Six months ago, I decided to be reckless. I was out running by a lake near my home in Asheville as that all-too-common feeling of stuckness squelched my every step. I needed a change — what else is new? — something to plan, somewhere to run. As I literally ran in this moment of desperation, my thoughts latched onto the notion of a half-marathon.
I’d run my first half four years ago as part of a 25th birthday celebration that also included my baptism and a coastal trip with my parents. After triumphantly finishing that race under two hours, I’d unofficially decided to run a half every year thereafter as a way to keep me physically in check, geared toward some grand physical goal.