Yup, that's me, grabbing my butt cheeks
A friend asked me a tough question: "What makes someone want to run a half-marathon and have to pay for it, too?"
It's a good question, one that I think about every time I reach the eight-kilometre mark on our route. I'm good for eight kilometers; everything after that hurts.
My husband and I are training for a half-marathon race in Toronto in September. It costs $75 for each of us to enter, plus travelling costs, and we'll need a hotel room the night before the race.
I ran my first half-marathon – 21.1 kilometres - last year in Picton. Nothing can top that experience. The air felt clean and easy on my asthmatic lungs. And everyone in the town comes out and stands along the route to cheer you on, offer you juice and homemade cookies and wave signs that encourage you to keep going.
Training for that run was one of the toughest things I’ve done. By the time we got up to the 15-kilometre mark in our training runs, I was running so slowly I was basically walking and my glutes (my bum cheeks) were so sore, I was running around Kingston, for everyone to see, holding each cheek with my hands.
I vowed this year I'd be better prepared. We started training earlier and I’ve been doing hill and interval work.
Slowly, over the past few weeks, I've noticed the runs becoming easier. When we set off our latest run, I knew it was going to be special. My lungs felt great. My legs felt great. I felt like I could just keep going and going and going.
Our training schedule dictated that we had to do 15 kilometres.
Somewhere just after 10 kilometres, we noticed the skies darkening. And soon I was getting wet. I thought it was my husband's sweat hitting me in the face. If only.
It was droplets of rain, the size of cherries.
By kilometre 11, it was pouring. We had ponds in our shoes. Our clothes were slicked to us. We were going to keep running, but then the thunder and lightning started.
We had to head home.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, we had finished 12 kilometres. We were supposed to do three more - but how? When you're training for these runs, it's the last few kilometres that hurt the most, so the pain was just about to come. I felt like we were throwing away 12 kilometres.
As the thunder boomed, I yelled to my husband that I had a plan.
"We can run on the spot for 18 minutes, that's how long another three kilometres would take us!"
He stared blankly at me, droplets rolling off his nose.
"Like doggie paddling, but running, but in the garage," I explained.
We were like fish out of water. We had nowhere to go. No way to run safely with the lightning show. And my hubby was not having any of my running-on-the-spot shenanigans.
So, now, next weekend, we have to attempt 15 kilometres again.
If we get too far behind in our training, I'll be that girl, jogging through Kingston, barely holding on, holding her bum cheeks.
What makes me want to run a half-marathon and have to pay for it, too?
It's a good question, one that I think about every time I reach the eight-kilometre mark on our route. I'm good for eight kilometers; everything after that hurts.
My husband and I are training for a half-marathon race in Toronto in September. It costs $75 for each of us to enter, plus travelling costs, and we'll need a hotel room the night before the race.
I ran my first half-marathon – 21.1 kilometres - last year in Picton. Nothing can top that experience. The air felt clean and easy on my asthmatic lungs. And everyone in the town comes out and stands along the route to cheer you on, offer you juice and homemade cookies and wave signs that encourage you to keep going.
Training for that run was one of the toughest things I’ve done. By the time we got up to the 15-kilometre mark in our training runs, I was running so slowly I was basically walking and my glutes (my bum cheeks) were so sore, I was running around Kingston, for everyone to see, holding each cheek with my hands.
I vowed this year I'd be better prepared. We started training earlier and I’ve been doing hill and interval work.
Slowly, over the past few weeks, I've noticed the runs becoming easier. When we set off our latest run, I knew it was going to be special. My lungs felt great. My legs felt great. I felt like I could just keep going and going and going.
Our training schedule dictated that we had to do 15 kilometres.
Somewhere just after 10 kilometres, we noticed the skies darkening. And soon I was getting wet. I thought it was my husband's sweat hitting me in the face. If only.
It was droplets of rain, the size of cherries.
By kilometre 11, it was pouring. We had ponds in our shoes. Our clothes were slicked to us. We were going to keep running, but then the thunder and lightning started.
We had to head home.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, we had finished 12 kilometres. We were supposed to do three more - but how? When you're training for these runs, it's the last few kilometres that hurt the most, so the pain was just about to come. I felt like we were throwing away 12 kilometres.
As the thunder boomed, I yelled to my husband that I had a plan.
"We can run on the spot for 18 minutes, that's how long another three kilometres would take us!"
He stared blankly at me, droplets rolling off his nose.
"Like doggie paddling, but running, but in the garage," I explained.
We were like fish out of water. We had nowhere to go. No way to run safely with the lightning show. And my hubby was not having any of my running-on-the-spot shenanigans.
So, now, next weekend, we have to attempt 15 kilometres again.
If we get too far behind in our training, I'll be that girl, jogging through Kingston, barely holding on, holding her bum cheeks.
What makes me want to run a half-marathon and have to pay for it, too?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home