Jen's Column / Half-Marathon

Here's tomorrow's column. :)

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I ran my first half-marathon last week. In the ultimate girls' weekend, my friend Lisa and I hit New York City for the MORE magazine ladies-only half-marathon — while our friends Sara and Steph came along to cheer us on. (Actually, they came along to spend the weekend in New York, but we made them get up to cheer.)

Up to this point, my race portfolio has consisted of a handful of 5Ks, one disastrous 10K, and a winter of solitary training runs along North Broadway. (You might've seen me in my ear-flapped hat and reflective vest… unless the person you saw was spitting and/or wiping her nose on her gloves. Then that certainly can't have been me.)

The half-marathon was my first "big" race — and I couldn't have been more excited. The pre-race pasta party was at Tavern on the Green. The race itself was at Central Park, where Lisa and I would join more than 7,000 women for two loops around the park's playgrounds, reservoirs, flower gardens and rock formations. It was energizing. It was inspiring. It was empowering.

It made me hungry.

I hadn't even run a full mile when I had an inexplicable craving for chocolate. "I want a Skor bar," I announced to Lisa.

My thoughts were consumed by Skor's crunchy toffee center and creamy chocolate coating. Never mind that I haven't actually had or even considered a Skor bar since Halloween 2004.

By mile three, surrounded by strong women and breathtaking cityscapes, all I could think about was prunes. I mean, really. Who craves prunes? But, for some reason, I could all-but taste the sweetness of the prunes my grandma kept in her pantry when I was a little girl — the ones next to the dates she'd use for baking. "Umm… dates," I thought.

I was feeling pretty good at mile six when I noticed a runner digging in what appeared to be a bag of airline peanuts. I sped up to get a better look and watched her fish around in the bottom for the last one. She caught me staring as she threw the empty bag in the trashcan. "Hi!" I said, but what I really wanted to say was, "Give me airline peanuts!"

My thoughts returned briefly to Skor bars at mile nine before realizing at mile 10 that I absolutely, positively had to have a hot dog as soon as I crossed the finish line. Which doesn't make any sense at all. Because if I had to make a list of the Top 3 Foods That Make Me Gag Just Thinking About Them, hot dogs would make the cut.
No matter. All I wanted at that moment — more than a foot rub, more than hot bath, more than prunes — was a hot dog from a New York City street vendor.

I'm happy to report that all cravings ceased as I neared mile 13. A mother and her teenage daughter were just ahead of me, wearing matching T-shirts that read, "The woman who starts the race isn't the same woman who finishes the race." They hugged as they crossed the finish line — and I cried.

I cried because I was proud of them and inspired by them. And then I cried some more because — I suddenly realized — I did it. I ran 13 miles in Central Park with a group of 7,000 women and I was still standing.

Me, who was the last one in during every "600" run in junior high. Me, who couldn't get to the end of my block when I started training. Me, who, just last fall, limped up the hill at Holy Spirit, nauseous and broken, during my first 10K.

Yet here I was — with the "finisher" medal around my neck and the silver heat sheet around my shoulders and my heart pounding with adrenaline more than exertion.
I surprised myself by thinking, "I may just have to do a marathon someday…" But first I had to find the bagel table.