I have this terrible habit of signing up for events I vow will be a 'personal best' then not training for them. Months before an event, you can find me enthusiastically punching in my credit card number while calculating the pace needed to run a 1:29:59.
- No hurling until at least the 15K mark
- Limp only if absolutely necessary
- Who cares about time, it's all about the finisher's medal
Bob, my partner in crime, however, is the absolute model of consistency. He actually trains for these things. He's diligent and persistent—dare I say, inspiring.
Who am I kidding? It's annoying.
8:30AM on January 13th, we stood at the start line separated by 26 corrals; two little specks in a sea of 20,285 color-coordinated singlets. But it was during the National Anthem, hand on my heart, looking up at Frank Shorter and World Record Holder Khalid Khannouchi—that the runner in me showed up.
The race report: my 13.1 mile journey through Phoenix and Tempe was wonderfully free of regurgitation or limping, simply a comfortable race with a finish time I didn't deserve (1:51:48).
After picking up my finishers medal, a heat blanket, two bananas, a bag of potato chips, one orange popsicle and a fruit-infused yogurt, I quickly reunited with family and Foo, staking out a spot to cheer Bob onto victory. Barreling through the final two curves, ahead of schedule and looking strong, Bebop would clock a 2:28:52. An excellent half marathon debut and mental milestone for his marathon come April.
Allez, Allez!
