I must admit that when I bought my plane ticket for the race, I was in a bit of an emotional tailspin over the now near certain demise of my dalliance with DW (see Stalking the Dog Whisperer, Dorks Anonymous, and Self-Torture for some of the details). The details of that will have to wait until next time, but I was not in the best of states when I decided I had to get out of the contiguous United States and run My Very First Race Ever Which Also Happens to be a Half Marathon in Puerto Rico. It still makes me want to vomit a little thinking about it.
I may have been seizing my own advice from Lonely Planet in needing to realize the benefits of vacation and travel with some pals, but hope that I didn’t bite off a little more than I could chew. While it is possible for me to walk part or even all the race, the idea of a HALF MARATHON is a little intimidating – especially when I put it all in caps like that. I’ve been ‘training’ for a little over a week and am up to 2 miles. Only 11 more to go. Holy crap.
But I’m actually kind of excited about it. Terrified, definitely, but also a little excited. I never thought I’d even attempt something like this. I have friends that have done 5k’s left and right, a few that have done some triathlons, and one – the one who is responsible for organizing this particular trip for the half who has done two full-fledged marathons. When this friend has described her marathons and running habit, it sometimes comes equipped with stories of toenails falling off or sending pictures of horrible cuts on her knees from falling on the side of the road. That usually prompts me to say this is why I have different hobbies from her, as you rarely hear of yogis losing their toenails. In less than five months, however, I’ll be able to nod knowingly as I describe my attempt at the half, what I can only assume will include at least one trip to the side of the road to vomit and probably several times pleading with people to kill me then and there.
In addition to training for the race, I recently braved the running store to get properly outfitted at least in terms of footware. A complete novice – I was definitely an easy mark for the salespeople, but they resisted pushing anything truly ridiculous on me. I did run on a treadmill in my bare feet for them to analyze my running form and determine which shoes would work best. Unfortunately the high octane guy who was waiting on me, was not as speedy as I would have liked and in the desperation of not wanting to be late for my trainer (who I knew would respond sadistically with forced push-ups and planks), I ended up rushing my way through the shoes and purchase of a “VIP” membership for discounts on all my future running purchases. And to add to the fun, they rang a bell when they rung up my purchase and all of the salespeople applauded me as I ran sheepishly out of the store. It felt a little silly but also kind of appropriate, like they realized how against the concept of running I have been and what a monumental and extremely bizarre decision this was.
Why do I hate running so much, you might ask? Well, think about the last time you actually saw someone running (or God forbid, had a mirror put in front of you or a picture snapped when you were at about mile 5 or 10). They really don’t look happy at all. At their best you could say runners have a glow about them (the sweat) but most have the air of grim determination about them. I have not seen myself yet while running but at least one of my gym-mates has asked me in a concerned manner if I was ok, which is never a good sign. And I have seen myself afterward, and while I do feel pretty good when its done, that is diminished somewhat when I see that my entire face is bright red and looks as if I’ve been wandering lost in the desert of fitness for days on end with none of the benefits of thin thighs or a tight butt.
Speaking of butts, I’m feeling a little self-conscious of mine these days. This is mainly because the same day I bought my new running shoes, my Trainer felt the need to update me on Calvin’s* affections. Now Calvin is the same trainer who bizarrely offered me oatmeal a few weeks back (see A Tale of Too Many Trainers). I foolishly thought his feelings had waned, but my Trainer ruined that illusion. He decided to wait until I was face down on the hamstring curl machine thingy (that’s its technical name) and tell me that Calvin* had stopped him when he was on his way in to train me and kept pestering him, asking him who he was training next. This was how my Trainer relayed the conversation:
Calvin*: “Which girl you training next?”
Trainer: “The girl in the pink shirt” (here’s where he explained that he didn’t want to even say my name since that was sure to start Calvin* up)
Calvin*: “Which girl?”
Trainer: “(sigh) That one. Adrienne”
Calvin*: (pretending he doesn’t know who I am) “Adrienne? Adrienne? OH, Adrienne. With the (grunting sound) padonka donk”
Here’s where my Trainer started cracking up and I started nervously laughing, almost hyperventilating. For there are fewer positions more vulnerable at the gym than the one I was in at the time. It was great motivation though to really work out as hard as I could and not delay the process any further. Yep, I have now been described as having a padonka donk. Clearly I can’t start running fast enough.
So let’s leave creepy Calvin* and return to my forthcoming trip to Puerto Rico. I’ve definitely picked a good race to start with as this one comes equipped with stations where us running “divas” will be given feather boas and tiaras. Few things are better than a tiara. I have one that I keep in the living room for when I have to do something horrible like clean as it glams up the experience. If I’m able to finish the race, I’ll also get a diva medal. And let’s not forget the fact that I’ll be in Puerto Rico! A few other friends will be joining us for the trip, and one has promised to alternately chase me/run in front of me with a tray of cocktails to “good cop/bad cop” inspire me to finish the race. And my organizing friend is setting us up with some pampering at her aunt’s spa, we get to meet her family and have some bevvies and good times, and her dad has promised to lead our cheering squad.
Now if only I could find a way to make a half-marathon something less than 13 miles…
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