"Pushing through tiredness and discomfort in a race to a new personal record is not only rewarding in itself, but gives you an idea of what you can do in other areas of your life."
- J. Galloway

My eardrums pulsated. The music was loud. Energizing. I rubbed my hands together and jogged in place. The air was spiked with a spirited chill.

"I can't believe I'm about to put my body through this punishment again," I thought to myself.

I shook off the doubt and looked around me. Packed elbow-to-elbow was an assortment of runners of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Like a box full of random toys.

"Runners, get ready!" shouted the loudspeaker. Everyone turned to face forward. "Get set!" My heart shuddered. "Gooo!"

We took off. The thunder of a thousand horses fought the booms of the bass drums. It made me forget I was doing another half marathon. For a moment, it was more like a chilly outdoor concert.

Though I already had breakfast, I popped in some power gel. Mushy and hyper-sweet, I mashed it around my mouth like peanut butter. I was aiming to beat my previous time of 2:08:45 and wanted every advantage I could get.

As the music faded, the race became more real. There was huffing and puffing all around me. Scores of runners zoomed by. I took note of some of them and wondered if I would see them on the side of the road later.

One guy soared by me. Then spat a big, juicy, wet loogie on the ground. Friggin' guy. I had to leap to avoid it.

One girl looked like a ghost. She was as white as this background color. I almost thought she was wearing white stockings, until I realized that she was just, well, really really white.

Another guy, probably in his late forties with graying hair, zipped through the crowd pushing a baby in a stroller. Bystanders waved and cooed at the baby, who I presume waved back.

Another lady, maybe in her fifties, also surged by me. What the hell. I began to increase my pace. It's one thing to be passed by a guy with a stroller. It's another to be passed by grandma.

Honestly though, I totally give her props. She was extremely fit. I hope I can stay that fit throughout my life. Seeing her run by was both frustrating and inspirational.

After a few blocks of nothing but the thunderous pitter-patter of countless feet, we hit another live band. Their guitar chords vibrated my adrenal glands, filling my veins with liquid energy goodness.

I increased my stride. Fewer leg rotations, longer steps. The savings were immediate. I didn't expend as much effort, yet was going faster. I felt more like I was gliding than running. People who previously passed me were falling behind now.

Then I saw Loogie Guy. He violently veered off the course and onto the side. His body arched forward and he started to dry heave. Yuck. I moved toward the center of the street, anticipating a wet sloppy sound to slap the street. Fortunately, it never came. Loogie Guy sure looked tired though. Maybe he was dehydrated from spitting so much.

Stroller Guy was also back in my sights. And just beyond him was the 2:00 pacer. My brain did a somersault. If I could maintain this speed, I could beat my record and even break two hours. I glided on.

While the longer stride did conserve energy, I still got exhausted. Fortunately, a drink station appeared every time I was on my few last breaths. Thank the gods of water! I sloshed liquid relief onto my face in the hopes that some of it would splash into my mouth. Luckily, enough of it did.

Each mile was clearly marked. I did the first half fairly well. Another power gel, lots of water and Cytomax, a long stride, and vigorous live music kept me on pace. My mind didn't think I was in a chilly outdoor concert anymore though. By this time, it knew I was in a race.

The pavement punished my feet. Fortunately, I stuck an extra cushion pad in my shoes last night. Otherwise, I would have blisters the size of Texas on the balls of my feet right now. Yeeha.

My knees mentally thanked me for training on a partly dirt path. They were screaming at me right now, but were still thankful that training wasn't always like this. And like my feet, they thanked me for that added cushion as well.

By the ninth mile, they weren't thanking me anymore though. My feet felt like bloody stumps of flesh. I imagined my toes bursting like grapes in my socks. Nice image, huh? Just thought I'd share that with you.

But I didn't stop. I didn't take a break. I kept my mind focused on the 2:00 pacer in front of me. He was gaining distance, but I wouldn't let him out of my sight. I started to doubt I'd finish before two hours, but as long as I beat my previous time, I'd be happy.

Another drinking station. Another gulp of Cytomax. Another splash of water. Another live band. Another toe burst, just like glapes (insert Mr. Miyagi's voice here).

Then a station with power gel appeared. They were under a ray of light and glowing halo. No, not really, but I did feel like they were angels from Heaven as they handed me that delicious, scrumptious, life-saving goo.

My speed was dropping. The 2:00 pacer was fading away. I tried to get back into my stride but couldn't. Then the power gel snapped into place. I didn't race past anyone, but regained that stride, despite protests from my feet and knees.

"Sorry," I told my feet, "but I'm going to finish this race, even if I pass the finish line with bloody stumps." Really, I told my feet that.

The eleventh mile was tough. I passed a high school cheerleading squad that shouted and cheered and did high kicks, but even that didn't help. There was no way I was going to beat two miles. So I aimed to just beat 2:08:45.

A police officer on a bike was riding parallel with us. "Can I get a ride?" shouted a woman in front of me. I wondered the same thing. The cop just smiled.

Familiar heads began to surround me. I say "heads" because I couldn't see any faces, just the backs of people's heads. These were the people at the beginning of the race. They were the ones that sped ahead. I had caught up to them.

Perhaps it was that realization, coupled with my competitiveness—or perhaps it was the power gel and water, I don't really know which. But something flipped a switch around mile twelve. I still knew I was going to finish with bloody stumps, but I stopped caring. I stopped thinking about my toe jam (literally) and just wanted to continue gliding.

My pace started to increase. I started to pass more familiar heads. Some were walking now. Others were jogging slowly. I straightened up my form, kept my steps long, and tried to ride a current of air forward.

Mile twelve. The finish line was getting close. I knew it. I pushed forward, pain be damned.

But dammit, every corner I turned wasn't the finish line. Where the hell was it? I was running out of power gel and Cytomax. Just pure adrenalin powering me now. That, and two stubborn bloody stumps.

Ah! Mile thirteen! I turned one more corner and finally saw the finish line. A wall of people outlined the final stretch. It was time to use my fast-twitch muscles. I sprinted the last 0.1 miles and crossed the finish line as fast as I could.

Woo, I finished! I looked at the clock. Did I beat my previous time?

Yup. And I beat two hours too! 1:56:36 baby! I ain't about to do the Olympics anytime soon, but at least I gave myself a new personal record. I chugged some water and rubbed my knees. Each breath of air was like fire in my seared lungs. I walked on and grabbed some much-needed food to refuel my spent body.

My second half marathon. Nice. Next up, a full 26.2 mile marathon sometime next year. Bring it on!