It happened as many of my best/worst decisions do, over a glass of wine (or two) with family. My sister-by-love mentioned that she’d love to walk a half-marathon (13.1 miles for the metrically challenged). A quick google search later, four of us were signed up for a big one out of town. We made the decision in late summer and the race was in early December, so we had plenty of time to train, right?
Fast forward to late November and suddenly I realize the race is less than two weeks away. The farthest I have walked since we signed up is five miles and it is way too late to start training in earnest. But now that we are living downtown, my walking has gotten a lot more consistent and I am feeling cocky. So I decide it is going to be a “no rehearsal” race. I keep up with my usual walking and disregard all expert advice about training for long distance races. And guess what? I manage to finish. All four of us finish, so we decide to do another one in January. This time we will train properly.
Flash forward to last week. While the race day forecast is unseasonably warm, the week before it is filled with ice storms and sub-freezing temperatures. Predictably, my foot reacts poorly and I can barely stand on it, even with HAL dialed up to 11. With each day, the odds of me making the race decrease drastically. My patient, long-suffering husband reminds me that I can’t control everything and there will be other races. But some friends also remind me that I usually manage to find a way. So I don’t give up.
And sure enough, two days before the race, the weather improves. And so does my foot. By race morning, I am feeling confident. Or blindly optimistic. Or delusional. In any event, I decide to go for it. And not only do I finish, but I beat my previous time by 20 minutes. And my sister-by-love beats her time, too. And my niece and cousin, who are actually runners, finish handily. Apparently this is now something we do. We have already signed up for another race in March.
Today I am sore in places I didn’t even know existed. And my foot is not especially happy about my life choices. But I am feeling pretty good. On January 7, 2014, I was diagnosed with RSD. https://valeriersd.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-post-where-i-catch-everyone-up.html I was introduced to terms like “incurable”, “remission”, “coping strategies”, and “medical disability retirement.” But after four years, months of physical therapy, multiple nerve blocks, several unsuccessful prescriptions, and a spinal cord stimulator, I just finished my second half marathon. And I think I have earned my bumper sticker.
