I Don't Need No Stinking Training!

Well folks, I proved once again that my preferred method of training, otherwise known as "Wingin' It", is not one that will or should be embraced by the masses. Yes, I competed in my first half marathon—that's 13.1 miles for those that don't know. No, I did not train, which is to say I didn't do any sort of exercise for the 2 ½ months leading up to the race. Nope. None. No running. No swimming. No biking. No speed walking. All I did was stand backwards on a bus, fall asleep after eating burritos, and take advantage of every possible opportunity to sit and watch mindless programming on the boob tube.

Now you'd think after my most recent triathlon debacle that I would embrace the concept of training. Apparently, I don't learn lessons on the first five attempts. Regardless of the fact that I made no effort, aside from thinking about exercising, to get out and run or move in some way, I knew that I could tackle a half marathon. Sure I've never run that far in my life, but it seemed totally doable.

I know what you're thinking… Cardelia, why would you sign up for a half marathon when you despise running? Furthermore, why would you compete in one when you made no effort whatsoever to train or prepare for such a fete of athleticism? Well, friends, the answers to these questions are simple. I'm willing to try just about anything. I do love a race, and when my non-running friend suggested we participate in this race back in January (you know, back when I was convinced that I was on the path to getting into shape), I was all for it. I mean, I was training for a triathlon in the first place, so continuing marathon training afterwards didn't seem like such a stretch. Little did I know at the time how unmotivated I was to train for the triathlon. As for not dropping out of the race when it became obvious that I was scarily unprepared, well, I'm no quitter. Sure I quit ballet, gymnastics, band, drama, debate, my job at the ice cream place, and various other jobs and activities, but when I've got money on the line—I don't like to lose it (and when it comes down to it, I'm a penny-pincher through and through...but don't call me cheap!) That, and I slept through a half marathon for which I had registered (and paid) a couple years ago. Sure, I have the shirt that makes people believe I participated, but it just makes me feel ashamed every time I put it on to go to the gym.

In the interest of not being a total sham, I dedicated myself to running this half marathon. Also, the other folks in our group dropped out, so it was just me and my non-runner of a friend who organized the "team". I knew I could complete the race, and I didn't want to let anyone down—especially myself. Perhaps I also suffer from a bit of misguided ambition and over-confidence in my minimal athletic abilities.

The day of the race arrived, and, although I decided one week before the race to make no effort to exercise at the last minute, I was feeling good. I was feeling confident. I was ready to tackle the world. I was also ready to take advantage of the free post-race wine tasting, but we'll get to that later.

I woke up bright and early at 3:45 in the morning, threw on my running attire, grabbed my bag of post-race necessities, and headed out the door. I was the designated driver since my friend's house was on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. I left the house and headed in her direction. When I got to her neighborhood, I stopped in front of her apartment, called her, and waited for her to appear. After what felt like an eternity, she had yet to step outside. I felt slightly antsy that we were cutting our timing a little close (not knowing what the parking situation would be AND knowing that the last shuttle from the parking lot to the start of the race was at 6:10 AM. She called me to ask where I was, and I informed her that I was in front of her house, going as far as to tell her what the cross street was. Then, I looked at the street sign and realized that I was parked a block away from her house. I drove down the street, picked her up and we were on our way.

Thankfully, she was more prepared than I was on the food front. She brought enough "energy" food to share. We savored our Clif Bars as we headed up to Sonoma. My friend marveled at my cool and collected confidence about the race. She was amazed by how unprepared I was and how it didn't seem to affect me in the least. She, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. I told her it was just my vast experience with racing (I have competed in 7 triathlons and 4 foot races after all). Of course, it's pretty obvious that I was just enjoying some quality time as I was floating down the river known as Denial.

We reached the parking lot for the race and it was a barren wasteland of nothingness. Apparently, our fears of being late and without a parking space were completely unfounded. We boarded the bus, made our way to the starting line, and stood around in the chilly morning air for another hour before the race started. After much waiting and quite a bit of huddling to keep warm, the race began. I kept up a running pace for the first mile. Then, once I crossed that mile marker, I dropped away from my friend and started a run/walk routine. The first five miles were pretty uneventful and went fairly quickly. As I was working my way through, I thought, this is going to be a very uninteresting story.

Once I passed through the first five miles, my pace slowed down a bit. I was getting pretty hungry. Now when I say "pretty hungry", I mean I was starving. It had been over two hours since I ate that Clif Bar, and well…I needed something. Luckily for me, I pocketed a small bag of "Sports Beans" before leaving the car. Those little sugar and electrolyte-filled jellybeans were the only thing I had to consume. Trying to make them last, I only ate 2-3 per mile. Once I got to Mile 8, I finished the rest of them. And that's when things got bad.

My pace slowed. My hips hurt. The soles of my feet were screaming. I found myself walking more and more. The more I walked, the slower I moved. At one point, I realized that I felt less pain when I ran, so I tried to keep that up, but it was next to impossible. I was so exhausted…and hungry. Around the middle of Mile 9, I noticed an ambulance driving toward me on the road. Someone must have been injured. As much as I wanted to feel sympathy for the race victim, I was more interested in figuring out a way to get a ride on the ambulance with them. Surely someone would take pity on me and get me out of the misery of this foot race!

I soldiered on. My hands were so swollen that I couldn't make a fist. I was so exhausted that I knew I couldn't stop, lest I never start moving again. Around Mile 11, I happened upon two older ladies (and if you didn't know, my people are the elderly and obese). They were talking about being the last finishers in the race. As I came upon them (walking, mind you), I informed them that I'd be right there with them. Then one of them said, "Well, she's got a hip injury, so we can't move fast at all."

Yes, in my head, I was thinking "Score! I found the one person who won't beat me!" Then, as I thought that, I decided to pick up the pace and run…for about fifteen feet. I commenced walking again, and within minutes, the lady with the hip injury passed me. In my mind, I thought I was moving at a pretty good clip. In reality, I was walking slower than a retiree with a bad hip who was limping along at a sluggish pace.

Trying not to let the mental race get me down, I walked on (sprinkling a little jogging in for good measure). I could see the ladies far ahead of me. I had a sinking suspicion that they might beat me. About this time I really had to go to the bathroom. I mean, really. At Mile 12, there was a port-a-potty. I chose to use the facilities. Once I finished my business, I tried to pull my pants up…and that's when disaster struck. I was stuck in a port-a-potty, confined to the bad smells of a tiny toilet, and I had lost my basic motor functions. I couldn't pull my pants up. I tried and tried, but my hands were so swollen, that I was unable to hold my pants enough to pull them up. As anyone who has ever spent time in a port-a-potty knows, you don't want to touch anything in there. I thrashed around trying to pull up my pants so as not to risk a ticket for public indecency while still trying not to fall on the toilet, or accidentally lean on the urinal for that matter. It was hell, but I managed.

I left the scene of my temporary pantsless captivity, and continued onto my final 1.1 miles of the run. I walked, I jogged, I walked, I walked. I was going to make it. As I rounded the corner onto the final drag of the race, which was probably the final half-mile, I decided to go out with pride. Despite the fact that I was in some intense pain and couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why anyone would want to run a full marathon (since, at this point, a half marathon seemed excessive), I started to run. Okay, so it was a slow jog, but it was better than walking. It was also my only chance to pass the hip injury, and pass I did (granted, I passed her fairly close to the finish line, in much the same way I passed the one-legged boy just feet from the finish line in the 10K I ran in New York a couple years ago).

I ran all the way to the finish line, and all I could think was "FEED ME." I felt like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I crossed that finish line at over 3 hours (which is kind of pathetic, but let's just move past that, shall we?), and I was glad. More than relief, I felt an intense need to eat. Apparently, I looked some kind of horrible because people along the run (specifically, the coaches for various teams, asked me about my well being), and after I crossed the finish line, a race volunteer made an effort to engage me in conversation. He asked me questions about myself. Basic things like, what was my name? Where did I live? I gave him curt answers, and followed everything up with "I need to eat." I made a beeline for the food table, and he continued to ask me questions (presumably to make sure I wasn't going to collapse) and offer guidance regarding the location of post-race activities. Within minutes of eating cheese, crackers, oranges, and bananas, I felt like a new person.

I knew I should look for my friend in the finish area, but I decided she MUST have gone to the wine tasting. So, I wandered over to the main tent, collected my wine glass, and proceeded to taste as much wine as possible (while still keeping an eye out for a tiny, cute blonde, with a white tank top). Unfortunately for me, the crowd was full of people fitting her description, AND my contacts were all foggy. So, I couldn't really see. I continued tasting and walking around. I borrowed a stranger's cell phone to call her (even though I was fairly sure she left her phone in my car…along with my phone).

Then, after an hour of hunting, I found her standing inside the finish area. As I approached her, she was talking to a volunteer about looking for me in the medical tent. She didn't see me cross the finish line (and she had been there for two hours since she completed the race in just over 2 hours—not too shabby for a non-runner), so she was worried that I fell victim to my own lack of training. I tapped her on the shoulder, and she was stunned. I then urged her to leave the area, walked her over to the wine tasting tents. I was a bit tipsy, and I needed her to get into my same mindset, lest she be a little annoyed with my inability to find her within a reasonable amount of time (not to mention the fact that I selfishly chose to get drunk and abandon her while she worried for my own safety and well-being).

We wandered around. She drank wine. We ran and got sandwiches. Then we went to a spa and luxuriated in the hot tub, enjoyed massages, and hung out by the pool while eating cookies. It was a glorious day.

The next five days, however, were far from glorious. They were just painful. I suppose that's what I get for running 13.1 miles without any sort of conditioning.

Lesson learned.

Or not.

Time will tell.