Never Again. I mean it this time.

Last year, after running the marathon with less than optimal training, I swore that I would never do that again. So as soon as I signed up for this year's marathon I printed off a 16 week training program. And that's as far as I got. I literally did not train at all. But somehow the first weekend in October rolled around, as it is wont to do, and I found myself huddled around a small fire up veyo canyon at 5am, shivering in both coldness and fear at what I had gotten myself into....

{Bonfire are the best. Especially this year - it was COLD! }

The logical thing would have been to simply not pick up my packet and forgo partaking in an activity that I was not in physical condition for and would most certainly destroy me. But I couldn't. I mean, I signed up. And not only was Anna doing it, but our younger and far more athletic sister Katheryn decided to join in on the "fun" for the first time this year.

{veyo hill}

Things started off well. Anna and I ran together the first 6 miles and I was buoyed up by the fact that we could make fun of peoples' bizzare choices together (who runs a marathon without shoes? or pulls 5 inches off the road to squat and poop? or wears a full blown spiderman costume?) and ran at a fairly decent clip. But as soon as we hit the evil veyo hill, she peeled off while I struggled to keep moving at a pace marginally above that of a protected desert tortoises'.

(they make it all too easy to jump in)

I overcame the hill, popped an honestly delicious salted caramel GU, and felt quite good as I ran across the half marathon point. Huzzah! I made it through a half marathon! And then I realized I had used up all my energy and muscle fibers. And there was still ANOTHER 13.1 miles to go. From that point on it was miserable. Around mile 18 I took one of my earphones out and realized that masked by my ridiculously loud Miley Cyrus and Eminem playlist, I was very audibly moaning in pain with each step. It. hurt. so. bad. I was sooooo close to getting in a rescue van.

But the thing that kept me going was the posters my Dad had made. He had spent all this time lovingly handcrafting this motivational poster for me to see at the finish. I had to make it to the finish! (Please note that if I had known that my dad was actually not at the finish - my grandma thought she had broken her hip and needed him - I definitely would have bailed.)

(For the record, my sisters both beat me. But they are way younger. So it doesn't count)

Somehow, I kept jogging (read: slowly shuffling) and made it across the finish line at 4:36. I cried. I hurt. I was embarrassed of my time. I hurt. But mostly I was just so glad it was over.

My mother, who is now a professional at tending to her children with masochistic running tendencies, made us a nice ice bath, then served us pizza as we sat in her jacuzzi tub. Truly, life does not get better than that.

I was a bad person and didn't take any pictures, but it should be noted that Dan, Kiersten and my parents were an excellent support team. Full marathons are truly awful (especially if you do not train.) I think that Anna, Katheryn and I should make a blood oath now, before our soreness dissipates to NEVER DO THIS AGAIN. I MEAN IT THIS TIME!