Fort Langley Historic Half

I had been healing from a dislocated pelvis for weeks. It was a tough recovery. Lots of physiotherapy. Lots of unrest. Lots of discomfort. I was pushing myself to run, but it didn't feel right. I was pushing myself at bootcamp, but I wasn't all there.
Finally, two weeks before the Historic Half, a race that I did a year ago in 2:15 or so, I started to feel aligned and strong. I went for a few runs. A 5k here. A 10k there. Nothing at all like the training schedule I had last year.

As the race drew nigh, I wavered. I tried to talk myself out of it: "You're just not prepared."
And I tried to talk myself into it: "So what if you're not prepared, you've run half marathons a million times. It's like clockwork."
And then out of it again: "You're still sore. You haven't done the distance."
And then into it: "You'll regret it if you don't try."

That was the kicker. That last one.
That, and the fact, that all my nearest and dearest were egging me on with support.
Dad said: "you can do it."
Paul said: "just give it a try"
Mike said: "You're going to kill it, Kimmers. I know it!"

And so, bright and early one February Sunday, I got out of bed, put on my gear, and headed NorthEast to Fort Langley.
The little city was just waking up.
I stopped by the runners tent to get my number, my timing chip, and some last minute determination.
I stopped by the port-a-potties too to quell my nerves.

There were two waves of runners: the 2 hour and 30 minute-PLUS crowd and the 2 hour and 30 minutes-LESS crowd.
I had decided early on that even though my best time was well below the 2:30 mark, I would run with the slower crowd this time because of my hip injury and lack of training. I was prediciting a 2:30 finish.

So at 8:00 a.m., after the anthem was sang and the gun went off, I trotted forward past the start line and into my 21.1k journey. Almost instantly I realized that I felt good. REALLY good. And, because I was with the slower runners, I was 4 or 5 people shy of the lead. So for the first time ever, this perpetual middle-of-the-packer was at the front, helping lead the way.

Now, granted, I was a leader of the slow runners and would, at 18k, be taken over by the real runners who started an hour after I did. But still, this notion of being at the front of the pack gave me strength. I kept the leader in my site, always thinking "She's just 2 minutes away." and feeling like I couldn't slow down or walk or break because victory was within my reach!

At 14 k, I hit a slight wall. My hip ached heartily. My stomach growled. And then I saw the leader turn a corner and she was gone. Instantly, my sense of competition kicked in and I picked up the pace, ignored my hip and tumultuous belly, and ran forth to catch her again!

As I came into the chute, the emcee called my name: "Here comes Kim McMullen. Looks like she's going to get a 2:16 here today!" 2:16!?!! Not my fastest at all but WAY better than I had anticipated for this run. I was thrilled. My smiles was wide and genuine. My pal Mike yelled from the sidelines "Holy crap Kim!!!".

I crossed the finish line with a feeling of pride and elation.
And then I dry heaved consistently all the way to the medal-giver, who wondered aloud if I was going to throw up.
I should my head "no" and dry heaved some more.
I managed, though, to keep it together.

The lesson this day felt like one of those times as a kid when your parents tell you to keep trying, to persevere, and to pus hthe limits because they believe in you and you should too.

I had all but convinced myself that I could not run this race.
And then I ran it.
Faster than I thought.
And I felt strong.
And I felt proud.
And I felt ready for the next challenge: The Vancouver Marathon May 3, 2009.

Healing with Harley

On January 19, 2009, I opened my heart and my home to a bull in a china shop. Her name is Harley. She's a six-year-old mutt. Some kind of cross between a lab, a bull mastiff, and a pit bull. Though she is rough around the edges, she is sweet to the very core.

I was excited and nervous to bring her home.

Excited to have new life at home. A wagging tail at the door as I inched it open. A warm soul at my feet as I read the paper. A hiking partner. A furry psychiatrist. All the things that I have missed since B passed away last June.

I was nervous, though, because although time has healed, it has left an enduring scar. I still tear up when I think of B. When I speak of her, I feel pangs in my heart. I am still very very emotional about her loss. She was my best friend, and I was scared that I might fall in love with Harley and forget Beams.

The great thing is Harley and Beamer are like night and day as far as characteristics go. Although they both share a youthful neuroticism, they are very different at heart. so I've been falling in love in a whole new way and developing a whole new friendship. And Beamer is still a shining light in my life. Her memory is the centre of my smile.

Harley and I have been spending a lot of time throwing (me) and fetching (her) sticks at the park, getting comfy with each other. I've been trying to feel out how she is off-leash and how she might be on the hiking trail.

Today, on a bright and sunny Monday, we decided to play hookey.
We headed to Juniper Peak at Lighthouse Park where Beamer now rests in peace. This was the very last hike I did with Beams on June 14, 2008, the day before she died. And it seemed fitting that it should be the very first hike that I took Harley on. As Harley has helped me live.

Immediately out of the car, Harley hopped on to the trail with the zeal of a puppy. Most people are surprised that she's a middle-aged pup as she bounces and bumps along. She threw herself into every puddle, down every cliff, through every bit of mud. She danced, really, a dog's dance through the woods, sniffing and running and jumping and falling and all of those things with reckless abandon. It was hysterical and heartwarming all at the same time.

I laughed aloud a few times. And as I breathed in the wind that carried B's ashes away, I felt healed again.

We encountered a few other pups on our walks and Harley was fantastic. A bum sniff. A little snort. And she was on her way.
Like Beams, she doesn't have too much patience when she is hot on the trail!

A few hours, a few trails, and afew cliffside views later, we called it a day. Harley pounced into the back of the car onto the same green blanket with pom-poms that Beamer dragged her muddy paws on years before. She stuck her head out the window and slobbered down the panes as we drove across the Lion's Gate Home.

We both felt free, I think.
And happy.
And maybe a little closer to each other.

She is a big, brown, furry, dirty, stinky ball of delight.
I am so glad she is mine.