Yesterday we ran the DC Rock and Roll Half Marathon with a college friend of mine. When we went to collect my friend form the airport, The Girl asked me what my target finish time was. "Saturday." Thinking I had asked a question, she said, "Yes, Saturday is tomorrow. What's your expected finish time?" "I know," I told her. "I want to finish on Saturday."
Generally, I figure I can run a half in two hours. If I were a real runner, I could train hard and set goals and probably get a better time, but I'm much bigger than "real runners," even though I don't think I'm carrying any extra weight. I don't set goal times (beyond the intentionally vague "around two hours") Yesterday, running past a high school I didn't recognize, I realized there was a sweet spot: I could have pushed harder, but if I reached a point where I was pushing so hard that it wasn't fun anymore, I would have gone too far. Instead, I maintained my usual pace. I went a little faster up hills, because no matter what the sport or terrain, I consider climbing a personal specialty.
At seven miles, I still felt pretty good, and that was at the end of a very long climb. At ten, I realized I was hungry. Really hungry. When my friend and I crossed the finish line ( a solid half hour behind The Girl), I dove happily into the buffet of post-run food offered by the sponsors. We stopped at a grocery on the way back to our place and bought an excellent loaf of bread so we could have grilled cheese for lunch. Then, somehow, except for a brief nap break the girls took (during which I read for a while and did dishes), we ate for the rest of the day. We got frozen custard, played two games of Settlers of Catan over snacks, went out for pizza and beer, and couldn't finish our dinners. I know I ate way too much. I regret only the grocery store bagel I grabbed at the finish line. I'll hike off the rest.
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