On the Virtues of Getting Passed

by Nicole

Yup, we did it! We finished our first half-marathon. These impressions were written before Suzy's blog (below!) was posted, so excuse any repetition. Also, a huge thanks to all who sponsored me/us (or who still want to!) -- and hey, if you're local and you're female (you don't have to be a mama), join us mamajoggers for our next half! We've set our sights on the See Jane Run half-marathon in May, right here in our hometown of Alameda.

But about the race.

First and foremost: Who knew so much pain could be so much fun?

Well, apparently thousands upon thousands of people knew very well, thank you. Both the marathon and the half-marathon were sold out, and it showed. Mostly, it showed in the pre-race lines for the porta-potties. Hundreds of porta-potties, huge lines at each one. Think cattle. Early-morning, very cold, cattle.

Team Mielle (Suzy, Kirsten, Stephanie, and I -- with Claudia cheering us on remotely) had made a solemn pact to stick together for most of the race. (Unspoken subtextual agreement: if you have a kick at the end, any kind of kick -- more power to you, and go for it.) This worked until -- the very first water station. We all thought we muttered the same thing, but it turns out two of us muttered "water" and two of us muttered "potty" -- they sound remarkably similar, when you think about it. And then next thing we know, Stephanie and I had lost the other girls in the crowd. No sign of them at all. (That would be the "potty" contingent.) One mile in! So much for togetherness.

Thank goodness for long hair-pin turns, because some consternation later, all were reunited.

The course was just breath-taking. Most of it wended along the coast, with surf crashing and cliffs rising. When it was not coast, it was refreshing eucalyptus-lined streets of quaintly coastal Carlsbad, or lovely rolling hills (right over highway 5 and into the parking lot of a mall, ahh). It threatened to rain. It threatened to sun. (Said sun would have been deadly to the four of us, sporting cotton long-sleeved Cure JM t-shirts that would have extinguished us in sweat by mile 5). Instead, it overcasted. And stayed overcast, beautifully overcast, all along the race -- until, just for the post-race festivities, the sun broke out in full glory. Who ordered that up?

This sounds wrong to even me, but the first seven miles felt pretty easy. I mean, it was hard not to be moved -- and moved along. There were hundreds of people lining the course, cheering us on. The Cure JM water station at mile 3 was huge, spirited, and featured my very own spouse and progeny (and Suzy's as well) looking extra cute and proud and doling out hurried hugs. Bands played along the way. People handed us packs of GU. (Disgustingly-textured, deliciously-flavored, magical fuel-like stuff in little packets. Mmm.) What could be better? (Now, if we could just muster this level of support every run we train...)

However, and inevitably -- Mile eight: started to feel questionable. Miles nine and on: a struggle. For those counting, that's five miles of struggle. Five miles where my brain was thinking: I'm really not having fun any more. Can I do this? (Oh look, there's my family again, that helps!)

Really, really not knowing if I could finish at all by mile 11, at just under mile 12 I heard a magical phrase from a helpful onlooker: "Everything's downhill after the stoplight." I focus on the stoplight. I drag my legs to the stoplight come hell or high water. And then -- a voice inside me says: let's get this last mile over with as quickly as possible, because truly, I don't know how much longer I can last. And thus negatively motivated, I let the downhill take me (my high school coach's voice in my ear, "Just glide it down the hill, don't fight against it"). I coast into it and I see other people, very true, fighting the downward momentum, trying to control against it. I relax and go and almost inadvertently start to pass people. And then the hill ends but I keep up that pace; I try another Coach Nawrocki trick and attach to someone just a touch faster than me, become a gadfly, stick onto the back of him like velcro, and I ride that momentum much longer than I think I can.

And suddenly it dawns on me: I'm kicking! I have a kick! I have a kick at 13 miles! And because that has never really been true before on our long training runs -- I'm usually pretty sapped by the end and just thankful to be able to drag my legs to the finish -- I relax just a bit and go with it.

I realize also that I have lost my girls.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, from behind me comes another, matching bright blue blur of motion. It gains on me, it passes me, and it keeps going. It is Suzy, it's something like the last half mile, and she is fairly sailing. Sailing ahead at a rate that I could never, kick or no kick, hope to match at this point. "Go Suze!" I just manage to choke out as she passes, and she kind of... was that a *giggle*? Yup, here at mile twelve-point-something, a bona fide Suzy-giggle, half self-conscious and half proud. And I think of Mielle and of all the hours Suzy has put into this -- training for this run, pulling the four of us in with her, doggedly fundraising, painstakingly making t-shirts, producing cards, spear-heading our mamajog website, planning the next event -- and I just grin. Grin and tear up a bit and keep running my ass off with no hope in hell of catching her.

And thus it happens that my favorite moment of my first half-marathon is this: being passed. Being passed by a woman possessed. Possessed by love for her daughter.

Does it get any better than that?