Brush Your Shoulders Off

A couple months ago, in a momentary lapse of judgment, I signed up for the LA Rock & Roll Half Marathon. I hadn't run since the 90s and really had no business signing up for a race of any sort - let alone one with the word marathon in it.*

                                 

                                               

What were you thinkin', Ma?

                        

But the power of the cult, er Crossfit Ganbatte, sucked me and le huz in. For two months, we trained alongside fellow Crossfit crazies under the guidance of our uber-supportive leader, JP. I ran every Tuesday, most Thursdays and even a couple of Sundays. I went from not being able to run a single lap around the Silver Lake Reservoir to speeding around the darn thing three times in an hour and two minutes.** As race day approached, I felt confident that I could tackle the darn thing - with a respectable time, no less. I was going to make everyone proud!

Yes, well, race day was yesterday. ***

                                         

And yes, we finished. The huz did great. But my finish was not the one I'd hoped for. In my mind, I'd replayed that final stretch as a triumphant one.  Queen's "We Are the Champions" was going to blast in the final yard, and I was to gun down that home stretch in slow-mo, clocking in at JP's prescribed time of 2:05.

That did not happen. My knee went to shit at the 8 mile mark, and by mile 9, not only was I no longer running, I was hobbling. Like a cripple. As fellow runners sped by, I experienced a tsunami of disappointment. But quitting simply wasn't an option. I didn't want to disappoint my husband, my baby, my cult...**** So I bit my lip and walked.

I finished the race in 2:37. 

                                 

My hubby is proud of me for finishing. My munchkin seems grateful for her new chew toys. I can wallow in a state of could've-would've-should've, but what good would that do?

For me? Why thank you.

nomnomnomnomnom

Taking advice from Hova himself tonight. Gotta get that dirt of my shoulder. Could you brush it off for me?

* I did not run a full marathon. I ran a half marathon. But don't belittle my accomplishment. 13.1 miles is pretty effin' far.

** One lap around Silver Lake Reservoir is 2.2 miles. Three laps is 6.6 miles. And 6.6 miles is a distance greater than 10K.

*** Sir Weber, me and le huz. Photo taken before we began our run. Explains why we all look funky fresh.

**** Correction. Crossfit is not a cult. It's cult-LIKE.

Masochist

OMG, OMG, OMG.

I just signed up for the LA Half Marathon in October. 

Le hubby had signed up for it a while back, but I didn't take the plunge until today. Seemed like a good idea ten minutes ago but now, I'm kinda thinking, "Holy crap! What have I gotten myself into?" Husband is totally going to have to wheelbarrow me to the end. 

Was peer-pressured into it by my Crossfit* cult - er, friends. I meant friends. I go running with them once a week around Silverlake Reservoir. They smothered me with kindness, pointed out that I'd get a medal if I finish up my 13 miles, and even promised me a spa treatment should I survive. 

I'm such a sucker.

Let the training begin.

* Why yes, folks... mushy lil' Debra is a member of Crossfit Ganbatte. I failed to mention on this blog that a little over 2 months ago, I joined Crossfit as an extreme means of addressing my post-baby-sedentary state. Honestly? I feel like overworked poo during my WODs (work outs of the day), but feel better-than-new after a nice long shower. As painful as the work outs are, I highly-recommend Crossfit. The coaches are encouraging - as are the other gym goers. And girls, don't worry. You won't leave the gym looking like an extra from the movie, 300. I used to live in constant fear that I'd end up looking like a midget Arnold (Schwarzenegger), but I've yet to become a hard chunk...