and we passed by small lakes that reflected the fall colors and the blue sky.  I took time to thank God for the ability to run, and looked to the sky to say hello to my dear mother, who I know was cheering me on.  There were water stops every few miles, manned by enthusiastic volunteers.  They handed out water and words of encouragement, much appreciated by all of us. 

Okay, so here's the thing.  Two hour training runs seemed sufficient, but I didn't take into account that my pace has slowed over the years.  My best race time ever was one hour, fifty two minutes.  This year, at two hours, I was only at mile 10!!  Oy, that was not a good feeling.  But then I considered how awesome it is just to be able to run this distance at all, and how really cool it is to be out there with so many other happy runners.  And I kept plugging.  A few of the hills were imposing, and I decided to walk them and save my legs for the less challenging terrain.  Miles 10 and 11 were the most challenging; too far from the finish to get excited and my legs were growing more weary with each step.  But the spectators seemed to sense my fatigue and cheered me on.  Having your name printed right on your race number is a brilliant idea.  When you hear someone yell "You can do it Laura!", you just have to smile and say thanks.  You don't know these people at all, but you feel like they know you and want you to make it. 

Somewhere along mile 12 the course splits and the runners doing the full marathon run one way, and the rest of us run the other.  I watch the marathoners plod off at that fork in the road and am amazed, knowing that they are not even halfway to their destination.  It really is an incredible fete and something I would love to do (but probably not enough to actually do it!).  The rest of us turned towards the finish line and somewhere deep inside I found a bit more spunk, and small kick in my stride.  I switched from audiobook to music, some Bruce Springsteen serenaded me down the stretch.  I sang along out loud, so grateful for the sight of the finish, and the promise of a medal to hang around my neck.   I always get tearful at the end, so full of happiness, pride and gratitude for my blessings.

And a bit of comic relief...as I was closing in on the finish line, the crowd was screaming and cheering me on.  To the point where I felt incredibly humbled  and a bit shocked by their adoration.  I should've known something was not quite as it appeared.  I heard some honking behind me and turned around to see that just a few yards back there was a runner speeding towards the finish, flanked by two motorcycles with flashing lights and honking horns.  You guessed it, the winner of the full marathon was finishing his race as I was finishing my half marathon.  I laughed at the irony and tried not to feel too pathetic.  He ran twice the distance as me in the same time.  Awesome! 

But that is the thing about running.  There will always be runners faster than you, and slower too.  It doesn't matter because for me, running is something I do for myself.  I wasn't born in Kenya, and I love chocolate and relaxing way too much to ever be an elite athlete.  But as I walked back to my car on shaky legs, my medal glinted in the sunlight and I might as well have won the race.  I hope to be back next year, and will try to outrun the Kenyan by a few extra steps!