I was awakened at 6am by the sound of the Rocky theme coming from Mark. I was delighted by his cheery enthusiasm, and the sight of a steaming cup of coffee for me in his hand.
Get me my raw eggs, I said, feeling surprisingly excited about the race. And then he said, I think I'll register and run with the kids.
Originally there had been some loose talk about Mark running the race with the kids. Or having my parents come over in the morning to watch the kids while Mark and I run. Be we came to the conclusion that I would do the race solo. So his early morning suggestion was met with a number of flying thoughts. Stella's been sick all week and we don't know how she is yet. They don't want to be in the baby jogger for 6 miles--you can forget 13.1. It's so cold and Heath has had that cough. I need to be there by 7:30 and there's so much to do to get them prepared and they need snacks and what if Heath has to go to the potty and what about late registration and what if they don't wake up soon and...
And then I surprised myself by saying, Okay. And that was that. The unspoken, but well-understood race stipulations were: 1) If they are screaming and unhappy and you (Mark) have to stop mid-way, I keep going, and 2) If anyone is pukey, the deal is off.
Everyone was up by 6:15, puke-free, and totally on board with running a race downtown. Mark handled all the details with the kids, and I got to drink my coffee, get dressed, grab my bib and GU, and jump in the car.
Downtown was buzzing with loads of runners. We let Heath wander around for a while before getting into the stroller. He was thrilled to see the light rail, the cranes on top of the buildings, and all the people suited up to run their race. We were also meeting a few of our friends and Mark's co-workers, so Heath was doubly excited to talk construction and dumpster shop with them.
While Mark registered, I tried to find a bathroom that didn't have a long and winding line around the Wachovia atrium. No such luck and I realized that I was going to have to brave the Porta-Jon. This is frightening enough by myself, but I could only imagine all the disgusting possibilities that could happen with me and two children inside the dreaded stink-hole. But there was no way I was going to be able to NOT go before I ran. So, I went back outside with the kids, took my place in line for the Porta-potty, and hoped for the best.
Before I could even get cold, a kind fellow walked by and said, There are bathrooms in there; no lines. He pointed to the hotel beside Wachovia One. Woo-hoo. I picked Heath up, left Stella with our friend, and raced off for the lineless, inside, so much cleaner than the gross Porta-potty potty.
Mark and I returned at the same time. He was the last person to register. Just in time to slowly walk our way to the start area. It was crowded (around 750 participants), but it was the first race that I wasn't bothered by it. When we finally crossed the start line, I actually found myself enjoying the process of finding my pace and my place. I zigged to get around some walkers. I zagged to move by some 5k runners with their dogs. And eventually, the crowd dispersed, I found my stride, and I was feeling pretty good. And then a peppy younger guy on the sidelines said, Almost to one mile, way to go! One mile? One mile?! Only 12 to go.
Around 3 miles, I was definitely in the zone. The 5k-ers broke off to the right, and the halfers kept moving straight. I knew Mark and the kids were behind me somewhere, but I didn't want to turn around. If I saw them, my total concentration would become about their comfort. Are they warm enough? Is Stella okay? Is Heath having fun? And then my race would be, well, different than what I was experiencing, which was just blissful. I was totally and completely enjoying myself.
And I was so happy to have my husband and my children running behind me, cheering me on. (I think I had that realization around the time we passed St. Mary's chapel on 3rd Street where Mark and I got married). Then I noticed that we were getting pretty close to mile 6 and it was time to have some water and GU. As if he read my mind, Mark appeared out of nowhere, pushing the kiddies. I disrobed a bit--gave him a couple of layers and my gloves. Grabbed my Orange Burst GU. Heath took note of the GU exchange and immediately began whining for GU. Good thing I packed an Apple Carrot Crusher in his snack bag. I started to give Mark directions. The Apple sauce is in the lunch box. Take the top off, but don't let him have it because he might give it to Stella and she might swallow it and...I yammered on, my micro-management sucking the energy right out of me. I started to slow down.
Go, go, go, Mark said, waving me on. Say go, go, go, mama. Heath continued to whine for GU and Stella said, Mama, mama, mama...and then I couldn't hear them anymore.
So I went, went, went. I sucked down my Orange Burst GU. So much more refreshing than the Vanilla Bean I'd been consuming while training. And at the next water station, I grabbed some water. Running and drinking. I'm not coordinated enough to do that gracefully. I got a little in mouth, but most of it went down the front of my shirt. So now I've taken layers off, because I was hot and sweaty. But now the sweat is cold. And the water droplets that made it in my mouth were deliciously chilly. Soaked down the front of my shirt, a little less delightful. Now I'm freezing.
Mile 7, but I somehow get it in my head that it's mile 8. Mark passes me--going uphill, pushing 100 pounds. I get my gloves back. Mile 8. The real 8 mile. I have a What the frickity frack? moment, because I thought it was going to be mile 9. And then I push, push, push through some up, up, up hill. And relish the moments of down, down, down hill. Mile 10. Queens Road and still feeling strong. I notice a stopped baby jogger and see a little boy peeing on a tree. I get a little closer. That is my baby jogger. That is my little boy peeing on a tree.
Mile 11. I start to notice my body. My upper thighs. They don't hurt, not yet. My feet. I'm overly aware of having to lift them off the ground and propel them forward.
Morehead Street. I almost ask someone if they can tell me whether or not I am actually moving anymore. It feels like I am running in place. And not running in place all that well. I don't even remember passing mile 12.
The last mile. I am positive that I am not only running in place, but I am running in place at a 20 minute mile pace. Turn right on College Street. The end isn't in sight. Not yet. But I know it's there. I don't speed up. Not yet. I'm still thinking about my legs and the effort it's taking to move them forward.
And finally, finally, finally, I see the finish line. Where are my children? I know Mark finished ahead of me, so where are they? I scan the crowd on both sides of the street. I can't find them anywhere. Everyone seems to have a baby jogger, but none of them belong to me.
I dig deep, speed up, stare straight at the finish line--and there they are. Heath is out of the baby jogger, wrapped in a blanket and a huge grin. Stella is still in the stroller, but I can see her little smile that has been missing all sickly week long. And Mark, clapping and hooting and hollering.
I leap across the finish and immediately scoop Heath up to give him many, many kisses. The lady who was handing out medals apparently tried to hand one to me, but I was too busy kissing on the babies. Mark got it for me and put it around Stella's neck. Heath was already wearing Mark's.
Look at my medal, he said, holding it up for me to see. I ran so hard and fast through downtown. I'm starving.
2:14:41. Not too shabby.
Great story! Way to Andee! Way to go Ropko family!!!!
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