Crazy Runners

We runners are crazy.  I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, it should be "us runners".  But you're wrong.  It's we.  Because it's a subject, not an object.  So yeah, my college education was not for nothing!

But back to the topic at hand.  It's true.  We runners are crazy.

Today I finished my eleventh half-marathon.  I have run all eleven of them since I turned forty.  I am currently almost forty-seven.  Again, I know what you're thinking.  And the answer is: I have no idea. I truly have no idea.  It's just something that, inexplicably, seems like a fun thing to contemplate doing, even more fun as you're signing up and reading about the cool t-shirt and medal you'll get at the end, and then you just can't not do it once you've committed to it.  I mean, there's the mental commitment (haha, yes, I get the double meaning there), the physical commitment of training for the event, and there's the monetary commitment, which usually runs around $55-70 depending on where you're running (Disney, no surprise here, is on the upper end of the price spectrum of fees charged to runners; in their defense, however, the coolest medal I have is the Tinkerbell First Annual Half-Marathon Medal--it is a substantial piece of decoration!).

So there's all that commitment.  For something that doesn't really sound all that fun to most normal people.  Running 13.1 miles? That likely doesn't sound all that fun to most any person, regardless of their level of normality.

And the thing is, it's not fun.  At least not conventional fun.  And this is where the crazy comes in.  It's not not fun, either.

It's really hard to explain.

As you're standing at the starting line, there's a nervousness.  I can't explain why, at least for me.  I'm not competing against anyone.  There's not even anyone at these events who would care how quickly or how slowly I completed the course.  Just me.  Apparently I make myself nervous.

Then the gun goes off, the clock starts, you tap your watch to start the timer, and off you go.  And you go.  And you keep going.  Until you get to the end.  You cross the finish line.  You tap your watch to stop the timer.  You get your medal, your bottle of water, a bagel and a banana, and you're done.

That's it.  It's just one giant long-ass run.

But also, you get to see people trying to accomplish something.  You see people working really, really hard.  And you see people who have natural talent, who appear not to have to work at all.  Both are pretty inspiring.

You see people running with shirts telling who they are running for and who they are running in memory of, diseases they are trying to cure, lives they are trying to save.  Also kinda inspiring.

You see friends supporting each other, and you see perfect strangers yelling encouragement to one another.

Spectators will clap for you, cheer for you, whoop and holler for you even thought they have no idea who you are.  They will tell you how great you are looking, which is awesome to hear and completely not true in most cases (today, for instance, I put the wrong sunscreen on my face before the run, and consequently my face was a combination of a ridiculous amount of sweaty sunscreen pouring in ribbons down my cheeks, making me look like I was dying I am sure, combined with a lovely masque of gritty salt all over my forehead and neck--but thank you, kind gentleman at the 7.5 mile marker, for telling me I looked strong; I appreciate you much more than the dude at the 10 mile marker who kept yelling "you're almost there" when, in fact, we still had a quarter of the entire run to go--NOT COOL DUDE!)

Back to the good stuff, though.

Just today I saw runners thanking the volunteers for being there as they grabbed their Gatorade.  I saw one woman stop her run altogether to go check on a man who was sitting on the sidewalk stretching his calves.  She wanted to be sure he was okay and didn't need medical attention (he didn't).  I saw an older couple who, when they would take their walking breaks in between their running, would move over to the right so they could hold hands without getting in the way of those still running.

In between all of these observations I was downing packets of GU (which, incidentally tastes exactly like you would suspect something called GU would taste), regulating my breathing to make a cramp go away, and hoping that the kink in my neck would magically disappear after the run was over (successful on the cramp front; neck kink still here).

I was also checking my watch to see if I was on-pace to finish in under two hours thirty minutes, which I really, really wanted to do.  Which I actually did do.

So there's a lot going on in these long-ass runs.

It doesn't sound fun to run 13.1 miles.  I get that.  And mostly it's not fun.

Except for the parts that are really fun (like taking a weekend trip to Disneyland with your best friend to run a half-marathon through the park, or running 13.1 miles with your brother, who on any given day can run way faster than you but chose to change his pace so you could enjoy the run together).

And those parts are why you end up running eleven half-marathons (and counting) in seven years.