“It’s going to suck whether you train or not. May as well go for it.”

Apparently that’s what I said to Scratch a few years ago when he got duped into signing up for Blue Ridge Marathon, his first marathon, less than a week before the race.

He placed in the top ten for his age group. Like, 5th or something. He ran America’s Toughest Road Marathon in sub-5.

He figured I run more than he does, so he expected me to manage sub-4.

Sure.

At any rate, I got my training run and my taper run both in last weekend.

And on Tuesday, Beautiful Beastie and Everyone’s Favorite Husband took me out for a bike ride. To make sure I’m prepared. For my post-race fitness option. Since running. And walking. Will no longer be part of my repetoire.

So I obviously felt pretty prepared heading into Blue Ridge Marathon weekend.

This was my first marathon. A lot of years ago. Maybe ten or so.

It was also my first ultra. Also a lot of years ago. Five or six.

So as stupid as running a three mountain road marathon on what some might call less than adequate training may be, it was nice to be back. And also, there was at least one person out there with a fresh leg injury who definitely shouldn’t have been running a marathon. (*cough* GJB *cough*) So I felt ok about my choices.

Rolled up to the starting line, and a woman approached me. Pointed at the pace/mile signs. And asked me to translate them into Canadian.

I took a guess. That a 9 min/mile pace would be somewhere between…5 and 6 hours…?

Ma’am, I really don’t even know what those mean in American. I certainly can’t translate them into kilometers for you. I’m…American…

And really, people don’t actually pay attention to them. You’re gonna spend the first mile dogding walkers and getting passed by sprinters. It’s all pretty irrelevant.

I suspect that’s because no one really knows what those signs mean in American.

At any rate, found GJB. And his flag football friends. There were a few more fanny packs in that group than I personally was comfortable with. But to each his own.

And I don’t know if it was the lack of adequate training. The intensity of week-long carb loading. Or the regular doses of ibuprofen and such. But managed the up and down Roanoke Mountain and I felt quite good. Around mile 11, I told GJB, “15 miles feels really doable right now.”

Up and down Mill Mountain and I still felt good. And I was tired of GJB whining about his fanny pack. So I made him strap it to my hydration pack. Because real runners wear hydration packs.

I’m not sure what all that fanny pack was filled with. But he didn’t use a single one of the supplies in that thing. So it never got any lighter than the extra 50 lbs that it started out.

So I blame that. And not less than adequate training. And not even…Peakwood. For the struggles that kicked in heading up…Peakwood.

But I knew my Rogue. And Goatfinder. And several other favorites. Were at the top. With champagne. And snacks. So I pushed on.

8 miles was feeling far less doable at this point.

But y’all. The absolute highlight of this race. Was getting to the top of Peakwood. And Rogue running into my arms.

It was beautiful.

Time slowed. A beautiful field of flowers appeared. Love music played in the background.

I mean, that could have been the lack of oxygen.

But I choose to believe it was just the love of a really good friend.

And bless. When she asked me what I needed. She tried to lift me when I asked to be carried to the snackies.

But. I mean. I was tapering last week. And carb loading. So…

And then another hug. From my Goatfinder.

And all the champagne. And strawberries. Like, dudes don’t even go to that kind of effort for me.

And they loaded me up with snacks.

And sent us on our way back down the mountain. And onto the finish.

And when I say that the last five miles of this race are the absolute worst miles in the history of miles. (Or kilometers. For my Canadian friends.) Well, I mean, obviously any five miles of Promiseland are worse. But still.

They’re awful.

My ibuprofen regimen is no longer working.

The jello shots. And champagne. And donuts. And IPAs. Have worn off.

And I’m rucking an 100 extra pound fanny pack on my back.

And my my ankles have been shoved right up into my leg bones so far that they no longer exist.

And my hips. Lord my hips.

Those just woke up from the best nap ever to find themselves flung into a marathon work day. And they. were. pissed.

And GJB just wants to run.

And for the love, man. You’re fucking leg is broken. Let’s just walk a little.

But he wants a sub 6 finish.

And we’re five hours in.

With three miles to go.

And I can’t math American.

But I’m pretty sure we can manage three miles in an hour.

And also, where are those people with the donuts and IPA selection? I need those people back.

And seriously, dude. Let’s just walk a little bit…

And please legs, just don’t cramp.

And then you see the magical corner.

And it really is magic.

Because the moment you turn it. The pain dissipates.

So when GJB says, “Let’s kick it.” You kick it.

Apparently a little overzealously. Because this person that’s been forcing you to run when you should be walking tells you to not kick it quite so much.

And you cross the finish line. And T-Elly is there with a great big hug.

And Lil TJB. And GJB’s flag football team. And Mapoose. And just so many amazing people.

We did it. When we probably shouldn’t have.

Feels like a decent showing. I’ll take it.

Before the race, NattyH and I were chatting about friends who make you sign up for a marathon 11 days out. She joked, “That will be the next blog post. Seeking new friend group.”

But honestly. Who would trade these people?

Just. Maybe. Let’s maybe just go for a nice little bike ride on the greenway. In a few weeks. When my lowers can make movements again.