On Pikermis and Pain (yes, again)

13.1 miles. Yep, I can cross the half-marathon off my bucket list. It's kind of a cool feeling, knowing that--when the zombie acopalypse rolls around--I'll be capable of escaping to the great strongholds of Tigard, Tualatin, Wilsonville, and Beaverton. On foot if necessary. Take that, you zombie hordes.

(while those glorious images of daring and adventure are floating around in your brains, I'll be making my way to the emergency exit...)

Okay, so maybe the half marathon wasn't a terribly exciting experience in and of itself... and maybe I ran out of steam half-way through (which might cause me to become a zombie sandwich in aforementioned disaster scenario... but who's counting?)

The first 9 miles went great. I was grooving, passing manly men and winsome women right and left. No cramps, no intestinal issues. Nirvana on earth. You get the picture.

About mile 10, after yet another sub-8 minute mile, it hit. The dreaded wall. Suddenly, my shoes filled with lead and an invisible gravity well started pulling me backwards. One by one, those manly men and winsome women began passing me, looking ever so much more manly and winsome than the buggy-eyed gentleman trailing behind them. I'm still chalking it up to a freak exception of relativity, but suddenly my watch was reading a pace in the 9-10 min/mile range.

As the gorgeous wave of humanity rushed past me, I knew there was but one thing to do. Finish.

"Easier said than done," my brain chided me, as it made me agonizingly aware of my aching calves and the 5K distance remaining to the finish line. And... yes... there it was. A colossal hill right smack in the middle of mile 12. What kind of sadistic mind puts something like that in a long distance race?

Normally, I hold back some energy for a bit of bravado at the end of the race. You know, pick up the knees and sprint for the most beautiful word in the English language: F-I-N-I-S-H. Not this time. I'm still a bit fuzzy on that exact moment in time, but the watch doesn't lie. The watch tells all... and it tells me that I most certainly did not resemble an Usain Bolt at the end of that race.

Ah well, there's always next time. ;-)

Trivia: there's an effort underway to rename the half marathon to the "pikermi" (pee-KER-me). Why? Because being labeled a "half-marathoner" is derogatory! We 13.1 milers undergo just as much pain as those running the full 26.2, it's just for a shorter duration is all. Oh, the inhumanity!