Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be...

I owe you a story that I told you I would tell a week ago. Didn't happen. The story is about a marathon, my first marathon in fact. 

But before I delve into the fascinating deets, let me tell you about a new little non-link-up, link-up that I'm doing on Wednesdays called Whatever Wednesdays.

To spritz us with a little May spirit, Shay and Alissa came up with the idea to have a topic every Wednesday sent out by email a few days before, which we all would then blog about. 

No link-ups. Just writing. Easy peasy!

Today's topic: firsts.

Be cool and join in by emailing whateverwednesdays@yahoo.com. And if you're already in the pack, make sure to leave a comment below so I can come over and have a looksy!

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When people ask if I ran a marathon, I become a shifty little critter, since I can't truly do that term justice. I make it clear that I completed a marathon, and while I ran the vast majority of the way, my pace might not actually fit the running category. To prove my point, I tell this little tale...

Marathons bring interesting people. Lots of runners (obviously), some walkers and some people who like to be noticed, like those dressed as the Village People or juggling balls while they run. At the beginning of my race, in the midst of thousands of people, I passed one such person, a juggler, and jovially told my friend that at least we could beat him. I mean, please. He's juggling. We merrily trotted away, one foot in front of the other.

Until it truly became one foot in front of the other. For miles. I'm talking, I hit the wall at 17 miles and never got out. Those bricks were smacking me in the face, my feet were cement, and my mind was just screaming. I hated life, I hated the world, I hated every. single. choice I had made that got me there. And I really, super hated the fact that I had 9 miles to go. So one foot in front of the other it was for what was truly an excruciating distance.

When I heard that hope was right around the corner, a fire lit inside me and I ran. I truly ran, sprinting as hard as my legs could pump at this point. Around the bend I went, the curve that just never seemed to end, until I ended up in a tunnel that clearly was not the finish line. And I saw up ahead the 26 mile marker, meaning I had about a quarter mile left, or what I believed I had left about half a mile ago. Slowing, my lungs started screaming for oxygen, and that dang sports induced asthma that I so rarely got jumped on board my train.

So there I was, fighting to breathe, walking for the first time in miles, seriously contemplating sitting down with about .2 miles to go because I just couldn't fight the frustration and tears. Mind over matter though friends, mind over matter. That's what gets you through those last 6 miles. And as my mind took control and I went back to trudging my slug of a body to the finish line, a voice rang out on the loud speaker: "And here he is now! The juggling man!!!"

He beat me. The man juggled, JUGGLED, the entire 26.2 miles while RUNNING, and he beat me. And to pour salt in that danged wound, he made sure to beat me by just enough that I would hear it announced. Bastard. That's all I have to say to you juggling man. You're a mean, mean man. And don't you be thinkin' my tears at the end were 'cause you beat me. No sir! I just had a bug in my eye. (And pained toenails and knees and lungs and cells.)

So friends. My message to you in all of this is please, for the good of mankind and the hearts of us slower-paced folk, do not let your kids grow up to be juggling runners.

LIVE THE MURRAYED LIFE

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