The Half Marathon That Wasn't

"Oh, you signed up for the St. Jude half? I guarantee it will fall on the coldest day of the year," my actual marathon runner friend's husband informed me several months ago. His tone was decisive and full of "I know what I'm talking about." Apparently I should have listened to him, although by that point it was too late. We were already signed up and running 6 miles at a time. Coldest day of the year? I didn't like how that sounded. Oh well, we'll just dress in layers and it will be fine, or so I thought.
Training for a half marathon was difficult. Really difficult. When a friend told me that it would get sort of "intense" as it got closer to race time, I didn't really know what he meant. Consider me educated. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be running 10 miles outside at 6:00 AM on a very cold, rainy Saturday just to prepare for a race, I would have asked them what they were smoking. Add to that the fact that my husband, mister "I hate to run" was doing it with me, and I would have told you that the odds of us winning the lottery were better. But we did it, and we didn't pass out, catch on fire, or have anything else horrible happen to us.
So there we were, ready to take on those 13.1 miles and kick their collective asses. (Okay, fine, we were ready to line up, start running, and hope we survived until we could stagger across the finish line.) I was already planning to be in Memphis for a barrel race that weekend, so we headed out early Friday morning, headed to get the horses bedded down, pick up our race packets, and rush back to make my two barrel runs that night. And then the ice storm hit.
Since there was no race day packet pick up, we had to drive to downtown Memphis on Friday afternoon. We chipped the ice off the parking payment box, paid $10 to park, and headed into the expo to pick up our race bib numbers. The sidewalk was basically a solid sheet of ice, which made me wonder if I was going to even make it to pick up my number without busting my butt.
After ambling up the sidewalk like senior citizens for what seemed like miles, we made it inside. As you can imagine, the expo was full of stick figures in tight running pants, selling everything you can think of except an extra pair of lungs. My favorite shirt that I should have purchased but didn't said, "Please God let there be someone behind me to read this" on the back. I also loved the one with a sweating cartoon turtle that said, "I run. I am slow. Get over it." The expo was also full of smiling volunteers who were busy assuring us that the race was not about to be cancelled.
Looking at the weather report on my phone, I have to admit that I wasn't thrilled about the idea of running 13.1 miles in 19 degree weather. And just for fun, they were also predicting snow. Excellent. Oh, well, we had spent all this time getting ready, and my husband informed me that he didn't care how cold it was, if the gun went off he was going to be running that race.
I was still trying to figure out exactly how many layers I would need to wear to keep from freezing to death when the text message came. The race was cancelled. Cancelled. As in not going to happen. It took me several seconds to wrap my brain around the concept.
All.That.Work. No race, no finish line, no amazing sense of satisfaction and pride in myself for finishing. No bucket list item crossed off. Just another morning. What a letdown. Okay fine, a letdown and a tiny bit of relief. Have I mentioned that I wasn't looking forward to running in 19 degree weather?
So that was it. The story of the half marathon that wasn't. Yes, I'm still glad I trained for it. Yes, we are going to find another one. And no, I have no desire to run a full marathon. Yet.