Before my last half marathon, I sat on a towel behind my car and stretched. The morning wasn't exceptionally cold, the garage was covered (the second level of a downtown Austin bank affair), and it was early enough not to be too busy (i.e. I wasn't in danger of being run over). I'd rarely, if ever, stretched before a run or a race, but I'd also rarely, if ever, been a month away from my forty-ninth birthday. And I'd learned in the course of my training that my legs responded better on longer runs if they'd been stretched. Easy math.

I was nervous that morning, perhaps somewhat irrationally so. It wasn't about racing. Or the distance. In my twenties, when they said I should win, should set a PR, my nerves were exclusively attached to the race and my ability to perform at a high enough level. I knew I wasn't racing for anything other than myself that morning. I set a goal of sub-1:50, entirely too conservative and pedestrian for me, but such a goal should have prevented pre-race jitters. And it did. I wasn't worried about my finish time; even if I totally blew up, I'd be able to run at least a 1:50. I'd trained enough - Ok, I didn't run enough but I'd done enough long runs - to know how fast I could cover the distance. The majority of my training runs had been good, maybe even better than good, so I knew what I was capable of. Finishing definitely wasn't a worry and, because I'd set a ridiculously slow goal, neither was the clock.

I stretched that morning partly to get my legs ready for what was assuredly coming, but - as much as I don't want to say it - I think I also did it to stretch my mind. To relax. And to psyche up. As I ran through my flexibility routine, I listened to contemporary classical music - a few from my favorite composer, Ludovico Einaudi. Once I was suitably relaxed, I switched it up; I needed ferocity. I turned to the "GI Jane" soundtrack, then I to a trailer for the new Lara Croft movie.

"It will be an adventure," Lara says.

"Death is not an adventure," replies her trusty side-kick (all action heroes have one).

Just a couple seconds of a couple minute long trailer, but damned if I didn't come back to those two lines a couple times during the race. And, if I'm honest, more than a couple times since.

What was I so nervous about that morning? What was I afraid of? Variables. 13.1 miles is a long way and a lot can happen. Weather - too hot, too cold, humidity, rain, sun, sleet. The body - muscle fatigue and cramping, digestive disturbances, needing a porta-john, frozen hands/feet. Equipment - shoes, laces, socks, appropriate clothing for the weather. Injury - a twisted ankle, losing footing and falling. Obviously some are reasonably controllable. If you do what you've always done, you'll get fairly consistent results. Like, I can wear socks I know I like, shoes too. I can eat what I always eat the night before and the morning of. I can dress in a way that I think will accommodate the weather, but, man, 13.1 miles is a long way to be over-dressed. Or under-dressed. I'd done everything as "right" as I could, but let me assure you, on race day - when the race is a half marathon - nothing is a given. Nothing.

I felt ok for the first few miles, but just ok. There was a log-jam at the starting line - too many slow amateurs who didn't quite understand that they should have started closer to the back of the pack - so my first mile was slow as I picked my way through the crowd. The Austin Marathon Half Marathon starts off going (literally) up South Congress, which slowed me down as well. I turned the corner onto South First and once I got on the downhill, I breathed a sigh of relief - my legs felt good and I was ready to execute my race plan. Though common knowledge says to hold back on the big downhill stretch - so as not to shred the quads - I'm a downhill runner; it's my strength. I pushed the pace (within reasonable limits) and came through the 10k mark at near record pace. I still had the flats along Lake Austin Boulevard to go before I hit Enfield. The Enfield section of the race is a potential shredder for me - Unlike the steady incline on SoCo, the Enfield hills undulate with steep uphill sections followed by not-as-steep-as-you'd-expect downhills. In 2017, I was taken completely by surprise, novice error completely, but this year I was better prepared. I knew my pace would slow but I'd banked some time on the SoFi section, all part of my race plan. I'd done a lot of Spinning to increase my leg strength and it paid off. In the toughest section of the race, I managed to keep my pace, my legs, and my nerve steady. I wasn't entirely undaunted - I still ran perhaps too conservatively - but I was no longer as scared as I'd been.

Somewhere on Enfield, something happened. Usually in the mid-to-late stages of a race, I regret ever learning to walk much less signing up for a half marathon (What in the fuck was I thinking? I paid to suffer like this?!?). However, on the morning of Sunday, February 18th, as I told myself to just keep peeling off the miles, I had an epiphany. Even with the misery and doubt that invariably plagued me through much of the race (Can I hold this pace? Will I blow up on Enfield? Am I going too fast? What if I can't stop my quad/hamstring/gastroc from cramping?), the race had become an adventure. And, dammit, it was fun.

I guess that's the mystique of the half marathon that shorter races just don't have. It's the adventure, the unknown. It's crawling out toward the tip of the sword. It's the risk, the balancing act. It's the maybes, could bes, probably wont's, and just mights. It's the possibility of death, figuratively speaking, of course. Without that, there's no challenge; there's no adventure. Where's the fun if you're not dangling over the precipice...at least a little?

I came away from that morning with a nearly three minute course PR (good for sixth in my age group) and an absolutely excellent realization. I love racing half marathons. So much so that I have an entirely new goal (I'm sure I need one of those about as much as I need a hole in my head) - I want to race internationally, as soon as this October. I'd thought about doing the Amsterdam Marathon (race day is just a couple days shy of the twenty-fifth anniversary of my marathon victory in Wichita), but now... I really think the half is my calling, my distance.

I know someone out there is going to ask why I don't just do the marathon. Wouldn't the challenge and the risk of figurative death be that much greater? Is that what I'm in the race for? Here's the thing about the marathon - you have to train. A lot. Like a lot a lot. You have to be willing to give up time, other hobbies, and maybe even suck a couple years off your running career, if not your life. You have put in zillions of miles. And I don't really like running all that much. Especially not in the summer. In Austin. To commit to Amsterdam would mean a bunch of long runs - really freaking long runs - in hot - really freaking hot - weather. Plus I like to write, play tennis, binge watch Netflix series - i.e. have some semblance of a life that doesn't involve running. Additionally, if I'm going to afford a trip to Europe in October, just five months from now, I'm going to need a part-time job.

Besides, there's something about racing half marathons that lights my soul. And - get this - I could feasibly do two halves while I'm over there. The Reykjavik Autumn Half is the Sunday after Amsterdam. I'd have to fly past on the way home, why not stop over for an Icelandic half marathon adventure?

Truly, next fall could be beginning of something really cool. And it all started with an epiphany in on Enfield, the worst section of the Austin Marathon Half Marathon, on a misty February morning. I love racing halves. Who would have guessed?

** By the way, the stretching really works. I'll never run long without it again.**

I’m pretty sure when I turned forty, I talked about “redefining” a decade. Or maybe it was once I was in my forties and realized that they weren’t as bad as people said they were. I don’t recall fearing forty. My fortieth birthday sucked, I remember that much. My friends all had good intentions, but I ended up pulled in two directions as often happened in Texarkana – one went toward the gay side of town, the other toward the straight. About the time I decided I couldn’t make everyone happy (and would only make myself miserable trying), I accidentally dropped my phone in a mud puddle. After fishing it out (yep, the puddle was that deep), I used my water-logged cell phone as an excuse to make my exit. Strangely, that mud puddle was the best thing about the start of my forties. Fortunately, the decade, though not without its challenges, has turned out better than it started.

Fast forward nine insanely quick years. Today I am forty-nine and beginning the last year of the decade. I could whine about where the years went, my lack of accomplishment, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc. but I’d much rather talk about the future. Not fifty or my “fifties”. Not exactly anyway. Instead, let’s chat about forty-nine. I think, much like the rest of the forties, I had an idea – mostly based on women I knew in their forties, including my mom and my aunts – that forty was old. And really, in deference to my mother’s generation, I’m pretty sure it used to be old. Used to be. That’s probably why my mom talks about my retirement and how I should be saving and how will I live if I spend all my money traveling and self-publishing books. In her mind, forty is almost there. Almost dead. Mind you she’s eighty-three and still killing it (My dad is ninety so I may actually live forever and probably should be saving for some kind of retirement). Nonetheless, historically speaking, most people start to wind down in their forties. And now at nearly fifty, I should be pretty good at it, the winding down.

Trouble is I just got it cranked up in my forties. Pardon the antique car analogy, but my engine is still sputtering and not quite firing on all cylinders yet. That’s why I’m excited about forty-nine. I have one more year to redefine this decade before I start on the next. One year that promises to go crazy fast. Thus far, I’ve got one novel in publication with two more to go, the promotion of that mess, a website to develop, travel, races (including travel to races), and a couple tennis matches in the works. In other words, it’s going to be a busy year. If I keep it cranking, keep rising. If I stay motivated, focused, and happy. Yes, happy. It is seriously amazing what you can make happen when you’re happy (That is, however, a blog for another day).

For the record, the year is already off to a fantastic start. First, I’m on vacation. In Scandinavia. Second, I ran my annual birthday half marathon in Copenhagen (Shameless plug: I ran with Lena from Go Running Copenhagen and it was phenomenal. I saw the entire city – in 14 miles you can pretty much do that – and enjoyed some fabulous company and conversation. If you travel and run, you need to do a running tour in every city you possibly can. Check out www.gorunningtours.com). Third, I had a pork cheek and apple pizza for lunch. Scandinavia, running, and pizza? And now I’m hanging out at a coffee shop writing. I know, right?!? It’s the perfect birthday. Hell, it’s the perfect day.

I don’t celebrate because I need to disguise my fears about aging and I sure don’t run long distances on my birthday to prove I’m still young enough to run long distances. Don’t me wrong – I am ecstatic that I still can. However, it’s far more important to me that I start the year happy. I traveled the day after my birthday last year (to Scandinavia for the first time), grabbed ahold of my courage with both hands, and had a life-changingly good time. Then I went on to have one of the best years of my life. That’s why I’m back this year. I’m happy, healthy, even more courageous than last year, running well enough, and writing passably decent. I can do all that in America (and in two weeks I will be), but there’s something about travel. Being somewhere new and different challenges me, shoves me out of my comfort zone, and makes me prove myself to me in a way I can’t do at home. Rising - being forced to rise – brings me happiness. It means I am defying the forces that have (and may again) tear me down. It means I am more than merely alive; I am living. A year that starts this good – this happy – has to become a great – and productive – year.

It may seem a bit premature but I’m already planning for my fiftieth birthday. Where will I go? Where will I run? Where will I write? Croatia is on the short list; however we’ll see where forty-nine takes me in the meantime. I am certain that I will publish novels, run races, and travel (ok, mostly to Las Vegas). But what else? That’s the exciting part – the becoming, the pursuit, the redefinition. Life needs be about more than riding it out and grinding it out. And planning for retirement. In twenty years, I may say different. Right now, though, it’s my time and this is my decade. It may have started nine years ago with a wet, muddy cell phone, but I gotta believe it’ll end a lot better. If today is any indication, this year will be a spectacular ending to a spectacular decade.