Is Masochism Genetic?

A few weeks ago I ran fourteen miles for the first time in my life. It was beyond difficult. After mile eleven my body was exhausted and wanted no part of running further; after mile thirteen my body nearly evicted me, with my knees screaming foul, my elbows spasming (I didn't know elbows spasmed), and every muscle angry and revolting against me. That last mile may have been the hardest mile I've ever ran. I was
seriously dragging.

But you know what? I did it. Fourteen fucking miles. I was beaming with accomplishment all weekend. I'm still proud of myself.

So I signed up for my first half marathon. What? It makes perfect sense. I need something exciting to look forward to, something challenging to train for. I don't push myself if it's just for "me," for body maintenance. Not good, I know. But there you have it.

You know what this means, don't you. Fourteen miles isn't that far off from twenty-six. I ran twenty-two (granted, divided between four legs and fourteen hours) at The Relay. And it's all gone straight to my head.

It's official: I'm training for a marathon.

Miami Runners Club is inquiring to see if they can sneak me in the back door to run the Marine Corps with them in October. If not, it'll be the ING in Miami in January. I'm itching to find out (and am probably driving the dude at MRC crazy by asking so many times), but there's no official word yet. Which means I'm ramping into training mode again. Fourteen mile Saturdays will become the norm. And then twenty. (Apparently the hump between fourteen and eighteen, and then between twenty and twenty-three are insanely hard to break through. As if fourteen wasn't hard enough.)

So yeah, there's that.