It was race weekend, the day I circled in my agenda back in February when I registered. Back when my weekend long runs were only 30 minutes long and less than half of the total distance I would eventually run. Back when running made my lungs hurt, my shin splints wreaked havoc and my shoes were stinky. (Well, that still happens).

My four girlfriends and I met up an hour before the race and drank our elixirs of race energy. I prefer chocolate milk. We put our time chips on our shoes, pinned our number to the front of our shirts and walked towards the race soaking in the envious and admiring glances of passersby who were not running.

There were thousands of people heading towards the start. We saw the stick-thin, limber Kenyans warming up in their track suits. We saw mums holding their kids' hands so as not to be separated in the crowds. We saw people stretching way too much and scoffed at their inexperience. We thought we were running goddesses. Dramatic? Yes. But that’s just how it goes before a race, we psych ourselves up to be the running goddesses we have bled, sweated and cried to become.

The gun went off and the start line emitted a high-pitched tone as everyone’s timing chip was officially set off, crossing the start line. I admit, I felt like the biggest superstar in the world running that first kilometer down Elgin Street, looking up at the crowds of people cheering for us. I laughed at the voice of the little kid who said, “Way to go runners you’re almost there,” a mere 2 minutes into the run. I found my pace, I smiled, I breathed into my belly and out through my mouth. I totally forget what I thought about during the run, but I think that means I was in “the zone.” I slapped my best friend on the butt when I met up with her. My other best friend spat water on my neck at the water station and the saliva-filled cool water mixture felt so good as it hit my sweating neck skin. We thanked the spectators who cheered us on individually,

“Way to go, orange shorts, keep it up!”

“You’re doing so well, only three kilometers left!”

In the last leg, best friend K and I were snapped by her paparazzi papa, and given a last dose of inspiration by my mum and little sis. At their words, “We’re so proud of you,” I kicked it up, sprinted like I was seven years old and booted it to the finish line.

Nothing can compare to the feeling of lifting your arms and pumping your fist as you cross the finish line.

We waited for our friends who were trailing us, collected our medals and slammed back some Gatorade. We crashed early that night and spent the better part of the next day at a Scandinavian bath house soaking our muscles. We earned the feeling of accomplishment. I am a certifiable runner and I pinned my number bib to my bulletin board to remind myself of the glorious feeling of running farther than I’ve ever gone before.