The Longest Stride

I had registered for two Rock N' Roll marathons before. One in Virginia Beach and one in San Diego and I didn't make it to either. But this past September I finally ran my very 1st half marathon. I estimated that I would finish in 3 hours and 40 minutes. I was in the 23rd corral, the very last group to take off. Philadelphia is the perfect place for a first race because the course is flat, thank God. I was nervous because in the last 8 weeks leading up to the race I barely had any time to train and only ran once or twice a week. The most I had ever ran was 8 miles. But there I was on a cool Sunday morning attempting to run 13.1.

There were about 2,000 of us running. There were people everywhere. There were spots along the course that were quiet and eerie and spots that were crowded with cheering spectators. High fives seemed to keep me going. All was well for a long while. I felt great, even at the 8.5 mark where I saw my mom and sister cheering before the strawberry mansion bridge. When I hit double digits I was overwhelmed with a sense of pride and accomplishment because at 10 miles I knew I was going to do this. But at mile 11 I knew I was going to break. At mile 11 my muscles seemed to just realize what was going on. Everything hurt and I took my 1st break (besides a potty break at mile 7). I wanted to stop. I was so close and I wanted so badly to just be there already. So close. Only 2 miles to go.

I took off and held on tight. Closer and closer and closer until.....

 

2 hours, 23 minutes and 59 seconds!