Remember my friend Margaret? The one who hung out with me at Alan’s pool while he was in London this summer? Well, this weekend she ran a half marathon. It was especially impressive because – prior to Sunday – the farthest she had ever run was eight miles. Oh, and she signed up for it by herself and didn’t really tell anyone she was doing it until three days before.
Pretty badass, right? I’m making her an Honorary Honey Badger Tiara in my craft room. Um. Except I don’t actually HAVE a craft room. Fine. I’m dreaming up a tiara for her. Happy now?
I just loved her approach. Probably because it’s completely different than how I would enter a race. Not that you’ll catch me running even a 5k (need I remind you of my newly-developed Old Lady Syndrome? aka Bakers Cysts?), but if I were to, I’m pretty sure I’d turn into THAT GIRL… you know, the one whose Facebook status is only about running and sleeping and carb-loading.
(Personally, I’d rather be dyslexic and crab-load. Just a preference. Plus, I’d be pleasantly surprised to find out I’d only signed up for a 13 mile course, instead of a 31 mile race.)
And I’d use training as an excuse for anything I didn’t want to do. “Sorry, can’t travel to Atlanta for work — I’m in Training.” Or, “Sorry, can’t hit your wedding shower – big run that day. You know, Training…” Or, “Jury duty? No can do – Training!”
Anyway, unlike me, Margaret decided not to milk it. She was so stealth that it only occurred to her 48 hours before the race that it was going to be weird not having anyone there to cheer her on for what was potentially a major accomplishment.
So Sunday morning Alan and I woke up and decided to surprise her at the finish. Since it was a game-time decision, we were cutting it a bit close — our best-case scenario had us arriving within 15 minutes of her crossing the line, if we’d estimated her pace accurately.
In keeping with Murphy’s Law, OF COURSE we encountered freak obstacles on our way: a fire truck closing a street temporarily so it could reverse down it, construction on a Sunday, the Vice President’s motorcade racing down Wisconsin Ave.
Throughout all this, I frantically pounded a Diet Dew and urged Alan to employ some aggressive driving tactics.
“I’m pretty sure the Secret Service will just shoot us,” he told me levelly, explaining why he wasn’t willing to ignore the Advance Detail’s motion for us to remain parked at the side of the road. “Especially since it’s September 11. I don’t think they’ll be messing around.”
That's not Margaret. Those are foam balls, ftr,
Fair enough. But once the motorcade was past us, Alan did a great job making up time, delivering me to the finish-line just minutes before Margaret came running down the shoot. Totally worth it!
Post-race, simultaneously loaded with endorphins and exhausted, Margaret wandered around in a bit of a daze. After walking past a woman holding a tiny baby, Margaret burst out with, “Wow. That baby is so — UGLY. It looks like a raisin!”
And that’s how we knew she was regaining normalcy.
Good on ya, MZ, for making a half-marathon look like a walk in the park!
[*BTW – Sadly, “Chocolate Rain” is the only line of questioning I’ve had for Margaret since I learned she was running a half-M. “Are you worried you’ll bring the Chocolate Rain? Did anyone on the trail have Chocolate Rain? What would you actually do if faced with Chocolate Rain?” Margaret is extra-awesome for indulging my questions about it.]
pithypants 