Alexis Porter
English 1010
Reflection Essay
August 2, 2016
Running on Air, Or Lack Thereof
A few years ago, my wonderful (yet crazily enthusiastic about running) aunt invited me
to run a half-marathon with her and my cousin. The race was to be in two weeks. I thought to
myself, its just a half-marathon. It cant be too hard and I replied, Sure! Why not? Oh, how I
wish I could go back and punch past me in the throat.
As Im sure most of you know, a half-marathon is 13.1 miles (the point one is
important). Im confident that if I were to add up all the miles I had run over the course of my
life prior to agreeing to that race, it would be somewhere around 4.7 miles (give or take a few
feet). Seriously though, I went from couch potato to half-marathon runner (crawler?) in the
span of two weeks. When my boyfriend, John, asked if I was going to train, I replied, No. Ill
probably just hurt myself before the race.
And so it was. I didnt train one bit. After all, I was already in the middle of a marathon
a marathon of How I Met Your Mother episodes. It was crucial that I finish re-watching all six
seasons before the seventh started. The night before the big race was spent at my aunts
house. We had spaghetti to carb load before the race. Im pretty sure Ive been carb loading
my whole life, but nonetheless it was delicious. I hardly slept I was so nervous. Before I knew it
we were on the bus headed up Provo Canyon. Once we arrived, we were all gathered (herded?)
into a large heated tent where we waited for a couple hours for the actual race to start.
We had to choose which wave of runners to start with and it was based on the amount
of time we thought it we take for us to complete the 13.1 miles. I didnt really know because,
well, I hadnt really run and timed myself before (as if people really did that anyway). So, I just
grouped myself with my cousin in the 2 hour wave (ah, young me, such a dreamer).
I thought I was doing really well, at least until I hit the one mile marker and, gasping for
air with sides aching, realized I still had 12.1 miles to go. Oh hell, I thought. I kept up a decent
pace for another 2 miles before I stopped at the portable toilets they had set up for the
runners. I didnt really have to go, but I saw the long line and welcomed the time of rest. Exiting
the porta-potty, I was overwhelmed with the desire to be done and go home. What kind of
person does this? I was baffled. But I continued to trudge on. Now I was at a slow jog and I was
comforted by the fact that only one of my lungs had collapsed. Mile 5. WTF!? Ugh This sucks.
My calf muscles, quads, and hamstrings had all tightened to such a point that it was
hard to bend my leg at the knee (which is an important thing to be able to do when runningor
trying to run). I was down to a brisk walk and cringed with every step. I couldnt believe how
sore I was. So far the 2:15 wave and 2:30 wave had already passed me. Among those
participants were individuals three times my age. Wow, I need to get in better shape.
Around mile 10 the trail came to a loop. I was so very tempted to cut across and bypass
a quarter of a mile. Alas, I stayed true and walked the loop. Damn my integrity. Periodically, I
tried speeding up my pace and running for a short distance but I quickly found that I was
running no faster than I had been walking. All the muscles in my legs and my butt were so sore I
could only lift my feet an inch off the ground. When my walking eventually turned to baby
steps, I was sure I had passed the twelve mile marker. I must be close the end. About 10
minutes later, I approached a sign reading, Mile 11. I fell to my knees, my arms outstretched
toward the sky, yelling, Why?!, tears streaming down my face. Okay so that didnt exactly
happen but thats how I felt. My heart was crushed, figuratively and literally (my lungs were so
tired it was hard to exhale, thus creating more pressure in my thoracic cavity). I still had two
more miles to go (two point one to be exact). As I thought this with great despair, I was passed
by the 2:45 wave.
The trail was now a community trail and I was being passed by fellow citizens enjoying a
nice jog, walking their dog, or riding their bike. They all seemed so happy I wanted to kick
them in the shins. Seriously, I was ready to jump the next bike rider the rode past me, steal the
bike and coast the rest of the way down the canyon. Unfortunately, I could barely summon the
strength to keep my body upright. The 3 hour wave, and the final wave, passed me before I hit
mile twelve. The pace keeper, holding the three hour sign, was also dragging a tire that had
been tied to his waist. The tire read, This is the end. I thought, yes, I believe it is.
As soon as I hit mile 13, I started to run again (although Im not sure you could call it
running). There were a bunch of people waiting at the finish line that, for some reason, wasnt
getting any closer. It continued to loom ahead of me at the same distance. Or at least thats
what it felt like. But soon I did cross that finish line and was handed a medal. Suddenly, I felt
good. I did it. Holy crap, I did it! My exhilaration was quickly replaced with seriousness. Never
again, I thought. I will NEVER do this again.
My next half-marathon took place 6 months later. What can I say? It felt good to finish
something, however ill-prepared for it I was.
