Well, it's over.

Four months ago, I began training for the Ottawa Race Weekend Half Marathon. On Febuary 9, 2006, I began running with the Running Room clinic. At the time, there were about 150 of us brave souls who decided to challenge ourselves and run twenty-one long, grueling kilometers.

Those first few weeks were tough. In anticipation for the clinic, I had begun an accelerated training program. The clinic description said that a person should be able to run 7k comfortably before embarking on this training program. It had been a while since I had run, but I knew I could do it. And so I would jump on the treadmill for two, three, and then four miles, getting myself prepared, hoping that I could fool everyone, including myself, that I was ready to train for it.

And when I got there, I realized I wasn't alone. There was a sea of people with the same apprehension and fears and goals and dedication that I knew I had. Of course, I couldn't see it at the time. To me, everyone looked much more prepared than I was. There they were with their Nike Running pants and jackets. Their Running Room touques and gloves. Their sunglasses and water bottles. I felt like a bit of an outsider, coming in wearing my Giant Tiger special: A $5 pair of sweats, a $10 sweater, a $2 touque, and gloves that I'm pretty sure I stole from one of my previous roommates. The only thing that made me feel better about that whole experience was Nicola, who seemed to share my philosphy towards running wardrobe.

Those first few weeks were tough, running more often than not in -20°C weather with wind, snow, or freezing rain. I would often hope for snow, because that meant it would warm up to at least -10°C. The sun was my enemy then. We'd run along, and sometimes on, the Rideau Canal, careful not to fall on the ice. We'd run into the wind, in each direction. We'd form friendships and bonds that would take us into the half marathon.

In retrospect, the training was perhaps the best part of the whole experience. Perhaps I'm romanticizing it, but those Sunday morning runs will stay with me forever.

Everything was going good. By April, I had cut down my training from five days a week to four. Five days a week was just untenable, but I found four could be done without much trouble. And between the start of the clinic and April 19, I had missed only five scheduled runs. I was in great shape, the hill training was behind me, and my new shoes were promising to take me cleanly through the 21k just five weeks away. I was easily running 16k ahead of my projected pace, and nothing could stop me.

But then trouble came. It started as a soreness in the knee that hurt only after running. I decided to take a little bit of time off rather than risk injury, but after five days of marginal improvement, I decided to go see a doctor, just to be safe. He did a quick examination on my knee, and after finding nothing wrong, he sent me on my way, telling me to take a week off and get right back to training.

The next week, the beginning of May, we began our speed training, and that marked the end of my training. I ran about two kilometeres, and had to quit and walk home... defeated. My leg wouldn't go any more. Another trip to the doctor revealed that the problem wasn't in my knee, but rather a stress fracture in my upper shin. Thankfully, the doctor I saw this time was a runner himself, and he knew how important it was for me to run the race. So he told me to do some cross training and strength training, as well as stretches and some light running. With the race just four weeks away, he figured I should be good to run it.

But I did not fare well in May. I like to pretend I would have kept training, but with my birthday, a bachelor party, and a university reunion all within three weekends, I knew my training would be comprimised. The stress fracture gave me an excuse not to train.

Coming into race weekend, I was flip-flopping almost hourly as to whether or not I'd be able to run. On one hand, I had missed out on a month of training and was still walking with somewhat of a limp. But on the other hand was the committment I'd made four months before. There was the faces of those in my clinic who had perservered, and I refused to be one of the ones that gave up. I had to do it, and short of a broken leg, nothing was going to stop me.

And so I ran.

Lost in a crowd of 7000 other runners, I took my places squarly at the back, and waited for the race to start. It was a full eight minutes between the start of the race and the time I crossed the start line. The sheer number of people was incredible.

Mom, who came up from Newfoundland to run with me, had managed to slink her way between and around and through the crowd, and she had disappeared from my view. At the ten minute mark, I heard a familiar voice. "2:30 group! Walk!" It was Jennifer, my group leader who I'd been running with for so many runs. I had hoped to find them, but in the sea of people, there was barely any chance at the start line. But there they were, and the familiarity and motivation drove me on.

Unfortunately, comradship and motivation can only push you so hard, and a month of inactivity had taken its toll on me. At around the 8km mark, the heat, which was up around 29°C had beaten me, and I had to stop to walk a good couple of minutes before my scheduled walk break. I knew it would be a tough fight from then on. Not even half way through, and I was suffering.

And so it went for the next 12 kilometers. I ran, I walked. I ran, I walked some more. But mostly I walked. There was no music that could motivate me. There was no drink that could energize me. My calf was cramping, my shin was throbbing, and my foot was crying. The only thing that kept me going was my sheer determination. I would not quit. I would not walk. As long as I was concscious, I would carry on forward.

And then the last kilometer. I had been saving my energy for that last 1000 metres, but regardless, I had nothing left. And as I crawled along by the 500m remaining sign, I cursed. Four hundred metres didn't make me feel much better. At three hundred I finally started to believe I could do it. And at 200m, I left it all out on the pavement and pushed through the stress fracture and the cramps and aches and sprinted to the finish line.

In the end, my time was 2:56:50. Yes, that's almost three hours. My goal time was 2:30, and there's a part of me that's disappointed I didn't reach that. I can tell myself that I was injured. I can tell myself that it was hot. I can tell myself that I hadn't really trained in a month. I can tell myself anything, but in the end, it all feels like excuses. Sure there's nothing I could have done about any of those factors, but a part of me is still disappointed. I walked more than I wanted, I struggled more than I thought possible, and my recovery took longer than ever expected.

But those disappointments are minor. When I set out to run the half marathon, I set out to push myself to my absolute limits. I set out to prove that I could do something that I never though possible. As anyone three years ago if they ever thought I'd run a half-marathon, and they would have laughed. And I would have been one of them. I challenged myself with something extraordinary, and I finished it, and that's something I take an incredible pride in.

What about those disappointments? Well, they're still there. But they're not feeding off my fears and doubts, but rather fueling the next challenge. Next time, I won't get injured. I won't skip training. I won't walk as much. Those are lessons learned, and those lessons will guide me through my next half marathon, or triatholon, or marathon, or whatever challenge I choose next. Because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that anything is possible.