First of all, yes, I'm sore. Really, really sore. I-can't-get-up-from-the-couch sore. I'll roll off onto the floor, crawl to a sturdy chair, and lift myself up with my arms. It's a bit silly, really. Earlier, I took too big of a step and knew it immediately-- and my quadriceps had their revenge. Ugh.
So-- Chad & I were among the last across the start line. Not a problem, since we had chip timing. But before the start... we saw Jill, from the running club (technically, she saw us) and said hello. I saw a guy dressed as William Wallace (presumably), complete with sword. Because of the way the street slopes and the fact that we were at the back of 14000 runners (not to mention that I'm crazy-short), I had to jump to see the pyrotechnics on the start line when the gun went off. And, I called my mum.
Apparently, my mother did not get the memo that I was running a marathon. The conversation was something like this:
Mum: What are you doing? (A reasonable question when I call her at 7:45 on Sunday morning.)
I: I'm standing at the start line of the marathon.
I: I'm about to run a marathon.
Mum: You are?
I: Yeah. Chad's running the half-marathon.
Mum: Oh. How's the weather?
I: Good. It's supposed to be really nice today.
Mum: Well, that's good. So how far are you running?
I: 26.2 miles.
Mum: Wow. Well, have fun!
Sigh. I'll have to tell my mum about race distances some day.
Anyway, once we were safely across the start line, I started crying. (Just out of nerves/happiness, not because my mum doesn't know how far a marathon is.) Seriously, I should teach a class on how to run while crying, I'm so good at it.