Will Run for Wine

Up until this past weekend, I thought the most amazing thing my body could do was give birth. I certainly never thought it could run a race.  While I’m totally aware that 3.1 miles isn’t a marathon, it is a whole lot farther than I’ve ever run before. 

Pre-race week, I cursed myself with every run—with every breath!  My mind (in addition to the day-to-day torment it normally spins) was taunting me with vehemence.  When I registered, I didn’t realize how many agoraphobic buttons public running might push.  The closer to race day I got, the more I thought I might need Xanax to get through it.

The night before, Kenny tried talking me out of it.

“What if you get hurt?” he had asked between commercials of Adventure Time.

“I won’t get hurt,” I calmly replied.  But silently, I thought.

Oh my God.  What if I have a heart attack?  Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?!

“You could break your leg,” he said.  “You might break both legs!” he had continued.

As I brushed my teeth and contemplated for the millionth time again why I had signed up, I tried to shove in some positive thoughts where I was currently housing an insane asylum of rabid butterflies.

Race morning followed a fitful night of sleep.  As Stancey and I nervously waited for our start time, my seasoned runner father quietly took in the excitement while I rehearsed several ill-fated situations that would result in me embarrassing my entire family. 

With moments to spare, I began making plans in case something went awry. Thankfully it appeared there were a lot of bushes along the course that I could dive behind, ditch my running number, and place a call to John from my iPhone/iPod.

Strategically placing us at the end of the pack, Stancey and I danced in place several minutes before the swarm of people dissipated.  Our conservative start gave us the mental advantage we needed as we spent most of the race passing runners instead of being passed.

Maybe descending and ascending the hills of Elywood Park on mile three made me delirious, but I choked myself up thinking about how awesome it would be if I grabbed Stancey’s hand and we crossed the finish line together.

But at the final bend, Stancey hastily waved me ahead as she tied an unruly shoelace.

In 32.01 minutes, I completed my first race.  And the simple cheers of the crowd nearly turned my tired, varicose veins into wings.

Later, after Stancey and I had a chance to reflect and breathe, I shared with her my vision of finishing the race hand in hand. 

In less time than it took her to catch up with me, she answered, “Woman, I would have pushed you down.”

And for all the grumbling and second-guessing, two days later, I went and did it again.  I registered us for yet another race--this one promising a glass of wine (for me anyway) at the finish line. 

Until then, I’ll just keep on training, maybe even harder this time.

And Stancey, like she did the race before, will probably just show up and run.