Half-Marathon Day: Almost blew out my knee (again) because of a mutinous shoe

Marathon Day is grueling.  We were scheduled to get up at the crack of dawn but Chlo had other ideas when, with her canine super-sight, she zeroed in on a Midnight Antelope outside our bedroom window.  Her natural instinct is, of course, to protect the family at all costs.  My natural instinct is to drop kick the dachshund across the room but, with her furry little feet, she outmaneuvered me with ease. So it was that, with very little sleep, I blearily looked ahead to the up-coming race. 

“Mom,” Savannah said, “anyone reading this would think that you’re the one running the half marathon.”   

“I feel that I’m the one most invested in this activity,” I responded defensively. “You may be the one strapping on the sneakers and running 13.1 miles but it’s my pounding heart, my exploding lungs, and my sweaty brow engaged in getting you across the finished line.”

“Brittany and I have been training for months,” Savannah pointed out, “while you sat on the couch, watching tv.  Is this the investment you’re talking about?”

“Look how little you notice,” I said, hurt. I then broke my long-held biblical commitment of not letting my left hand know what my right hand is doing so that I could reveal the behind-the-scenes-half-marathon-training of Amy Mosiman.

   

Saturday, I selflessly accompanied Savannah to pick up her race day packet. Race packets are usually magical, filled with fun items. I knew we were in trouble when I pulled out a cartoon raccoon tattoo (check out all the double “oo”s there) and liquefied organic peanut butter.  “I suppose the peanut-butter-loving-public could pour it over ice cream,” I remarked doubtfully, shaking the jar in complete fascination.  Since we were in the area, I had Savannah take us to Wal-Mart and Wegman’s so we could watch the store clerk count our fifteen file folders twenty times.  Savannah got disgusted with me when I insisted on buying slider-sized baby burgers with accompanying rolls because I thought they looked adorable even though they cost 1/3 more than regular-sized burgers.  Then, out of the pure goodness of my heart, I drove Savannah’s little 5-speed home to give her aching knee a rest despite the fact that she constantly corrects my shifting.

Later that night, after Savannah had gone to bed, I set about selflessly creating the traditional race day banner. I was devastated during our first half marathon when I discovered that each runner does not experience the breaking of the finish line tape. Fortunately and inexplicably, I had a roll of toilet paper in my bag so we improvised to re-create that magical moment.  Anyhoo…I was ready to selflessly print the banner when Brad intervened, dramatically flipping out over the amount of yellow I was using. “This is NOT an industrial printer, you know,” he shouted.  After flinging the five printed pages at me, he then began to micro-manage my efforts in taping them together. “How many banners have you made in YOUR lifetime,” roared the Queen of All Banner-Makers.  My expertise in this area was eventually verified by an outside consultant when Sarah finally texted back:  “I’d estimate an average of 15-23 per year.”

I admit to faltering a bit, race day morning (see Midnight Antelope). Groceries were a tad scarce and we were out of bread so I was unable to produce Savannah’s requested race day toast.  I forgive me though because I made her first-day-of-college toast and that is way over-the-top super mom mothering. Never-mind...Savannah reminded me that I didn't make her first-day-of-college toast. It was, in fact, Saturday-for-no-reason toast. But that's still thoughtful, right? I offered to make her sliders instead but she grumpily said no.

Savannah’s friend and running partner, Brittany had ordered them cutely inappropriate shirts that asked, Why do you run? on the front and answered, I run to look good naked on the back.  I would have preferred to have Savannah run in a giant banana costume for easy spotting but appreciated her memorable attire.  After meeting Brittany and her family at the site, we began making our way towards the start line. I kept catching false-glimpses of my friend and marathon-maniac, Liz, believing everyone sporting a skirt was her. For her part, Liz automatically thinks anyone accompanied by a dachshund is me. We did, eventually, successfully find one another.

Banner printed from our "non-industrial" printer.

Our runners got off to a bit of a shaky start-off because Brittany’s mom and boyfriend were on one side of the road while Brad and Sydney had a spot further up on the opposite side of the road. Three minutes prior to the race, I sprinted up to the girls and re-established their initial route to a graceful drunken weave pattern to accommodate their personal paparazzi.  The next two hours were a nightmare of suffering.  Extreme weather conditions ranged from hot-hot to cold-cold. We were starving and on the verge of collapse due to dehydration. Sydney and I accidentally stood on a nest inhabited by African fire ants. What was taking the girls so long, we wondered? They are so selfish, making us wait like this.  Apparently they were busy lollygagging up a supposedly mile-and-a-half long hill. Puh-leeze.  They finally finished the race so we could go home.  Brittany’s boyfriend Brandon made her get him a bagel from the participant’s tent. I glared at Savannah as she guzzled her ice cold, refreshing water. She didn't even offer me a sip.

The mutinous shoe

I almost blew out my Lost-in-the-woods-on-the-day-my-husband-tried-to –kill-me knee (formerly known as Kickball knee) on the walk back to the vehicle. I thought that the cause must have been a dangerous divot in the ground but the true cause was revealed in Wegman’s as I selflessly scoured the bakery aisle for a post-race treat for Savannah. An irregularity in my pace alerted me to a problem and then a disturbing noise caused further investigation. Just as I about plummeted into the doughnut selections (involuntarily), I realized that my six-year-old sneaker was transforming into a flip-flop as the bottom tread declared mutiny and tried to jump ship. I tried to shift my limp to my other leg to compensate for my mutinous shoe but it’s not as easy as you would think.  I shuffled along like the Hunchback of Notre Dame while slinging my arm emphatically to the side like a gorilla.

I took a two hour nap as soon as I got home but, nonetheless, was exhausted for the remainder of the day.  A half marathon just strips all the energy right out of you. But even then, I still selflessly tried to support Savannah, who lay on the couch, incessantly moaning about a teeny-tiny blister.  Good gravy! I finally stopped watching tv long enough to grab a needle and go in there. (Warning: faint-of-heart…skip the next part). Next thing I knew, there was blister water erupting all over us. I couldn't hear over the screaming. “Mom, stop screaming and wipe my foot off,” Savannah directed selfishly, not even caring that her blister water was dripping all over me.  Preparing for, participating in, and recovering from a half marathon is physically and emotionally draining. It is such a selfless investment of time and energy and support but in the end, it's totally worth it.