This past Sunday I ran my very first half marathon. I started training about three months ago and never once mentioned it here on Ooph because I was pretty sure like many other great ideas I have had in my lifetime, I wouldn’t do it. But I did. And it was awesome.

One thing that surprised the hell out of me was how many times I cried during those thirteen miles. Not from pain, that would come the day after, but from this overwhelming sense of doing something really awesome.

The moment the race began I cried. Maybe a little out of fear, but mostly because I looked over and saw J and sweet little ColtonColton aka: Moose, Duece, Colt, CJ
Age: 3
Favorite Word: Fart
Hobbies:  Playing in the dirt, setting off fire alarms at preschool and bossing people around.
Best Qualities:  The sweetest disposition this side of the Mississippi. waving at me. I can do this, I thought.

My teenagers were of course too busy practicing their eye rolls and having speed texting contests to come out and support me.

I talked to a friend of mine for the first mile. No, not on the phone. Though if you know me well, that wouldn’t be out of your realm of consideration.  She was running with me. We joked about settling in because this was our life for the next couple of hours. We laughed as we ran straight down hill the first mile and considered the fact that we would have to come back up that same hill in twelve miles. (It was not nearly as funny two hours later. Let. Me. Tell. You.)

I then turned on my music and the two of us parted ways as we run at different paces. The next couple of miles were uneventful. I would pass people, people would pass me. I took mental notes of certain ones, sure I would be passing them later. If not, I planned on tripping them at the turn around. What? They were all size zeros and half dressed and looking at me like, “Oh look. That “MOM” is here running, how cute.” I. WAS. TRIPPING. THEM.

At just over four miles something insane happened. I looked up to see a couple of guys on bikes coming down the other side. Over my music I could hear people cheering in front of me and I thought, well how hard is that on a bike people? Seriously. I could go that fast too.

It was then that I noticed there were two runners behind the bikes. HOLY CRAP. Those effers were almost finished with the damn thing and I had barely even begun.

I started crying. Not because they were beating me. Though that sucked. But dude. They were first. Like. On. Top. Of. Their. Game. All the conditioning paid off and they were racing for FIRST place. I cried because everyone was cheering for them and they were achieving a dream, and I was too. How great is that. It was one of those “Wow, I am doing something REALLY cool here" moments. And. I cried.

Do you know how hard it is to run while you cry? You have a lump in your throat that doesn’t allow you to breath properly. Also. It's exhausting and don’t even get me started on how dehydrating the whole process is. So, in an effort to not need a nap at mile seven, I sucked it up. That and someone ran by me with a t-shirt on that said, “There’s no crying in running.” My bad. I’m new at this.

After the excitement of realizing I would never be first or judging by the hordes of people in front of me 2,472nd, it got pretty boring so I started to people watch.

There was a girl in a blue tank that somehow managed to pass me like six times and she just passed me again. I wanted to get to the bottom of it. How the hell did she do that? I never remembered passing her. Was she just toying with me and hiding behind a tree every time I passed only to jump out and pass me again? I was going to have to keep an eye on her.

Then there was the skinny chic in the black tights that would stay ten feet in front of me no matter how fast or slow I ran. WTF? Did she have a rear view mirror? How the hell was she doing that? I wanted to know because do you know how handy that shit would be as a mother? If only I could catch her to ask. 

There was a guy in blue shorts that would pretend to be stretching his calf every time I passed him, which was like fifteen times. Then, as soon as I passed, he would run by me at a good clip and once he was twenty feet ahead of me, he would start walking. He'd wait until I was close and start stretching his calf again only to take off running and pass me. Whatever works pal.

My favorite was the hot little number that blasted by me at mile four with her tiny pink sports bra and black shorts. The “shorts” were SO short Colton’s butt would have hung out of them. You can imagine how much of her's was.

I was glad she wouldn’t be jogging ten feet in front of me like "skinny chic". It would be hard not to look and sooner or later I would have tripped over someone and had to explain that it was her fault for making me stare at her ass the whole time.  But, I was pissed that she went flying be me all high and mighty with her “I’m faster than you attitude.” I made the shape of a “W” with my two thumbs and pointer fingers as she passed. And I might have yelled, “See you at the finish line bitch.” I can’t remember exactly. 

I did see her near the finish line. And I ran right past her. (I hear you clapping. Thank you.) She might be fifteen years younger than I am, but I am smarter. I run that course and I run it often. I know the hills and how and when to exert myself. I never looked back, but I am pretty sure her symbol only included one finger.

As I crossed the finish line I cried yet again. Yes. It was over and that was worthy of tears. But also, I was proud of myself. And that is something I rarely am. Usually I am all tearing myself down and wishing I was more. That day, at that moment, I was exactly what I wanted to be. And. As I headed toward the beer garden I just kept thinking, "I wonder what kind of beer they have?"