Earlier this week, I extemporaneously ran a half-marathon.
I had signed up for the Children's Hospital at Dartmouth "ripcord" 5K as any non-athletic regular person who usually spends her time studying, going to Zumba and not running more than six or seven miles ever in her life might do. At the starting line, I ran into Priya one of our esteemed Mirror editors who recently fired me for arriving late to a dinner party and my fellow columnist Kate, whose advice I would argue is supremely good. Kate and Priya had registered to run the full half-marathon, and I would run the first 3 miles with them.
Once I actually started running the CHaD event, several unanticipated factors came together and kept me going all 13.1 miles. The bands playing at random corners, the event staff on ATVs taking my picture while blasting inspirational oldies like "I Will Survive," the little kids high-fiving me, the strangers shouting positive reinforcement and holding signs with things like, "You are a hero," wow, my adrenaline was pumping, and my self-esteem was through the roof. But most of the credit goes to Kate and Priya's strategy. It wasn't about pacing, or listening to music, or special breathing techniques, but every human being's guilty pleasure: gossip.
A week prior to the half-marathon, Kate and Priya did not speak to each other. They didn't ignore each other, but they did not allow themselves to discuss anything interesting or important or juicy that had been happening in their lives. Therefore on race day, they would each have a week's worth of gossip to discuss, which easily filled the length of the race.
While I listened to their dirt and occasionally contributed, I felt like I was just hanging out with friends, and until around mile six when my knees started to hurt, wasn't paying attention to the fact that I was actually running. Around mile six, we ran into another friend who joined our gabbing group. It felt like a strenuous cocktail party.
By the time we were back in Hanover at mile 9, my knees and shins hurt, but not unbearably. I realized I needed something to write for my column this week, and that doing something like this off the cuff was part of my whole life philosophy this year, and that the last four miles were a loop I ran frequently and knew to be doable. I went for it.
Running the whole thing was probably a stupid decision. And God, the aftermath was painful. Example: That night, a housemate found me clutching a bottle of ibuprofen and stuffing my face with pasta in the middle of Late Night Collis.
And now, since it's Homecoming, and to hopefully save this column from being a 550-word self-call, I'd like to apply some lessons I learned from the CHaD half-marathon to the upcoming weekend.
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Run with friends. Seriously, '16s, hold each others' hands when you're running around the bonfire so you don't get split up by randos.
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If you're enjoying yourself and the gossip's good, don't run home just yet.
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You are capable of more than you currently realize. Do not apply this idea to alcohol consumption.
