The Happiest Place on Earth (Except for Mile 12 When You Hate Everyone)

*Disclaimer. The clock time in that Mile 12 photo is the actual race time. Not my time. Subtract 45 minutes for my time. Because I started the race in corral F. And we had to wait for A-E to go first. Clearly they were slow.

At 9:30 a.m. yesterday morning I reflected upon my day. I had already run 13.1 miles.

“Why?” inquired a concerned cousin. “Were you in grave danger?”

Nope! I ran the 2012 Disneyland Half Marathon. Voluntarily. And lived to tell you about it. Because dead men tell no tales… (Ha. Ha. Get it? Disney humor.)

The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. Because the race started at 5:45 a.m. This seemed obscenely early to me. (And this is opinion coming from the mother of two tiny people. However, my tiny people sleep past 4:30 – just not necessarily in a row. Additionally, there are no muppets in this post. Because they were back and GrammaJ and Papa’s house sleeping soundly.)

I rolled over feverishly trying to make the wake up bells stop. Who’s terrible idea was this again? Oh right, mine. (Note to self – if thought, “It seems like a good idea” crosses mind, run. Hmm, that seems to be the exact sentiment that got me into this endurance exercise of insanity.)

The temperature was 66 degrees. Please note – I am not skipping ahead here. I’m still back on that 4:30 a.m. time thing. 66 degrees. In the middle of the night. (One more six there, and that’s pretty much what I thought about that wake up time.)

Moving on.

Forty-five minutes after the national anthem trilled out across the theme park and fireworks awoke anyone attempting to sleep until a humane hour, I plodded across the start line with the masses.

Right past the first support sign of the race. “Worst. Parade. Ever.” I loved it.

We ran down the streets surrounding Disneyland. A sort of cantering foreplay for Disney enthusiasts.

Suddenly (as the loudspeaker man warned us all) there was a sharp turn in the road. And we entered California adventure.

I was In. My. Element. Disney! These are my people! My place!

Absofuckingtabulous, some might say.

We ran through the new Cars Land. Having now seen the movie about 13,100 times I knew every stop and car by name. (I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my boys I met Lightening McQueen – IN PERSON…er, um… in machine?)

Runners were stopping to take pictures with characters lined up alongside the track to cheer us on. “Oh sure. I’m running a marathon. But I’m gonna stop and take pictures,” mocked a fully green GI from Toy Story. He was totally right though.

I didn’t take a picture with him. I waited until we got into Disneyland proper to take a picture with Snow White.

Yeah. I stopped to take pictures along the way. Come on people, I ran the race dressed as a Disney princess. Lighthearted merriment was pretty much required.

Costumes are a big thing. I had a blast noticing all the different clever characters people came up with. There was even a mini high school reunion for me. Way to represent Chaminade Class of ’98!

Before I knew it, I was passing mile marker 7. More than half way. And I was suddenly struck by a horrifying realization.

I was having a good time. This was fun. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I caught a glimpse of another sign on the side of the road. “Be proud of yourself for enduring this far. The elite runners quit after only an hour!”

So true, I thought. Thinking that I am by no means a runner – moreso that I possess the ability to force myself forward in perpetual motion for an extended period of time.

Then, as we continued to canvass the streets of Anaheim, before I could get bored I encountered the Mustang mile. Every make of the beautiful car – from a gorgeous cherry red ’66 through a tricked out blue 2013 GT – lined the road.

It’s like they knew I was coming!

And you know what was at the end of that mile? The Honda Center. (Ha. Ha. I kid – that’s where the NHL Ducks play. Obviously the baseball stadium is way cooler.)

Angels Stadium. I was ON THE FIELD.

I ran through the tunnel and on to the warning track. The Indian Summer sun beating down. The echo of concrete transitioning into the crunch of red dirt beneath my shoes. I won’t lie – this was close to orgasmic. (Or I was delusional after 10 miles. Either way.)

Three miles later, and about 12 “One more turn till the end” bold-faced lies, and the giant pink FINISH banner loomed directly ahead.

I turned to my friend. “Burn whatever you’ve got left in the tank,” I grinned. And I took off at a full-fledged sprint.

My sparkly skirt flared and my Snow White cape blowing behind me, I flew down the final straightaway, across the finish line.

“Done!” I texted my high school girlfriends. “Not dead!” They immediately tried to persuade me to join in the TinkerBell Half Marathon fun this coming January. TUTUS FOR EVERYONE!

I ran my ass off. Literally I think. And I liked it.