As you know (but probably couldn’t give a crap), I scooted through a half marathon over Memorial Day weekend and turns out, I survived to tell you about it.
Two noteworthy events: I recruited my own personal cheering section (Hubs and MamaP) to help distract me from the task at hand and I pilfered so many Trader Joe’s yummy-rific granola bars at the finish line that I feel simultaneously smug and ashamed.
Race Morning unfolded in complete chaos because I did everything I warned my running class NOT to do: The night before, I ate very running tummy unfriendly foods (handfuls of Doritos, lime cheesecake, and a brat). Then, we stayed up way too late because Hubs was trying to figure out the race logistics while I somberly debated on whether I should wear my black tank top OR my black t-shirt. (Caught in a fit of indecision, I ending up wearing both and had to ditch the t-shirt at mile 4). Race morning came much too early and during the frantic car ride to the starting line (Hubs was driving), I inhaled a sloppy peanut butter bagel, washed it down with Grape Gatorade, put on my makeup (diva alert), called MamaP, did my hair, slathered on sunscreen (which proved to be unnecessary) AND pinned my race number to my shorts, all while buckled in. I called myself a very talented multitasker (which is not a word); Hubs called me ill-prepared.
Anyway. Hubs dropped me off at the start (just in time for a pee break) and snapped the only pic with our beloved Nikon because the threat of rain (and probably my early morning antics) had his eyes twitching.
(This look brought to you by using self tanner on my legs but not on my arms. I’m awesome.)
“Hey, good luck, wife for life!”
“Thanks! Tell Mom to look for me, I’ll be the one wearing a white hat!”
And then I was off in search of a port-a-potty and Hubs drove off in search of MamaP (she was later recovered in a Walmart parking lot, eating garlic bagel chips and drinking gas station cappuccino).
By some miracle, I ended up at the starting line with a fully charged iPod and running watch, an empty bladder and peanut buttery-Gatorade breath. I was ready.
The gun went off. I started running. This part is boring so let’s skip over it.
MamaP’s undying enthusiasm and Hubs calm disposition made them quite the cheering team. They trucked all over town, lending their support, taking pictures…even hollering at me from a busy intersection. They were cheering lunatics, I tell you.
“SIL, I think I see her white hat – my God, here she comes!!! Let me get my camera!”
“Um. Carol. That person is a man.”
“Oh. My bad. Are the bagel chips still in the car?”
Here, proof of MamaP’s many false starts.
As the white hat sighting tally continued to climb, the candace sighting remained a concerning constant:
But, thankfully MamaP was able to *finally* capture a picture of me, which thrilled us both to no end.
Conversely, it was not hard for ME to spot MamaP. I can recognize her voice anywhere. I’ve been loving that voice since my days of backstroking around in her gut. And it doesn’t hurt that her fiery red hair is a beacon of something (not sure what) that I could never mistake as anything but my one and only, MamaP. Her and Hubs cheered like crazy for me and I gobbled up the attention like it was one of my MIL’s desserts.
Oh and the fact that our wedding song popped onto my iPod during the last mile and the finish line was at the very place I got married almost *exactly* two years ago and knowing the two of them were together, my new family and my old family, waiting to root me on at the finish was a total warm fuzzies overload. I cried.
I finished and have a medal, a bushel of granola bars and a very thankful heart to prove it.
Then we went to Perkins to stuff our faces, the end.