Running a Marathon?

So I’m running a marathon.

It has been pointed out to me that I am throwing around this term loosely…but marathon just sounds bad ass. And I’m running! In an organized event with other people!

So technically, I guess it’s a 5K. That sounds pretty good, too. I mean 5K= 5,000!

5,000 what? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the amount of times I’ll be questioning why I agreed to do this. Or perhaps it’s the amount of times I’ll curse my friend who talked me into it. Or maybe that’s the number of liters I’ll pee in my pants.

I know. You’re probably laughing that this is such a big deal to me. But it is. I literally cannot remember the last time I even ran long distance. I know I ran about 8 years ago…but I got mad at my husband for telling me hadn’t made it a mile yet, and that was the end of that. I’m more of a sprinter.

I sprint to the bathroom with my three-year-old when she holds her pee until the last minute and then screams, “I’m gonna go in my undies NOW!”

I sprint to shove the pacifier back into my son’s mouth in the middle of the night, so he doesn’t wake up his sister. And the dog. And my husband.

I am lightening-fast when I’m sitting in the backyard at 5:30 pm and realize it’s gotten late enough I can have a glass of wine. I sprint to the kitchen, pour the wine and I am back in my chair before either kid has noticed I left.

So we began training last week, as I was informed that it may take some practice to run that far. I took out my running shoes that I bought two years ago (because they were pink, not because I thought I’d actually use them). The only piece of “sports” clothing I own is a sports-bra that my sister-in-law gave me after she got a boob job and it no longer fit her.

So I found some leggings (turns out they turn transparent in the sunlight) and paired them with a neon yellow, fashionable, knitted sweater. I looked like the female version of Richard Simmons. So basically, Richard Simmons.

I also don’t wear socks. My feet never stink and I can only ever find one of them anyway. I was told today that as a “runner”, that is unacceptable. But then I was picking a wedgie, and my friend asked if I was wearing underwear.

“Of course I’m wearing underwear,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?” I then looked at her tight running pants. “Are you wearing underwear?”

“No! I don’t need them with these running pants.”

So I have to wear socks but she doesn’t have to wear undies? How is that fair?

Anyway…

There are three of us training together. Mephanie, the runner, is in charge of getting the other two of us in shape. She showed up the first day with a giant watch, which allegedly tracks our mileage (It was so large I snarkily asked her if it had a calculator on it). Then there’s Balicia, who is in the same boat as me. Our duo must be a trio, as Balicia and I like to reward ourselves for everything. One time we went on a walk to burn some calories, and after about five minutes, we were discussing getting beers and pizza on the next block.

My trainer, IE the monster responsible for my running a marathon, started us off slow: running for one minute and then briskly walking for 90 seconds. We did this for 20 minutes.

Balicia and I complained the entire time.

“Next, we’re going to run for 90 seconds, walk for a minute.”

“What?” both of us gasped. “Seriously? Run for a minute AND A HALF?” You can see Mephanie has her work cut out for her.

Mind you, we are also doing all of this with our children in tow. It goes something like this:

You arrive at assigned running spot, and take fifteen minutes to unload your children, their stroller, their snacks, their waters, their babies, their sunscreen, etc. You put said children into the stroller and begin to walk/run.

Approximately 30 seconds into this, one of them will inevitably need a new snack.

Or they’ve thrown a shoe out of the stroller while you were jogging, and decide not to tell you until about a half of a mile away. After you trek back, you’ll realize that what your three-year old thought was her shoe, is actually a pile of dog shit.

And then they want to run with you. And you know this is a bad idea, as they get very easily distracted. But another part of your brain argues, “Your child wants to exercise! Don’t tell them no! Let them burn off some energy!” So you let them out of the stroller. At which point they spot a flower, which they must smell. This goes on for three of four bushes, and then you coax them back into the stroller, or force them to sit there by strapping them in against their will.

Meanwhile, this is happening to all three all of us mothers, who are trying to push ourselves to stay on track, but also stay relatively in a group. It must be quite a sight to see.

This is only week two of training. The marathon is barely a month away. I have a feeling it isn’t going to go well…