My Half-Marathon
By Melissa Ripp

When my friend Elisabeth and I decided at the end of November that we were going to run the Door County Half Marathon at the beginning of May, I didn’t really think it was going to happen.

First of all, we were sitting side-by-side on Elisabeth’s too-comfortable couch, watching some completely ridiculous show on MTV, and sharing a delightful bottle of Shiraz. The show we were watching was one of those shows that you know you shouldn’t enjoy, but like many shows you shouldn’t enjoy, we were riveted – only speaking to each other in monosyllables until the commercials, when we would try to cover the past week of our lives and any news we had to report in about three minutes. Surely this absolutely crazy notion of running 13.1 miles had simply snuck into the conversation – surely neither one of us was actually serious.

Second of all, I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually taken it upon myself to run a distance longer than the short trek from the front door of my apartment to my Jeep. Even then, that short distance was only slightly speedier than a walk when a) I was more than 20 minutes late for work, or b) any time the temperatures in Door County dipped below zero. I had tried to erase from my mind the one organized sport I managed to participate in during my high school years – the first girl’s soccer team at Sevastopol. Our team would grudgingly drive to the soccer fields near the fairgrounds in Sturgeon Bay, do our stretches, and then, depending on how much torture we wanted, would run either three or five miles through the city.

However, that seemingly-fun-at-the-time running occurred during the time of the Clinton administration – the first term of the Clinton administration, to be exact. Fast forward about 12 years, and the Melissa that exists now loves to come home and change into her pajamas immediately after work, armed with a pint of Cherries Garcia frozen yogurt and her remote control, prepared to watch about fifteen episodes of Grey’s Anatomy in a row. The present-day me works out three times a week, yes – just so she can enjoy enchiladas from JJ’s and Mission Grille crab cakes and not feel that bad about herself after she’s stuffed her face. I got winded just going out to get my mail. There was no way. No way.

And then, Elisabeth said the magic words that sealed the deal for me.

“Well, you’ll get to a point where you’ll be burning thousands of calories. We’ll get to eat. A whole bunch.”

Eating because I have to? Eating with no guilt? I almost sent my registration check in that night.

We decided to begin our training on Monday, December 3rd. Elisabeth, being way more into this than I was (and having run a bit more than I had in the past few years), lovingly handwrote me the schedule of running and strength training intervals for the next fourteen weeks. Of course, being the eternal pessimist that I am (at least about any sort of exercise activity), I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do it. And yet, that Monday, I ran two miles. And it wasn’t a completely awful experience. In fact, I kind of liked it – although found myself looking at the screen of the treadmill every thirty seconds, hoping that between now and the last point I had checked it, the distance covered had increased by at least a half a mile.
Our training schedule consists of running three times a week – the first two runs are shorter distances (two miles for that first week) and then a longer distance (four miles) for the third one. We also do strength training one time a week, as well as another form of cardiovascular activity one time a week. We then repeat that exact schedule for a second week.

A week in, I realize that I like running. Two weeks in, I realize that I love it. After three weeks, I find myself planning out my week, hoping to God that I’m able to fit my three runs into my life for the next twelve weeks through the maze of one full-time job, one part-time job, freelance marketing and writing work, one wonderful boyfriend who is already extremely patient with the aforementioned things that often come before spending time with him, and a family who obviously thinks I’m crazy for even stepping foot on a treadmill in the first place.

I guess the reason for the change of heart is that I’ve discovered it’s more than just the running that excites me – it’s the fact that my mind had already told me that I wouldn’t be able to do it – and I proved my mind wrong. Of course, I don’t claim to be a big expert with my whole five weeks of training experience, but I do know that I can run 13.1 miles physically. I always was able to do that. The mystery was always if I could do it mentally or not.

Which leads me to my next realization – by no means am I a poster child for marathon training. For all of the strides my mind has made, there are nights that I set my alarm for 6 am in the morning so I can get up and run before work, only to hit the snooze button until it’s time to get up for work at 7:15 am. And yes, cookies and prime rib and drinking brandy slushes and red wine with my family and friends seemed a heck of a lot more important than going to the Y and running during the holiday season. But with all of these small setbacks, one thing has made itself very clear – that I’m not the girl I thought I was. I’m a bit stronger, a bit hardier than I gave myself credit for. And some days, that alone is enough to make me run beyond what I’m supposed to.

That, and the fact that I’ve already sent my registration form in with a $55 check. Oh, and the fact that we get a spaghetti dinner the night before. With garlic bread. And brownies.

For more information on the Door County Half Marathon, go to www.doorcountyhalfmarathon.com.