Don't Run a Half Marathon

Written by:  Mike

I'm a somewhat athletic person, or at least I like to think that I am.  I do my best to stay in shape which includes running more miles in a week than the average bear (although I don't eat, sleep and breathe running like many other members of the "running cult").  I'm also a super competitive and sometimes over-confident individual.  I've run the Tough Mudder, finished a Spartan Race and basically convinced myself that there's nothing I can't do.  So, it seemed reasonable to sign up for a half marathon and just crush it like everything else.

I assumed I could stick to my standard exercise regimen which includes pretty much whatever the hell I feel like doing on that particular day.  Some weeks I run three or four days and only lift once or twice, some weeks I lift three or four days and only run once or twice, some weeks I drink alcohol three or four days (or five or six) and forget that exercise is even a thing.  This strict process hadn't failed me yet, so why would this be any different?  I even ran 10.77 miles one time leading up to the race just to experience the physical agony that I would be suffering.  I kinda knocked it out of the park, so I was certain that I was ready for 13.1.  Holy shit was I wrong.

So race weekend finally arrived this past weekend and you better believe I was locked in.  I showed the race a huge amount of respect, probably even more than it deserved, by not ingesting a sip of alcohol on Thursday, Friday or Saturday.  The last time that happened, I was sporting a silver hoop earring in one ear (read my intro post if you're lost).  Sunday morning it was go time.  A few techno beats to get the adrenaline flowing, two bottles of water and a banana, I was freaking unstoppable.  I came roaring out of the gates, cruising past a bunch of slow idiots who weren't half the athlete I was.  By mile four I was way ahead of the 8:00 mile pace, just frying fools.  By mile 7, I was DEAD.

Let me tell you something:  It's an uneasy feeling to know that you're only halfway done with a distance race and have everything below your waist hate you.  Turns out all those slow idiots were much smarter than me.  By mile 10 I had been passed so often that I wasn't certain there was anyone left behind me.  It legitimately crossed my mind that I could be the last person to finish.  Fat, old ladies were slowing down to ask me if I was OK.  By the time I finished, I was weaker than a 30-something, drunk bachelorette at her younger sister's wedding.  I've reached a new low point in my athletic career.

So, there are a few morals to this story:  Don't run a half marathon.  And seriously, if you run a full marathon, what the hell is wrong with you?  The thought of having to run that entire thing again immediately after finishing is horrifying.  And don't underestimate fat, old ladies.  They're ruthless beings.  They will rip your heart out, show it to you, and then stomp it into the earth.