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Run, run, run, just as fast as you can

Thanksgiving has come and gone, my fridge is full of leftovers and my tummy is still full of pie–pumpkin, apple, lemon meringue, banana cream, key lime…there was a lot of pie.  I have actually attended no less than three Thanksgiving dinners, thankfully not on Thanksgiving.  While I am thankful for a list of people and  blessings, I want to talk about one in a bit more detail.

Thursday morning I ran my first race since my car accident.  My fall down the stairs shockingly fixed my hips and I have been training for weeks and weeks to try and get my body back in shape–albeit a muscular shape (BMI Nazi’s, I still hate you).  In fact, the last half I averaged a 9.5 minute mile, and that was after running up a canyon.  Admittedly, that means the last half–the 9.5 minute mile half–was running down a canyon, but two miles without stopping is still a pretty big deal.  But even so, I finished at my goal time, and I didn’t pass out upon crossing the finish line.

I FINISHED A 6K!  ON THANKSGIVING!  WITHOUT DYING!

Hi, that’s a big freaking deal for me.  I realize there are some of you marathon junkies who scoff at the idea of a measly six kilometers, but I also realize there are probably more of you who think that finishing a race–regardless of the length–is pretty great.  Please don’t get me started on the details of why, exactly, the organizers thought a 6k would be preferable to a 5k…the logistics just don’t make sense to me whatsoever.  But hey, I’m not in charge, I’m just there for the free T-shirt and the free bagel, an extra ‘k’ be damned.

Alright, now that I’m over the elation of finishing this race and hitting my goal time and the general “I’m Awesome, Worship Me” vibe between the lines so far…let me be very honest.

I sobbed as soon as I crossed the finish line.  Handsome was there cheering me on and I couldn’t stop the enormous rush of emotion that came over me.  I have worked a long time–both in training before my accident, and in training over the last couple of months–to be able to cross that finish line.  There were a lot of recent evenings spent packed in ice to try and remove inflammation in my legs, my hips and my back; at times I actually didn’t know if I would be able to run on Thanksgiving.  Crossing the finish line I couldn’t help but feel an indescribable flood of a thousand different emotions.  I was out of breath, my legs felt like jello, and for the last thirty minutes it had been raining.  As Handsome went to find me some water and a bagel, I put my head down and tried to come up with any word to explain how I felt.  Nothing came.  I still am at a loss, actually.  However, the image of me sitting on the curb in the rain, with my head on my knees and tears streaming down my face seems to be a fairly accurate summation.

I finished.  One race down, one half-marathon to go.  I am already signed up for the Salt Lake Half in April–are you in?

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