greater binghamton bridge run half marathon
One year ago, I ran my first 5K and learned the exhilarating freedom of shedding a lifetime of being the fat girl picked last in gym class to don a race bib and cross a finish line. And this past Sunday, May 5, 2013, I returned to the Greater Binghamton Bridge Run one year later and completed my first half marathon.
I went to sleep at 11pm the night before and woke up feeling rested at 4:30am, took the time to gradually awaken in front of my computer, nibbling on a couple of steamed pork and chive buns my mother had made at my request and a hard boiled egg, sipping a glass of water. I showered and dressed, pinning a small yellow and blue ribbon to my bib (for Boston) and my bib to my shirt. My mother braided my hair, clucking as she always does about how thin it's grown. I filled my water bottles, threw everything I could possibly need into the red backpack I'd been given at packet pickup, sat at the kitchen table to pull on my socks and shoes.
My parents and I left the house around five past seven, and Dad dropped Mom and I off at the start line at around 7:20am and went off to find parking. The sun glared brightly overhead, and I juggled my jacket and my sunglasses and my water belt while Mom splattered my arms with sunscreen and posed me for photographs. Then I made my way to the back of the pack, Becky found me, we posed for more pictures, the crowd hushed for the national anthem, and we were off.
I started fast, clocking maybe 10:30 for the first mile and 11 minutes for the second. It was a pace I knew I couldn't sustain, but the temperature was expected to rise fifteen degrees over the next three hours, and I wanted to bank some time while the air was still relatively cool. I was already starting to slow down by the time I passed my parents for the first time, at mile 3.5, around a quarter of the way into the race, but at that point I still had the energy to put in a burst of speed for them and the gathered crowds as I crossed Court Street Bridge.
By this time, I had slowed to an 11:30 to 12 minute mile pace, and the pack around me had thinned out to just a few people. I took my first Clif Shot Blok at the four mile water station, and took them subsequently at miles six, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. I sped up to give high fives to a little girl and a little boy standing at the edge of their lawn. I got to the five mile mark just under an hour into the race, which was about as fast as I could possibly have expected. Mentally, though, climbing the hills of Conklin Avenue alone under the beating sun felt like a slog, and I worried that it was far too soon for the race to feel that tough.
As I approached the six mile water stop, the volunteers there called out, "Cup your hands!" Apparently they had run out of cups. "Are you serious?" I asked them, before pulling the bottle off of my water belt for them to refill. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the course turned into Confluence Park and the little trail by the Chenango River before crossing Court Street Bridge for the second time. My parents were still waiting there for me, and I swapped my half empty water bottle for a full one I'd given my mom before the race. Halfway there.
As I turned off of Court Street Bridge and approached the seven mile mark, the big toe on my left foot began to hurt, an unusual place for me to experience pain during my runs. I paused to loosen my shoelaces, but it didn't seem to make a difference, and no matter how actively I paid attention to my gait, it felt like that one toe was absorbing the full impact of each step. It was a pain that eventually spread through the sole of my left foot and had me wincing for most of the last six miles of the race. I was passing through mainly residential neighborhoods at this point, only one or two other runners in sight. A police car escorted me for a while, and it was odd but somehow reassuring anyway, a companion to keep up with. My pace deteriorated to about 13 minute miles for miles 7 and 8, 13:30 to 14 minute miles for miles 9 and 10, and even slower for miles 11 and 12. I started taking walk breaks (beyond walking through the water stations) between miles 8 and 9. I passed the 10 mile mark a few minutes past two hours into the race and told myself I only had a 5K left. I was near Recreation Park, where I may have walked a 5K once, back in high school. I could run a 5K. At the water station, I took two cups and poured one over my head.
There's no point when a race effort feels easy, but in this half marathon, I started to struggle around the five mile mark, and things got really tough at mile seven. By mile eight or ten or twelve, I was running on fumes. It was hot; I was almost entirely alone; the people on the sidewalk telling me I looked good were obviously lying, although I exhaled a grimacing "thank you" to each of them anyway. I tried to find meaning in the song lyrics resonating in my ears. I tried to tell myself that I could outrun a centaur. I tried to repeat to myself everything I could remember from a roster of mantras. All of it seemed far away and distant and disconnected from my experience of the moment, which narrowed to a bright, blazing, pain-laced haze of I can't stop. I have to keep going. At mile 11, back on Main Street, I took my last Shot Blok and drank the last of my water. I had two miles left and nothing in me. It's hot. My foot hurts. I have no water. I have to keep going. I can't stop. I ran as long as I could stand it, and then I walked, big, fast strides, until I felt like I could stand it again, and then I ran as long as I could stand it. Again and again. The sun beat down; cars whizzed by; the pedestrians on the sidewalk no longer seemed interested; the road stretched before me, interminably long.
After I finally reached the 12 mile mark and walked through the last water station and approached the last mile of the race, I told myself that I had run those first twelve long, miserable miles so that I could run this one, last mile. This was the mile that counted. This was the mile I had never run before. This was the mile that would make me a half marathoner. The crowds grew thicker again, and they began calling out to me -- "Almost there!" or "Just a few more blocks!" -- as though they felt compelled to offer a life ring to a drowning person.
Even in the last mile, even in the last few blocks, I couldn't really imagine how I could make my body move another mile, another few blocks. Even as the finish line approached, it never felt mentally near. The front runners of the 5K, which had started at 10am, began to pass me, looking impossibly fast and fresh as they breezed by. But then, finally, finally, at long last, I turned the last corner toward the tunnel of spectators approaching the finish line, and I felt my breath go ragged and tears well in my eyes, and from some well so deep inside of myself that I may never be able to find it again, I found the ability to speed up, to push for the final stretch, still slow motion compared to the 5K runners around me, but as fast as I could muster, and the clock read 2:48, and I crossed the finish line and raised my arms over my head and somebody handed me a medal and I brought my hands to my face and two mascots held their hands out to me and I looked at them in a daze before pressing my palms against theirs and then my parents were there and Becky and they were hugging me and asking if I was okay, and I was a half marathoner.
Afterwards, Becky walked me to the food tent, and I downed a bottle of Gatorade and a piece of banana and a couple of the sweetest, juiciest orange slices I've ever had and a carton of strawberry greek yogurt. Becky headed off, and I paced back and forth waiting for Iris to finish her 5K and even ran the last few steps with her before going with my parents back to their car and their house, and by then it was already starting to feel unbelievable, unreal, only the medal I wore all day around my neck a solid thing, a reminder, real and tangible, that I did this. I ran a half marathon.
My official time was 2:47:20, a 12:45 pace. I placed 1042/1076 overall, 557/584 among women, and 165/169 among women ages 20-29. It was so very, very hard. If I hadn't already signed up for Brooklyn (less than two weeks away!) well in advance, I'm not sure I could have brought myself to register for another half marathon, especially so soon. I woke up yesterday feeling like every muscle in my body hurt, and today has been only marginally better.
But no matter what happens in my life from here, I will always have done this. I will always be a half marathoner. And I will carry that priceless knowing with me until every pain and every memory of pain has faded, and it will be worth everything.
I went to sleep at 11pm the night before and woke up feeling rested at 4:30am, took the time to gradually awaken in front of my computer, nibbling on a couple of steamed pork and chive buns my mother had made at my request and a hard boiled egg, sipping a glass of water. I showered and dressed, pinning a small yellow and blue ribbon to my bib (for Boston) and my bib to my shirt. My mother braided my hair, clucking as she always does about how thin it's grown. I filled my water bottles, threw everything I could possibly need into the red backpack I'd been given at packet pickup, sat at the kitchen table to pull on my socks and shoes.
My parents and I left the house around five past seven, and Dad dropped Mom and I off at the start line at around 7:20am and went off to find parking. The sun glared brightly overhead, and I juggled my jacket and my sunglasses and my water belt while Mom splattered my arms with sunscreen and posed me for photographs. Then I made my way to the back of the pack, Becky found me, we posed for more pictures, the crowd hushed for the national anthem, and we were off.
I started fast, clocking maybe 10:30 for the first mile and 11 minutes for the second. It was a pace I knew I couldn't sustain, but the temperature was expected to rise fifteen degrees over the next three hours, and I wanted to bank some time while the air was still relatively cool. I was already starting to slow down by the time I passed my parents for the first time, at mile 3.5, around a quarter of the way into the race, but at that point I still had the energy to put in a burst of speed for them and the gathered crowds as I crossed Court Street Bridge.
By this time, I had slowed to an 11:30 to 12 minute mile pace, and the pack around me had thinned out to just a few people. I took my first Clif Shot Blok at the four mile water station, and took them subsequently at miles six, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. I sped up to give high fives to a little girl and a little boy standing at the edge of their lawn. I got to the five mile mark just under an hour into the race, which was about as fast as I could possibly have expected. Mentally, though, climbing the hills of Conklin Avenue alone under the beating sun felt like a slog, and I worried that it was far too soon for the race to feel that tough.
As I approached the six mile water stop, the volunteers there called out, "Cup your hands!" Apparently they had run out of cups. "Are you serious?" I asked them, before pulling the bottle off of my water belt for them to refill. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the course turned into Confluence Park and the little trail by the Chenango River before crossing Court Street Bridge for the second time. My parents were still waiting there for me, and I swapped my half empty water bottle for a full one I'd given my mom before the race. Halfway there.
As I turned off of Court Street Bridge and approached the seven mile mark, the big toe on my left foot began to hurt, an unusual place for me to experience pain during my runs. I paused to loosen my shoelaces, but it didn't seem to make a difference, and no matter how actively I paid attention to my gait, it felt like that one toe was absorbing the full impact of each step. It was a pain that eventually spread through the sole of my left foot and had me wincing for most of the last six miles of the race. I was passing through mainly residential neighborhoods at this point, only one or two other runners in sight. A police car escorted me for a while, and it was odd but somehow reassuring anyway, a companion to keep up with. My pace deteriorated to about 13 minute miles for miles 7 and 8, 13:30 to 14 minute miles for miles 9 and 10, and even slower for miles 11 and 12. I started taking walk breaks (beyond walking through the water stations) between miles 8 and 9. I passed the 10 mile mark a few minutes past two hours into the race and told myself I only had a 5K left. I was near Recreation Park, where I may have walked a 5K once, back in high school. I could run a 5K. At the water station, I took two cups and poured one over my head.
There's no point when a race effort feels easy, but in this half marathon, I started to struggle around the five mile mark, and things got really tough at mile seven. By mile eight or ten or twelve, I was running on fumes. It was hot; I was almost entirely alone; the people on the sidewalk telling me I looked good were obviously lying, although I exhaled a grimacing "thank you" to each of them anyway. I tried to find meaning in the song lyrics resonating in my ears. I tried to tell myself that I could outrun a centaur. I tried to repeat to myself everything I could remember from a roster of mantras. All of it seemed far away and distant and disconnected from my experience of the moment, which narrowed to a bright, blazing, pain-laced haze of I can't stop. I have to keep going. At mile 11, back on Main Street, I took my last Shot Blok and drank the last of my water. I had two miles left and nothing in me. It's hot. My foot hurts. I have no water. I have to keep going. I can't stop. I ran as long as I could stand it, and then I walked, big, fast strides, until I felt like I could stand it again, and then I ran as long as I could stand it. Again and again. The sun beat down; cars whizzed by; the pedestrians on the sidewalk no longer seemed interested; the road stretched before me, interminably long.
After I finally reached the 12 mile mark and walked through the last water station and approached the last mile of the race, I told myself that I had run those first twelve long, miserable miles so that I could run this one, last mile. This was the mile that counted. This was the mile I had never run before. This was the mile that would make me a half marathoner. The crowds grew thicker again, and they began calling out to me -- "Almost there!" or "Just a few more blocks!" -- as though they felt compelled to offer a life ring to a drowning person.
Even in the last mile, even in the last few blocks, I couldn't really imagine how I could make my body move another mile, another few blocks. Even as the finish line approached, it never felt mentally near. The front runners of the 5K, which had started at 10am, began to pass me, looking impossibly fast and fresh as they breezed by. But then, finally, finally, at long last, I turned the last corner toward the tunnel of spectators approaching the finish line, and I felt my breath go ragged and tears well in my eyes, and from some well so deep inside of myself that I may never be able to find it again, I found the ability to speed up, to push for the final stretch, still slow motion compared to the 5K runners around me, but as fast as I could muster, and the clock read 2:48, and I crossed the finish line and raised my arms over my head and somebody handed me a medal and I brought my hands to my face and two mascots held their hands out to me and I looked at them in a daze before pressing my palms against theirs and then my parents were there and Becky and they were hugging me and asking if I was okay, and I was a half marathoner.
Afterwards, Becky walked me to the food tent, and I downed a bottle of Gatorade and a piece of banana and a couple of the sweetest, juiciest orange slices I've ever had and a carton of strawberry greek yogurt. Becky headed off, and I paced back and forth waiting for Iris to finish her 5K and even ran the last few steps with her before going with my parents back to their car and their house, and by then it was already starting to feel unbelievable, unreal, only the medal I wore all day around my neck a solid thing, a reminder, real and tangible, that I did this. I ran a half marathon.
My official time was 2:47:20, a 12:45 pace. I placed 1042/1076 overall, 557/584 among women, and 165/169 among women ages 20-29. It was so very, very hard. If I hadn't already signed up for Brooklyn (less than two weeks away!) well in advance, I'm not sure I could have brought myself to register for another half marathon, especially so soon. I woke up yesterday feeling like every muscle in my body hurt, and today has been only marginally better.
But no matter what happens in my life from here, I will always have done this. I will always be a half marathoner. And I will carry that priceless knowing with me until every pain and every memory of pain has faded, and it will be worth everything.
