By Megan Cox
The race is over. The half-marathon I’ve been training for during the past eight months, ever since I had baby number two, took place this past weekend.
Along with almost 10,000 half-marathon runners, I crossed the finish line. But it wasn’t pretty.
Two weeks ago, I ran an eleven-mile training run under my goal of a nine-minute mile. I was psyched. For the Dallas Half Marathon, I didn’t think I’d achieve the 1:48:01 that I ran in 2007 in the Baltimore Half, but I had high hopes of keeping my time right at two hours.
But life doesn’t always cooperate with our plans, does it?
Everything started out well. My family and I made it from Oklahoma City to my cousin’s house in Frisco, Texas, without any major difficulties. Saturday afternoon, my husband and I had a chance to explore the Dallas Health and Fitness Expo without the kiddos.
We picked up my info package, bib, and the race T-shirt. All was well with the world.
But my life is not happy without some drama. Enter the stomach bug. Something got a hold of me by Saturday evening. I was up several times that night, puking my guts out, and again at four a.m., about an hour before I was to be picked up for the race by a friend of my cousin.
I tried to sip water and eat some bread before I left the house. I pulled out my brave face and put it on. But inside, I was really, really worried.