My first half marathon
She’d spent months training – and real money on breathable running socks – so Amie Richardson was ready for anything as she lined up to race. Or so she thought.
People say you’ve officially become a runner when your activewear outweighs the rest of your wardrobe. Being a lover of Kiwi fashion means activewear will never outweigh mine, but my week is spent counting how many runs I’ll get in, I do know that splits aren’t an impossible running manoeuvre and I’ve started to invest real money in breathable running socks.
I’ve also just run my first half marathon. I registered four months ago. I entered my boyfriend at the same time. He’s the kind of guy who casually smashes out 10km. The first time I ran with him, his long legs put a 2km distance between us in the first six.
But a few months later, it’s just me on the start line, an injury having relegated him to support crew.
It’s cold in the Cardrona Valley. I’m trying to warm up – jogging across the paddock, over mounds of cow shit and flaxes. I’ve already used the Portaloo once, but I’m terrified I’ll need to go during the race, so I line up again.
I hustle as far to the front of the starting line as I can. I recognise the women – one I overheard say she’d like to beat her PB of 1.28. For a moment, I feel as though that isn’t an unachievable goal – despite my average pace of 5.30 per/km.
Running gives you a lot of time in your head. Recently, that time has been spent thinking about how much time I’m taking to run a certain distance. My goal is to try to beat two hours today.
Time in its various measurements – the minutes and seconds between kilometres – suddenly take on an immense importance. As each breath carries oxygen through my blood, I understand what it means to be mindful.
The sun has reached the road where we will run 21km into Wanaka. I stretch again, get my Strava ready and line up with the hundreds who plan on making this Saturday morning count. It’s me and the finish line with nothing but a beautiful long road between us.
There’s a countdown. Then a giant shot of adrenaline that pushed me out so fast my body felt like it was running through water and my pelvic floor collapsed.
Somewhere in amongst the blur of scrambled runners, I realise my running shorts are wet, and not with sweat. I’m conscious of the runners behind me. And the photographers up and down the course.
But when you’re at the start, there’s nowhere to go except forward – and, thankfully, I’m wearing black shorts.