I ran my first half-marathon on Sunday. My sister put me up to it, claiming that if I could run three miles a couple times a week, I could run 13.1 miles no problem. Think Cinderella's sisters here. Pure evil!
We ran the first two miles, then alternated running/walking the next eight, and ran the final three for the big finish. What got me were the fast walkers; they kept getting ahead of us, even though we ran over half the race. It's the tortoise and the hare. Their pace was steady--we passed them on the run, but they'd catch up when we walked. Slow and steady.
And here's the saddest thing: We were continually overtaken by an elderly power-walker wearing a t-shirt saying this: Double-lung transplant recipient.
I admire that woman. She is brave, strong and amazing. And she kicked our asses. I like to imagine that she received young, clean and pink lungs, while ours have seen some use. After all, both our parents smoked heavily when we were growing up. But that's justifying. I have to face facts: I was beaten in a race by a woman 20 years older than me who survived a double lung transplant. That's humbling.
After the race, I dragged my right leg around like it wasn't mine. Quasimodo. My groin, my hip flexor and my knee! Ouch. Curse you, sister!
We're doing another one in March.