Okay, I will preface this by freely admitting that the past few blogs have been about me. There--I've said it, I know it. Here is one more to add to the list...
On Saturday my dad and I ran in the Carmel 8k, my first.race.ever. (I don't really count Race for the Cure--not as much of race as it is herding cattle people.) I had been checking the weather religiously all week for any forecast of rain, with the chances finally dropping to 10%. Seeing as I am more of a treadmill runner than an outdoor runner, the idea of rain did not make me too excited. I was fine with the cooler temps but was hoping for sun. Excuse me, God? Can I just order up my perfect race weather? Thanks!
The day dawned with my cooler temps (downright cold, if you ask my fingers!), and my dad and I had our adrenaline to pump us up and keep us warm. As we arrived the half and full marathoners were taking off so we had a half hour to wait. Finally they called us to our corrals, and we waited for the race to begin. I saw someone I knew so that was fun, too. I had expected my dad and I to run separately from the way he was talking (downplaying his speed and all), but we stayed together until about halfway when his shoe came untied. My mom thought I was cruel to run off without him, but we met up at the end. We both ran a great race and, more importantly, had fun doing it. I loved being there with my dad and experiencing it with him. I am starting to think that maybe those half-marathoners are not as crazy as I once thought they were--still not sure about the marathoners, though! :)
my dad and I pre-race, freezing our patooties off!
post-race, feeling proud of ourselves
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