Well.

That’s over.

This was the weekend of the Seaside Half Marathon, and The Husband and I, along with The Sis and Bro-in-Law, convened in Montgomery to drop off their children (one human, one canine) at my parents’ and spend Friday night there before heading to the beach on Saturday morning.

We arrived around 1 pm on Saturday to a tiny village clogged with people and their cars, all moving at a snail’s pace along 30A and through the town’s backstreets and competing for space with pedestrians and bikers.  No one was in a hurry–besides us.  We were aching to unload our stuff at the condo and head to Bud and Alley’s for some food and drink(s).  Once unloaded, we worked on getting loaded again at the beachside bar, which looked like an especially fit meat market for the occasion.

I have to say this because it’s on my mind a lot lately and I’m embracing gratitude: I love the time that TH and I spend with my sister and her husband.  Early on in our friendship, I had a vision of TH blending seamlessly into this (and every) branch of my family and pairing my third wheel self off with its perfect match.  I saw the four of us as the ultimate double date:  The Sis and me with our guys, laughing and living life together.  I had to keep those visions to myself because TH and I weren’t together and we never would be if he were aware of my stalker potential.  But I saw it.  And now it’s real.  And I hope I never stop seeing it, and being thankful.

Sunday morning’s alarm came brutally early, before the sun even crawled out of bed, and I downed some Powerade and prayed that the next two hours would fly by.  I feared a lot of things: pain, injury, embarrassment, failure–all defined by me and my fragile ego.  TH and The Sis and I (Bro-in-Law sat it out this year after claiming to forget to register) headed to the start line, located conveniently just steps beyond our condo, and listened to a shaky version of the national anthem.  Then the gun went off and so did we.

There’s something I forgot about races: pure adrenaline is a drug more amazing than Charlie Sheen and tiger blood.  The fear I had been both pushing against and operating out of drained away as my feet hit pavement in unison with two thousand other people’s–but two in particular.  I remembered my last race, two years ago, on a fifteen-degree Manhattan morning.  I ran it alone, other than the first few seconds that my friend AJ ran with me after blocking me while I took a pre-run tinkle on the grass at Tavern on the Green.  Three girlfriends and my new boyfriend would be waiting for me at the finish line, but that was two hours and multiple heinous hills and some potential frostbite away.  The Sis, whose own half-marathon completion a few months before had inspired me to do this one, was a couple thousand miles away in Atlanta.  It was just me, God, and my playlist circling Central Park that day.

But this day…this day had TH’s steps in sync beside mine, our nonverbal communication skills tested and triumphing as we jointly wove through the crowd.  We passed, and shared mutual smiles over, a girl whose asscrack was on display above ill-fitting shorts, an old lady in a tutu, and a man wearing a bikini top and Speedo.  We caught up to The Sis and confirmed with her that she had witnessed all three sights as well.  For 13.1 miles, we ran in perfect time with each other and didn’t stop until we reached the finish.  At which point I, grinning and near tears, turned to him for a fist-bump and he replied, “I feel terrible.  Let’s get out of here.”

We found the Sis and grabbed the Bro-in-Law and went out for a celebratory Bloody Mary- and mimosa-soaked brunch.  The revelry continued until we all doubled over in exhaustion last night.  And then…the day after and its reckoning.  I awoke with two bad knees and a sharp pain in my foot that persists now and is forcing me to walk like a peg-legged pirate.  My organs feel like they may fall out any second, and I’m wondering how exactly my intestines contributed to the race in a way so significant it caused them to be sore today.  I feel every bit the two years older that I am now than I was in January 2009, when I grabbed a Gatorade and headed home to a couple days of minor muscle soreness.  And then–the arrival back at my parents’ house today.  The Niece had a raging cold, The Mom had hit my car with hers and left a panel sitting lopsided above the rear tire, and–sorry, there’s no way to put this delicately–the canine child’s lipstick was stuck outside its tube.

Total, perfect disarray.

We’re all back home now.  My car is still jacked, our bodies are still in pain, and The Niece is still coughing; but the dog’s wiener is back to normal, so there’s that.  And in between doses of Advil and the Brookstone electric massager we got for Christmas, I am humbled by the remembrance of so many truths:

I still am a runner, even when I feel like a poser.

Training is helpful, but when it comes down to it, what happens on the day of the race may look like nothing that happened prior to it.  All my planning (and I am not just talking about the race here) is self-motivated, self-inflicted, and intended to make me self-reliant–and I am at my best and most free when self is the smallest part of the equation.

Running alone is no less valid than running with someone, and is a lot better than running with the wrong person.

Running with the right person can be heaven.

And finally…the Biebs’ anthem “Baby” can be just the push one needs to cross the finish line.  Who knew?