Friday morning: My mother and I board the plane to Orlando. I try not to panic when a stewardess announces “Passengers, please locate your photo id’s. An attendant will be coming through the cabin to check every one's photo ID against the manifest.” 30 minutes later, a family of 4 will leave the plane while a Southwest employee takes their place and the Captain will put everyone at ease by announcing, “folks, whatever that was all about, I guess it’s over so we’re gonna take off.”
Friday later morning: When the airport attendant that I ask for directions from says “you want me to give you free directions? You expect a lot,” I flash a big princessy smile and say, “Yes, I do,” and wait until I get the directions. (they will be mostly right).
Friday even later morning: I find Patti at the Disney shuttle lines and get excited to see someone who is there for the same self-torturing reason I am: to run the Disney Princess Half Marathon. Now that I have entered the Disney zone, everyone I meet is SUPER nice to me (since I am paying through the nose for it). The Cast Members (which is what Disney calls its employees) are sporting one puffy Mickey Glove, which they use to get your attention with waving and motioning, which is kinda trippy, and makes me feel like I’m being drawn into a strange cult lead by over exuberant, colorfully dressed seniors. I get a little separation anxiety when Patti and I are put on different shuttles - we are staying at different resorts.
Check in: I’m completely overstimulated by the decor of the All Star Sports resort. Check-in will take forever, but a room that is ready and that will adjoin to my brother’s room is tracked down for me even though it is before normal check-in time. I find my way to the section with gigantic tennis rackets and balls the size of a VW Bug attached to the walls and see a never ending parade of teenage girls with bags and/or giant head bows because the National College Women’s Lacrosse and National High School Girl’s Cheer Squad conferences are taking place the same weekend as the Princess Half Marathon. Welcome to Chickville, USA.
Speaking of lots of estrogen: Let’s talk about what a Princess themed running expo looks like. The entrance is presided over by the footmen of Cinderella’s wedding coach, and the coach itself. You can stand in line to get your picture taken with them. Or you can bypass that line and try to resist making the sign that signifies “gag me!” Inside at bib pick-up, there will be 3 different stops to make, but again, everyone will be super nice and excited for you, which, unless you are actually Scrooge McDuck, will start to rub off on you and make you polite and pleasant in return. When I get to the Expo floor, I need to put my sunglasses back on because oh my word the VOLUME of glitter and sequins is arresting. I lose my mother in its depths at least twice. I never find Patti, because she very wisely heads straight for the massage tables where she will emerge relaxed while I will have had my eyeballs fried out of my skull by squined running skirts in every color. Mouse ears with tiaras and veils attached to them. Seizure enducing crowns that blink. There will not be a single technical shirt with those awesome sweat wicking mesh panels there (Princesses are in denial about sweating), or arm warmers (Princesses are in denial about their outfits being too skimpy for the early start temperature). When I take a second look at my bib, I note that I, a seriously non-threating mid-packer, am in Corral A (signifying Princesses are in denial about a half marathon involving actual running).
Friday Evening: I head with family in tow to the Downtown area where there are themed restaurants and where they let you walk around with a margarita in your hand. My sister-in-law buys me one, and suddenly I am on vacation! I sick myself on gigantisaurus sized fish tacos at the T-Rex cafe where I think my 9 month old nephew’s fascination with the giant animatronic squid will mean he will like going straight up to the giant triceratops head. Wrong. Auntie’s bad.
Saturday: Try to stay off your feet in Disney World. Just try. After MUCH debate, I head with my family to Adventureland in the Magic Kingdom. There is only a 5 minute wait to get on a boat on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It’s dark and smelly, and I am scared, but my baby nephew is totally enthralled. In the beginning of the ride when it is pitch black and your boat drops for a bit into the water, my mom will scream, but when the lights come back, little Jonah will be smiling, and looking everywhere. He will not understand the Tiki Room, but he will love Tiki Bird softserve and be wide-eyed all through Small World. Then the bickering will start and we will lose my mom in the Emporium store which will cause a rift and everyone will need a time out. We will head back to the resort and be too exhausted to do anything but order pizza delivery to the room. I don’t normally eat pizza before running, but it is easy and covered with many meats and cheeses. And there is beer.
The Start: Some crazy ex-track athlete with 3 names is leading everyone in some spasmodic warm-up to Miley Cyrus music while I steadfastly sit on the pavement resting my gams. When the starting fireworks (!) go off, I take off and forget my entire training plan to start slow and then build. The pacemakers are men wearing paper crowns and holding their expected finishing time up on a stick. They are called Pace Princes. Which means if you choose to keep up with one, you are chasing after a Prince. The whole idea ticks me off so bad I keep up with the 2:00 Pace Punk.
Mile 3: A giant Pirate ship is all lit up on the median and a Jack Sparrow look-alike is making pirate eyes at everyone. But the Hot Air Balloon with it’s occasional burst of flame and the regular-dude baloonist is much cooler.
Mile 4: Breathing hard. For awhile I am keeping pace next to two girls dressed as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. Too bad I can’t really keep up with them. I start to feel my stomach heaving about. The actual Queen of Hearts and other Disney Villains are in the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom and there is a line of runner Princesses waiting to have their pictures taken with them. I don’t want to lose any time.
Mile 4.5: The left ventricle of my heart is flapping off my running tank. I yank it off and leave it at the entrance of the Magic Kingdom. No reason to let a beat up heart slow me down.
Mile 5: Stomach is a mess. This is why you do not eat the Meat Lover’s pizza the night before your big race. Or possibly it is because I have broken my 2nd rule of travel racing, which is ‘do not drink the tap water’. I know the photographers are outside Cinderella’s castle before mile 6, and I want to make sure I have NO chance of an accident before or while I pass through the castle. I put on the speed to get by the 2:00 Pace Posse and buy myself some time. I am in the Porta Johns for a long time. Until the, forgive me, roiling stops. I am in an argument with myself as to whether or not I should attempt to get that first gel in. I usually like to take it at mile 4. I opt to try and feed my muscles, and choke a little more than half of it down.
The Castle: It feels like it takes forever to get to it, and then suddenly, we round a bend and are in it. The first time I came to Disney World I was in 4th grade. For months afterward I daydreamed about living in that castle. I try and take it all in for the 4th grade me. It feels pretty fantastic.
Mile 6: I will myself past the bathroom stops and try not to think about how I am not quite half way through. I try not to sneer at the volunteers and cheerleaders who shout “You are almost half way through!”
Mile 9: I start to walk from the gatorade to the water at the water stops. The sun is up and my face is hot so I start using the water stops to drench myself. My breathing is finally under control because my legs do not want to move as fast as they did 3 miles ago. The volunteers are plentiful and encouraging, and I smile and thank them and collect myself and push on as soon as I pass the last water person.
Mile 10: Ramp. It doesn’t look as bad as it feels. It feels horrible. I should be pushing it now for a fast last 5k, but I have nothing left down there, and I am in a fierce battle against my stomach. All my focus is there. I totally forget everything I had planned to call upon at this time - anger, strength, anger. Instead I find myself saying to myself "shit! shit! shit! I mean DON'T shit! Definitely do not shit!"
Mile 12: My legs just want to stop. I am totally tired. It is a blessing and a curse that I have reached Epcot and the streets are lined with spectators and children, and you just cannot stop in front of children. I hate children.
Mile 12.5: I miscalculate again, think I don’t have enough left, and start my surge too late, I’m suddenly just around the bend from the finish. Just as I am trying to make up for that, at about mile 13, I hear my brother yell my name. It’s all I need. I run straight for Mickey and the finish line. It looks like I have missed a PR by mere seconds.
Post Finish: My legs are very angry with me, but in a completely different way than they usually are. I have no pain in my hip or glute where my old injury is. My quads are on FIRE. I shuffle my way over to the volunteers who are handing out medals. There is one gentleman who is shyly tucked into the middle, not sure how to approach all these sweaty Princesses, the Dopey amongst the other medal bestowing dwarves. I point at him and smile and ask if I can have one of those big shiny necklaces. I cannot figure out why he is reaching up so high, but then I realize, it is to get the ribbon over the top of my crown! The medal is shaped like a tiara with a purple gem stone in it on a purple ribbon and it's horrendous. Having it makes me feel better instantly.
Two women dressed up as lady’s maids are sprinkling glitter on those finishers who want to be fairy dusted. I am totally disgusting, limping and red faced and I am going to have an accident soon. But hell yes I am stopping for glitter!
My hands are shaking and I have to ask another volunteer to unscrew a bottle of Powerade for me. In the medical area, I slather my knee with Biofreeze. Now I am a red faced, salt encrusted, glittery, menthol smelling heartless queen. But that does not deter more volunteers from carefully taping a bag of ice around my leg and congratulating me.
My bag is in section “D”, which is nearly at the end of the line of bag pickup tents. When I lurch into the tent there is thunderous applause as the 8 or so volunteers all cheer and congratulate me. This is so unexpected I actually giggle. On the other side of the tent, I see my brother, wielding his vidcam, capturing my post-race, stomach-is-a-mess grimace digitally. My mom is there doing that slide trombone movement with her digital camera, trying to find me in the frame, and my sister in law is holding Jonah, who is squeezing the life out of a rose that they have bought for me. It has a silver Mickey bursting out of its petals. Children are lovely. This one's a little cranky, but I am too. I need to get my stomach and my wonky knee to a comfortable place. After one more trip to the porta potty, I get to ride the Monorail while sporting a crown and a giant Princess medal, which really, is the way one should always ride the Monorail.
It will take me hours and (thanks to the advice of my coach) a Coke to get my stomach back to normal, but the ice and some massaging will keep my knee healthy and I will be surprisingly mobile for the rest of the day (with occasional moaning when standing up or sitting down). I will wear that medal all day long, even though it is heavy, and even though I will accidentally drag it across the top of the celebratory chili dog my mom insists is necessary (No David ever let a little stomach upset stop them from consuming meat sauce). And later, when I check my final finishing time, I will find out that despite the distrestinal issues and the water stopping and one stolen moment with a testy duck in an argyle sweater, I beat my last half marathon time by 12 magical seconds.
Love love love your play by play! Congratulations on this accomplishment, Princess Emilie! :-)
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