Raining on Run Day

It’s fitting that I finally get around to writing this post now, as Hurricane Irene starts to make her way through Roanoke Rapids.

As you may know, I spent the last month of the past school year and the entire summer training for a half-marathon. I don’t know how I was talked into it so easily, and more importantly how I became so determined to make it. But I was disciplined and stuck to a schedule, and before I knew it I actually felt like a runner.

It was the first week in August. Summer was ending and the big race was approaching. The five-day forecast said race day would be perfect running weather: partly cloudy, chilly in the morning, and warming up later in the day. I enjoyed four days with family in Salem and Providence and tried to keep my mind off the race, for fear of psyching myself out. I stopped checking the forecast, because I knew that if I saw even a chance of rain I would convince myself I couldn’t do it. Saturday night, we packed our things, headed to our hotel near the starting line, and went to bed early. I wasn’t really excited or nervous, just ready for it to be over.

I woke up early Sunday morning, rolled out of bed, and went straight to the window. When I opened the curtains, my stomach dropped: it was raining. Or at least, it was gray and the ground was wet. I couldn’t tell if it was still raining outside, but it didn’t look promising. As I pulled on my running skirt (yes, skirt) and shoes and tucked my energy jellybeans into my pocket, I wondered all over again how I ever agreed to do this. I hadn’t slept well the night before, so the rain just added another layer to my grumpiness. Standing in the lobby of the hotel, I was painfully aware of two things: that it was in fact raining, and that the rain didn’t seem to put a damper on anyone else’s mood but mine. Our hotel must have been occupied by hundreds of runners, because the lobby was full of people stretching and bouncing around like it was Christmas morning. The energy in the lobby just annoyed me even more. There were days during my training that I just really did not want to run, days that took all my willpower to convince myself to even get out of bed and get in my running clothes. But this day topped them all. I have never felt so strongly about not wanting to run, ever. When we stepped outside, it only got worse. It wasn’t just raining…it was pouring. We had to walk to the starting line in the rain, and the whole way there I was wondering how many people would really blame me if I turned around and crawled back into bed. I have a feeling dad was thinking something similar, but we both just kept walking (well, truth be told, I complained most of the way).

Oh, but it gets better. This was the first annual Rock ‘N Roll Marathon in Providence, so we should have known that there would be kinks. The first wave of runners was supposed to begin at 7:00 am, so we took our place in the tenth wave promptly at 6:55. But alas, there we stood in the rain 7:05, 7:10, 7:15, waiting, waiting, waiting. Not even so much as an announcement as to why it was taking so long. I was already drenched before we even started running. I was even more annoyed because not only were we standing shoulder to shoulder with the other runners and soaking wet, but no one else seemed to care that it was raining. Finally, the corrals started moving and we were off.

My saving grace on this run was my fantastic playlist. Just hearing the beat of the first song immediately gave me a shot of energy, and I took of with a smile, yes a SMILE. I just started laughing to myself, thinking, “Am I really about to do this? Run 13.1 miles in the rain?” I guess so.

It rained the entire race. In fact, it poured during some parts. We went uphill, downhill, around sharp corners with big puddles, and alongside the water. Our only relief came when we ran under the occasional overpass. Dad and I stayed together for most of it, but he took off ahead of me a few times. I had never run 13.1 miles before, and especially not in the rain, and knew I needed to be careful and pace myself so I didn’t have to stop and walk. Dad has run three half marathons in a matter of months (and is running another one today!), so I didn’t feel bad about watching him go ahead of me. This was my first, and my goal was just to finish.

The strangest thing happened. As I was running, I was actually happy. I was happy that I had been so disciplined this summer, that I was accomplishing a goal I honestly never thought I’d even set, much less reach, and I was happy that I had some good new music on my iPod. I felt proud of myself for toughing it out, and even more so when I saw people that had to stop at walk as early as mile 2 (I’m sorry, if you’re going to stop at mile 2, why bother?) and mile 6 and mile 10 and I was still chugging along.

And then, I hit a wall. At mile 12, with only 1.1 miles to go, I felt like giving up. I wanted to walk so badly. I was exhausted, I was soaking wet, the rain was weighing down my skirt, and I already knew that we weren’t going to make Dad’s goal time. Couldn’t it just be over? The finish line was in sight, but so was another hill. To get to the end, I had to first trudge up one last hill, one that felt bigger than any of the rest, but in reality was probably the least of them all (but really, a hill at the end? That’s just cruel.). Dad and I crossed the finish line together, clocking in at 2:11:00, averaging a 10 minute mile. I had hoped for a little faster, but the rain was my excuse, and I was just happy to be done.

I DID IT. I ran a half marathon. And ran the whole time. In the rain. With wet, heavy sneakers and a saggy running skirt (the skirt thing is my fault). And I actually enjoyed it.

Ask me if I’ve run since.