 For three months, that's 12 grueling weeks through the hot sticky summer, I trained for a half marathon. Five days a week, I ran, biked, lifted, cried, bled, gave up and kept going. I would fall into bed each night exhausted yet oddly satisfied, only to get up at four the next morning to get to work by five. My pre-dawn shower would wash away the salt that clung to my skin that I had been too tired to do anything about the night before. My days would fly by, laced with thoughts of my next run. My legs would itch just to feel the earth pound beneath my feet. I was like a caged animal. Almost crazed to break free and run. I longed to feel the sweat course down my face and my back. The best relationship I had ever had was suddenly with myself. You come to the point in life when you realize that if you give 100% to yourself then you will get the same in return. So that's what I did. However, 13.1 miles sure did seem like an awful long way to push ones body. I mean, I know there are people who can do full marathon's and give a smiling, care free interview when they are done. If that was me, I'd be unconscious on the side of the road somewhere. As the weeks went by, the miles got longer and the weather got hotter. I would wait until 6 at night most days simply so I could make it through a workout without keeling over and leaving my family with nothing but a massive car payment. On my days off from work, I would get up at the crack of dawn and head out on my bike. I found that biking was actually a lot of fun. Well, once your rear end got used to the seat. (And since I've had a couple of kids, well, you can imagine.) But as with anything that makes you feel confident, amazing and invincible, too much of it can be a not-so-good thing. Burnout is real. Believe me. Crankiness, sleeplessness, losing the drive to run. (That was heartbreaking.) In retrospect it reminds me of the first few weeks with a new baby! If only I had known! It stopped being fun at about week 8. Running, biking, weight training. It all just became routine. I had to get it done. What had initially brought me so much joy and freedom, now got in my way. Now, I'm not a professional athlete by any means and taking it upon ones self to train for any type of athletic competition can be overwhelming. My brother once told me years ago, when I had first begun running and weight training, "Rachie, you have to learn to listen to your body. It will tell you what it needs. And remember, it's okay to take time off." So I did. One whole glorious, sun kissed week, I remember saying to my mother at the conclusion of a great mother-daughter conversation the following words, "Mom, it will take an act of God to keep me from running in that race." And the training resumed. My runs got stronger and the long distances (8 and 9 miles) came a bit easier. But I still had to make it past 9 miles. Everytime I had decided to hit at least ten miles, half way through the run I would decide against it. Im not sure if I was afraid that I wouldn't make the distance or if I just really didn't want to do it. Now I understand that there should be happiness in running, at least some of the time. Elation even. But we have to remember that everyone runs for a different reason. Some people to stay in shape. Some to get into shape. Others just because they can. I run simply because it makes me feel strong. Mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. When those parts are working together all is right in my world. About one month before the big day, my friend and running partner, Kendra (who also happens to be the person who convinced me that this was all a good idea) and I were determined to make 12 miles. We started our run with not a care in the world and one water bottle. (I refused to go without one, and she refused to go with one.) The day had been steamy and I was thirsty just thinking about running 12 miles. The evening was young, the air was still warm and muggy (my favorite), the sun was behind the trees on the route we were taking, and the lake we are lucky enough to live by was active with summer life. The first 6 miles and our turnaround flew by. We were even 5 minutes ahead of schedule. Thrilled, we picked up the pace and by mile 7 were down to a lumbering jog. I could feel blisters on the inside of both of my feet, but I was determined to make 12 miles. We didn't have a choice really. We had ran out, now we had to run back. By mile 9 we were walking, slowly, and had only a quarter of the water bottle left. We were soaked with sweat, in pain and hungry. But my heart soared (possibly due to dehydration). I only had 3 miles left!!! I was going to do this. And we did. We walked the last half a mile and made the 12 in 2 hours and 27 minutes. The blue Powerade I inhaled when we got back was the most delicious thing I believe I ever had.  Sunday, August 28, 2011 was only days away. The day of my half. And so was Tropical Storm Irene, which was headed strait for New England. The storm was due to make landfall in New Hampshire on that Sunday. Kendra and I diligently checked websites and emails. I kept trying to convince myself that running in a Tropical storm wouldn't be so bad. It would figure that the one time I was going to run 13.1 miles would be the same day New Hampshire would get a tropical storm. Remember what I said about the "Act of God"? Well, so be it. The CHAD Half Marathon was cancelled. We got the news on Friday night. I wasn't going to run in a half. I had mixed emotions on the whole thing. The feeling of defeat, sadness and a weird sense of acceptance encompassed me. I had done one of the more difficult things I think I will ever do. I set goals, I trained, I learned a lot about myself and I grew stronger in all aspects of my life. It wasn't until it was all over that I realized that just because I hadn't ran 13.1 miles didn't mean that I didn't meet my goals. I had done something just a short year ago I never would have been able to do, and that is more than I could ever ask for. And that feeling of elation that runner always talk about? There is one run I will never forget. It wasn't that 12 mile run, it wasn't even my first long run. The evening was overcast. Work had been long and overwhelming. I was exhausted. I put on my favorite dark blue running shorts, a comfy tank top and laced up my sneakers. Armed with my cell phone in one side of my sports bra and my MP3 player in the other side (I don't like carrying anything in my hands when I run), I began a 9 mile loop. The run was actually one of my better ones. I could feel my body relax and enjoy. Before I knew it I had run about 7.5 miles and couldn't have felt better. I called my mother at the bottom of the what we call Bristol Hill (She had been on standby to come get me if I couldn't make the 9 miles. It's always good to have a plan). I told her that I was going to attempt the hill. The incline on this beast is ridiculous. Thighs and Calves burn the whole way. My heart rate spikes into the 150's and doesn't seem to budge. I am hot and tired. My feet are almost numb from pounding on them for 8 miles. There is only little more than a mile left. But it's all up hill. Halfway up it started to rain. I remember smiling and thinking about how grateful I was to be able to be doing what I was doing at that very moment. It's funny how we can love and hate what we are doing all at the same time. As I crested the top of the Hill a short time later, I saw a figure at the end of the road that I was going to turn down. Arms in the air, hands clapping. I could hear her voice carry down to me on the late summer evening breeze. "Alright Rachie!" My mom. I stood up taller, I felt stronger, I felt proud. She kept clapping and cheering for me until I got to her. That was what the past 12 weeks had been all about. Not so much for me and my own personal goals, but for that moment. For the people who meant more to me than anything in the world. For their support through my ups and downs. And to have my mom get to watch me cross my own finish line. 
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