The Elusive 13.1

I looked down at my watch screen.

Lap 11

8:24

With less than a 5K to go, I took a deep breath. Not for the first time that day. But this one was different. I let myself say, "The plan worked."

Sixteen weeks earlier, I'd gone on the first benchmark run that got me started down this path. Garmin had no faith in me. When I chose a half-marathon plan in the app, its response was, "Are you sure you don't want to start with a 5k or 10k?"

Garmin's skepticism was warranted. Each time over the last six years that I've even thought about running, injury struck. Tendinitis, whose vise grip had crept up my calf. The tiniest of bones broken. More tendinitis. A walking boot now a permanent fixture on a shelf in my closet.

And I had my own skepticism. I'd begun to believe the extent of my running would be giving kudos on Stava to everyone else putting in miles and picking up medals. When I'd last attempted to start the path to a half, I'd made it all of 256 feet. The pain in my left toe told me there was no need to go further.

So, it felt fitting that nearly six years to the day, when the wheels first began coming off and the early signs of chronic injury began, that I crossed the line of the elusive 13.1.

It was strange to toe the line of a distance that I expected to have accomplished years earlier. There's the pre-race nerves that landed me in a 10-deep line at the portable toilet less than 30 minutes before the gun. And the odd emotions that this was it. Weeks and hours of training all came down to a cool Saturday morning in April and it would all (hopefully) be over in less than two hours.

Three days before, I ran my final training run. Thirty minutes, easy pace, Garmin told me. I ran it like I'd run the race, no headphones. Just me and the voices in my head. Before I even pressed the button on my watch, I was sad. Sad that it was over. For four months, I'd put on my shoes three times a week. Speed workouts, easy runs with a fast finish, and the weekend long run.

I'd come to rely on the stability and consistency of the plan. It was a place I knew I could go and find solace during a time when everything else was changing. My wife and I sold our first house and moved to a new place. And we were preparing to welcome someone new into our family. I leaned into the training. It was a place of respite where my mind and body could go for a while.

The long runs were a sanctuary where peace was found over the course of two hours or so. The speed days a place to work out frustration when my heart pumped at close to 180 bpm.

And then, just like that, the weeks were finished. The hay was in the barn, as they say. I eased my way through three miles with a feeling like a good friend was moving away. Or like that last day of the spring semester in college, when you leave and you know you'll come back, and most everything will be the same, but something will be different, even if you can't put your finger on what it is.

The odd thing about racing, and I doubt I'm the only one, is that I have to remind myself to enjoy it. As I prepared to cross the start line that morning, I told myself, "You're here. You made it. Have fun."

Between the watches and the shoes and all the advice on Instagram, running can feel like an all-or-nothing endeavor. You hit your goal time, or you didn't. You paced well or you didn't.

After all this time and doubt that I'd run again, much less make it through half marathon training and get to the start line, I was amazed that I needed to remind myself to have fun out there. To be grateful.

Grateful that I have two legs that held up and let me get out there and run. Grateful that I can buy good shoes and pay to run in the first place.

And grateful that I have a wife and son, we haven't met yet, who stood at the corner of Gadsden and Gervais and cheered me on as I finished up the first three miles.

As the miles ticked by, I let myself accept that the training had worked. And the race plan I'd laid out for myself, a fairly ambitious goal of negative splits that would get me to the finish line in less than two hours, was coming to fruition.

When 8:24 displayed on my watch screen I was on a long, flat stretch of Devine Street. A welcome reprieve from the wave of hills. I let myself really enjoy it. I said a prayer of thanks. And I reminded myself how good it felt to be here.

Running is a weird thing. For people who don't enjoy it, it seems like an arduous task. A slog that's more pain than anything else. But for anyone who loves the sport, there's a moment, often more than one, during a race where it just all comes together. You're breathing hard and you're tired. But there's this feeling inside of you that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

And I'm grateful to have felt that from mile one until 13.1.