Juliánna, Morten, Matthias & Izabel

I have just come home from BT’s Half Marathon in Lyngby – I came in 5 minutes short of 3 hours, not exactly proud of my performance on time, nonetheless content with having completed the run, albeit I shamelessly walked the last 4 kms. It reminded me in many ways of my first ever competitive 5km run – untrained, green to it all, maverick, I’ll-show-them-all kind of attitude. I did not have time to train up to the 22km distance, the longest I had run in my training was little under 13 kms… I clearly showed signs of fatigue at 14 kms, and by 15 kms I felt my muscles got bored with it all. I started jogging in a lower tempo, cursed myself for not having trained properly, admired the view and was determined to get past the finish line if I was to crawl over… By 16 kms I started walking and concluding this must be the same with hitting rock bottom for an elite runner, me far from being one. At the 18 km pole I powerwalked a bit, trying to regain dignity and hoping to get through it. I thought 3 kms never felt this long, except back in my mid-20s, when every weekend I would tip-toe home on high heels from someone’s party somewhere out by someone’s summer house with some people most of who probably don’t even remember having been at a party. At 19 kms I felt humble and started to regain confidence in myself, made a feeble attempt to start running again, Rocky style, the fallen hero rising from the ashes, with Katy Perry’s “Firework” in my ear phones, birds flying around in the blue sky above, a pleasant 18 degrees Celsius, breeze in my hair – at 7.5 kms/hour I concluded what deep in my heart and soul I had known all along: distances beyond 10 kms are a patience game I am simply not carved out to play or enjoy, for that matter. By 20 kms I could see the Danish flag, hear people cheer in the stadium, so I pulled myself together, made the last bit jogging through, looking somewhat like a duck on LSD, dangling feet and arms, keeping my eyes on the finish line. As I walked past gazelle-like elite runners who were enjying their second or third after-run snack, I tumbled to the Water station and made the biggest mistake of myself – I sat down on the grass. Whilst it was a gratifying moment, 20 minutes or so later, it was purgatorium – I couldn’t move, had to roll on my side in order to stand up – I remember thinking I had more power in my legs after giving birth – I crawled to the bus stop and sat down in a seat, knowing I would regret it half an hour later. A 10 minute walk and a half hour train ride later, I stumbled into Kincsem’s arms, glad to be home. The children had been having a play date and were both exhausted but Izabel, her usual Duracell rabbit-style, jumped on me the minute I walked past our threshold. As I type this, sitting upright in our bed, freshly showered, I can’t help but feel happy and content for having tried, despite the circumstances. As it looks now, this is the longest run I am willing to take part in voluntarily.