Last night I completed my half-marathon training.
This has been an amazing, exhausting, and totally worthwhile experience, and no matter how the race itself plays out on Sunday, I will have achieved something the 20-year old me (or the 30-year old, for that matter) never would have considered. And as I ran through my training exercises last night, I remembered my very first day back in July: three miles in the heat. There were more water stops than miles in those early days, and 13.1 seemed beyond impossible.
Over the past four months, my training runs have taken me through neighborhoods and parks, on trails and up hills, on the track and on the street, in the blazing sun and in darkness. According to my Garmin, I’ve run 269 miles in 71 hours while burning 37,850 calories. I won’t even try to count the number of Advil or gallons of water I’ve consumed, or the songs and podcasts I’ve played. And suffice it to say I’ve spent the GDP of a small island nation on shoes, clothes, and other random objects to make the whole experience less
excruciating challenging. I have had good days, bad days, and a couple of really really ugly days.
Last night as I ran intervals on the track, I thought about how far I’ve come. Four months of training had led up to now, this weekend. And I am ready. Let’s rock and roll.