Run like Helvetia

In June 2008, I went for my first real run. I came to a gasping halt about a mile in and told myself, “No more.” In June of last year, I ran my first half-marathon. “Never again,” I told myself as I drained cup after cup of water and sucked down all the free Jamba Juice I could. “Never again,” I said to my mom, who had finished her 10-K earlier (Only 6.2 miles. Yeah, only. Oh, perspective!) and who laughed at my distress. “Never again,” I told my dad after he crossed the finish line, and he agreed. And so this past Saturday, we ran it again.

Here’s the thing about Helvetia: it’s nothing but hills. 13.1 miles of country roads is how they advertise the race. It’s 13.1 miles of country hills. It’s a test of endurance (duh, it’s a half-marathon) and a sort-of community event. People from all walks – and runs – of life show up there. You see thin, tightly-muscled runners, the people who run and do nothing else, those who will finish more than an hour ahead of me; groups of friends decked out in fancy Nike apparel for an easy long jog/walk; the very young (One girl I saw wore a shirt declaring that she wasn’t even 13.1 years old. Sit down, child. You’re making me feel bad); the very old (I passed an elderly man, not much slower than me, shuffling along while bent over. Sit down, sir. You’re making me feel very bad); and you have the people like me and my dad, who blur the line between casual and serious runner, the ones who might not ever break two hours but who sure as hell are going to die trying each year.

My time was 2:02:04. Not too shabby. That’s two minutes faster than last year. It isn’t the sub-2:00 that I secretly wanted, but it’ll do. I ran 13.1 miles; it’s a miracle that I finished at all. There were some dark times out on the course, moments of desperation when I realized that oh no, I still had seven miles to go. Or when I looked up and saw the line of runners ahead of me snaking its way up Mt. Everest. The times that tried my soul, like the steady, never-ending slope leading up to the Helvetia church. Save me, Lord.

But somehow I finished. I went into near-panic mode in the thirteenth mile, completely convinced I could not keep running. The smug bastards who had already finished and who jogged a few miles back along the course didn’t help, either. I get it, you’re finished, and that’s wonderful and fun, etc., but get your smiles and high-fives and and You can do its out of my face. I’m in misery here, people, and misery loves company.

Somehow I stumbled through the last mile and crossed the finish line in front of a line of cheering spectators, red-faced and sweaty and pathetically slow. Just across the line, I dropped to one knee to tie my shoe. At least, that’s what it was supposed to look like. Probably wasn’t fooling anyone, but I pretended in order to maintain some last shred of dignity.  My feet were blistered, my legs achy, and I was about to pee my pants. I tied a new knot in my shoelaces and tottered out of the finish area, hardly able to walk in a straight line. My legs were noodles. I ducked under the rope, took five steps and sat on the fake grass. I sat and I sat. I sat and waited for my dad and tried my best to look like I was resting casually.

He finished six minutes after I did. Immediately we set out on a mission to find the free Jamba Juice and our prize hamburgers. Somewhere along the way I was given a medal, my bright green badge of honor. I didn’t care, though. I was hungry. And that hamburger tasted better than anything else could have at that moment.

We didn’t want to stand up again after sitting down. I was pretty sure my legs had turned to stone and I was perfectly happy to sit on that bench for the rest of my life. But the U.S. was playing England and we had to go watch. Patriotic duty. We meandered back to the truck, complaining the whole way about soreness and pain and exhaustion and the sun and we said to each other over and over again, “Never again.”

I was proud; it’s not supposed to be easy, and despite being in pain, I felt good. It’s also far from the longest run I’ve ever done, but the Helvetia Half is a tough course. We just needed a little time to recover.

We discussed next year’s training techniques on the drive home.