Seeing that number brought back the pain of that day.

I had three hours to finish and I wasn’t quite sure if I would. I came out of the final turn of my first half marathon and with one eye on the finish line and the other on the clock I knew it was going to be close. 

It was.

I made it.

And it hurt.

Going through a box of papers this week I found the race bib I had worn on that day. Number 156. It was a race I wish I had trained a bit differently for, but at age 59 I had officially completed the 13.1 mile distance the half marathon demanded of me. Dehydrated, sore, and legs like Jell-O, crossing that finish line was a joyful kind of pain I proudly earned every ounce of.

Coming in almost dead last in a field of 1,500 runners doesn’t sound very glorious but it was one of the greatest moments of my life. By the time I got to the finish line there were no balloons or Continue reading “When You Run Your Own Race The Trophy Is Your Life” →