The Thirteenth 13.1

I ran my thirteenth 13.1-mile race on St. Patrick’s Day in Washington, D.C., finishing in 2:21:21. It’s difficult to say when my friend Doug, who previously ran a full marathon with me and also joined me on the course Saturday, finished the race. For reasons that will become apparent, a video of my thirteenth 13.1-miler will not be forthcoming. If you’d like to see the video from my twelfth half-marathon, click here.

Here are a few photos Doug took of me during the first half of the race, which included most of the course’s major national landmarks. Below are Union Station, the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House (which is nestled behind the trees, if you look immediately to the left of my glistening forehead).

Doug’s plan all along – he told me weeks ago – was to exit the course well short of the finish line. He’s had a history of running-related injuries, and his gradual mileage build-up didn’t work for a 13.1-miler just yet. I completely understood, and I respected both his willingness to run part of the race with me and his restraint in not pushing his body too hard too quickly.

So after running eight miles and change on Saturday, Doug pulled off the course, walked up to a crowd of spectators in the neighborhood where the race had taken us, and asked, “Is there a Metro stop nearby?” As I continued my race, behind me I overheard laugher from the locals, as they assumed Doug was looking for public transportation to the finish line.

Which he was.

When he told me he’d catch the Metro to the finish line, it was no big deal. I still planned to finish the race. We would meet up at the finish line, where he’d be waiting for me.

At some point in the final days leading up to the race, however, Doug remembered that he likes collecting medals from races he’s run. Many runners do. Yet for some reason, Doug discarded the medal he earned from finishing the full marathon we ran together in Greece. So Doug decided he’d kind of like the medal from Saturday’s race. Perhaps it was then that he decided to work his best Roberto Madrazo impression.

As Doug tells it, he was on the Metro, still wearing his race bib, still warm and sweaty from running eight-plus miles, when he encountered sign-carrying spectators (“Great Job, Emily!” “13.1 – WOW!” and the like), also riding the train to the finish line. They apparently kind of looked at Doug, sized up the situation, but were cautious about saying anything. I still laugh when I imagine the awkward tension of Doug looking them in the eye, knowing their thoughts, and saying, “Don’t judge me.”

Even as I write this, I still don’t know when Doug actually reached the finish line. I only know that I met back up with him several minutes after I exited the finish area.

He had a medal around his neck.