The happiest day of my life.

Its been just over a month now since I ran my first half marathon. (And since I last updated this blog. Yes, sorry about that.) I've had just enough time to let it all sink in and I think I can say, with some confidence, it probably constitutes the happiest day of my life.

This probably seems like an odd thing to day. I mean, we are talking about a race after all. A long, sweaty, uncomfortable, painful race involving a lot of sweaty, uncomfortable, painful training. When talking about the 'happiest day' its usually a wedding that people are espousing, and mine was no different. It was a phenomenal day full of beautiful places and things, wonderful people and very sincere vows. It was a deliriously happy day. But there were a few moments, there always are, of compromise and politics. Not enough to sully the day, but enough to evoke the occasional sigh when you look back at it.

And as for the other euphemistic happy event, the birth of my two children. Those were overwhelmingly happy too. Two perfect, healthy, much wanted little people who have given me far, far more than I deserve. But the births themselves were f&*#ing sore and the second one in particular coloured by much anguish over his massively complicated pregnancy and prematurity.

But last month's run? It was perfect. It was possibly the only event I can think of in my life that was done my way, on my terms, because I wanted to do it. When I look back on it, there is not a single stain on the memory. I had the blessing of friends and family who were on hand to advise and to help. My husband ran with me but at my pace. He supported my training unconditionally, and took brilliant care of the kids while I was out. Once or twice he even surmised my route and arranged to be at my finish spot just to congratulate me and hand me a drink. Each time the thoughtfulness and sheer surprise of this touched me more than a hundred bouquets of roses.

And when the race day dawned and I had only me to think about. In a household where morning routines are usually dominated by packing lunchboxes, finding errant shoes, yelling at unresponsive children and racing the clock before the school bell it was purely blissful to wake up, pull on my own kit, sip my own coffee, casually stretch and then head out the door. The children were at a sleepover so the unfamiliar peace of the house was peculiar but lovely.

And from the starters gun, to the tentative wobbly first kilometres on an untested leg, to the panoramic vistas of King's Park, to the metronome of Broadway's finest crooning and sashaying me on through the headphones of my ipod, to the growing confidence ballooning up through my body, to the encouragement from the other runners and the joy of the finish line, it was just a perfect day.

But the main reason I loved it so much was because I proved to myself that I could do it. For years I had believed the whisperings in my head that I was too slow, too fat, too busy, too frizzy, too unsuitable to be anything else. But having set the goal, having found the support and the motivation to achieve it, I finally did. And to be honest, that is why it was such a happy day. The sirens who loll so artfully on the rocks of apathy and sing that blissful, inviting song about stopping, turning around and opening another packet of biscuits were for once, perfectly silent. And the medal that now hangs beside my bed is my quiet nod to the goddess within me, one who has banished the doubts, at least for a little while.

My first half marathon

I can't believe it, I did it! I didn't die. I didn't stop running, not even for a moment, and yes, I finished. I finished! I am a half marathon runner and I barely recognise myself.

But to go back a little to the beginning, or at least, to the night before. For the first night EVER in nine and a half years, both our children went to a sleepover at a friend's house, and hubby and I found ourselves alone and childless. It was a very strange experience. The plan was to enjoy a carb-ish dinner (tuna macaroni bake) and an early night's sleep. I've been battling ITB for five weeks so before bed I did my stretches and a final, painful session on the foam roller. Or should I say, pool noodle. No wait, foam roller sounds so much more like I know what I'm doing. I took two nurofen (they have anti-inflammatory properties) and we headed to bed.

It wasn't a great night, to be honest. My leg hurt and my head raced, and hubby and I both slept fitfully and not much. Finally I drifted off at around 5.30am only to be roused at 6.30 and having to race through the morning preparations. I didn't meditate, which I had planned to do. I did however, eat breakfast (which is rare for me), gulped the indispensable coffee and sought some advice from hubby who is a far, far more experienced runner than I am. He was very consoling, reminding me that I had done the miles, and kindly omitting the obvious point that I hadn't run in five weeks. He assured me he was proud of me and that he would run at my side, at my pace, the whole way.

I knew that the key to a successful day would be entirely mental. I hadn't slept, I hadn't run in five weeks and I had an excruciatingly sore leg. But I also had an enormous store of inspiration and to make sure I didn't forget, I scribbled some notes on my arm. I wrote the names of all the generous believers who sponsored my precious Miracle Babies cause. And I wrote my new mantra "pain is temporary, pride lasts forever" which I read on a running blog a few nights ago. And then we headed out the door.

The trip to the starting line was easy enough, we caught the train and walked to the Perth Convention Centre. We dropped off our bag containing dry clothes for after the race and joined the throng in the waiting hall. We did our best to warm up and stretch, and keep the nerves at bay. I took another two nurofen tablets even though I know you're not supposed to. But I wanted to keep the ITB pain at bay for as long as possible, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Then it was time to go!

We actually had to walk almost a kilometre to the start line from the waiting hall, and during this time my garmin 210 went back to sleep which means I missed the 'start' and only really began recording my run a few hundred metres in to it. The first few kilometres were a bit of a blur, as I did everything I could to take the focus off my sore leg (which began complaining straight away) and find ways to distract myself. I looked at my arm. A lot. I dedicated each km or so to every friend who had sponsored me, and I thought a lot about who they were and how my life was richer for knowing them. And slowly as the kms slipped by, I realised I was enjoying myself. The pain in my leg was still there, but it wasn't getting any worse and this knowledge began to give me confidence. As we streamed through Kings Park I feasted on the boundless vistas over the river, across lakes and through trees. I revelled in the music that was pushing me along, and I marvelled at the smile that was constantly spreading across my (goofy and sweaty) face.

To be honest, I loved it. It felt a lot easier than the 12km run last year, across much of the same course. Perhaps I am fitter now? I just know there were times when I felt I was flying, that I was free. Of course, that elation gradually wore off as the course wore on and to be honest, the last 4 kms or so were really, really hard. Hubby began counting down the kilometres to go and we high fived as each one passed. But the hills by now were pure torture and I glared at drew strength from my arm constantly. I knew more than anything what I wanted from the day. And that was to run without stopping and to finish. So I chanted 'I did not stop, I did not stop' like the little train who was desperate and forced my cement-laden legs to the top. I tried not to pay attention to the walkers who were going at the same pace as me. I ignored the lady in the wheelchair who sailed passed. I was breathing like a steam train and finally, finally the finish line appeared like a mirage and Hubby and I approached it arm in arm. The feeling just defies description.

The instant I stopped running my legs swore viciously at me and vowed never to bend again. I had to walk down the slope like my legs were solid metal spokes but as soon as I was handed my medal I didn't care. I allowed myself the indulgence of a tearful moment and Hubby and I shared a triumphant kiss. Running at my pace must have been sheer torture for him but the fact that he was prepared to do so, and to be proud of me for my efforts, speaks volumes about him.

Our finish time was 2h27 I think. (Snails and turtles were faster.) But truly, I don't care. Once again I had garmin problems at the finish line, this time forgetting to hit the 'stop' button so I inadvertently added about 3 minutes and several hundred metres to the stats.

At the finish line we spent a bit of time looking for the other runners from the Miracle Babies team but sadly couldn't find them. And we didn't have a whole lot of time to spare since our kids were being babysat so we headed out to the buses and back to the train station, and then home.

I just want to say a heartfelt thank you to the extended team who got me to the start line and all the way home again. Thank you to everyone who sponsored me. Thank you to my dear friend down the road who babysat my kids. Thank you to my family and friends who believed in me. Thank you to my darling husband for all the reasons he already knows. And finally, a great big middle finger 'up yours' to all my doubters, most of whom lived in my head.