I ran a half marathon about three weeks before I got pregnant with my daughter, three and a half years ago. Ever since I had her, I’ve half had it in my mind to run another one, just to prove to myself (and her, and her father …) that I could still do something like that. All through my (woefully lacking) training for the Brooklyn Half Marathon, I was thinking about how much seeing her and my husband at various spots along the course would buoy me. It also became lodged in my head that the finish line would be a great photo op: A picture of me holding her on the boardwalk at Coney Island, at the very site of one of my favorite pictures we’ve ever taken of her.
As I set out on the race, I am embarrassed to admit how excited I was to finish and take that photo. My plans were slightly compromised around mile 9, when my inner thighs started stinging from rubbing together (my usual, less snug run skort was in the wash!) but it was nothing a little good old Vaseline from the medical tent couldn’t fix. Photo op status: Back on track! Until … I actually finished the race, found my family, and scooped my daughter up victoriously only for her to start shimmying away from me, telling me I was “too sweaty.” Sigh. This shot is the best I could do.
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