Galentine’s Day Fun Run vs. the Ultrarunner

Life as a very content stay-at-home mom and wife continues. Ashley is in the full-on “into everything” toddler stage. She can confidently refer to me as mumzzzz (it’s adorable), Bubs as Dada, and has finally mastered Sissa and Bobba for her older siblings. She recognizes the dogs and insists on holding their leashes when we walk them every day.

I get to be a classroom mom instead of a teacher. I get to go on field trips and think things like, “Yeah, that’s your problem,” instead of being the focal point of every near-catastrophe. Life is pretty good here.

So, naturally, my older sister Jenn has decided that we should all run the Austin half-marathon on February 14.

And I agreed, because Jenn is the older sister. When she announces a harebrained scheme, Jess and I immediately regress to childhood and go along with it. I’m pretty sure this is how we ended up smuggling a puppy into our house when I was eight and Jenn was ten, with Jess small enough to sneak herself and the dog under a gap in the gate without making it clang shut. She had a plan, and we had no choice but to participate. And that’s how we got our family dog. Jenn’s plans have a funny way of working out, which is probably why we still go along with them.

But February 14! Galentine’s Day! The ultimate opportunity to do something with my sisters, friends, and sisters-in-law while pretending that Valentine’s Day is a holiday I have not spent years trying to convince my husband to celebrate properly.

I have a vision.

We will wear matching pink and red running outfits. There will be body glitter. There will be little sparkly hearts attached to springs on headbands, bobbing merrily as we make our way through Austin. We will run a little, walk a little, stop at a cute coffee shop if the mood strikes us, and drink something pink, sweet and highly caffeinated. We will finish the race in approximately four hours, having had a lovely time and made memories that will last a lifetime.

I have not spent a great deal of time thinking about pace, mileage, or athletic performance. I have, however, spent considerable time thinking about the headbands.

Unfortunately, I am married to a runner.

Bubs used to play high school baseball, but after that chapter of his life ended, he got into running to deal with the energy he carries nearly all the time. He read Born to Run, embraced the minimalist-running philosophy, and now runs in sandals. He has a 50K planned in a small New Mexico town this November, and while he claims he isn’t particularly concerned with winning, I know him well enough to suspect that he would be delighted to win his age group. Or the whole thing. Whatever.

Jenn and Jess know this about him, too. Their husbands have perfectly respectable soft bellies and are not interested in getting up at five in the morning to run around the neighborhood.

We were on FaceTime making the initial plans when I heard the garage door open. Bubs was home. Jenn and Jess saw my expression change, and they knew exactly what was coming. The runner in the family was about to acquire a project, and that project was me.

Did they stick around to help me have this conversation, even in the digital sphere?

Nope. I got “Good luck, Scummy” as the screen went black.

Scummy is an old family nickname that tends to emerge when my sisters believe I am about to get myself into trouble. I suspect I will be hearing it again.

I decided not to tell Bubs immediately. I knew he would be excited, and I knew that his excitement would probably involve a training plan, early-morning runs, pace goals, nutrition, and a discussion of the appropriate equipment.

I did what any neurotic 34-year-old woman in 2026 would do: I consulted the Oracle that is ChatGPT. I asked if I should just keep the whole thing to myself and pretend I was going to Texas for a Valentine’s weekend with my sisters and friends.

ChatGPT advised me to tell the truth. I had not promised to tell Bubs when, though, and I briefly considered whether February 13 still technically counted as being honest.

This morning, I decided to bite the bullet.

“Bubs, I have something to tell you, and you’re going to get really excited, but I need you not to run away with this and to let me do it my way, okay?”

“C’mon,” he said. “I’m not Clark Griswold.”

Clark Griswold, of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, is a man whose holiday enthusiasm routinely exceeds everyone else’s. Bubs, naturally, believes this comparison is unfair.

“My sisters and I are going to run the Austin half-marathon—”

Before I had even finished saying half-marathon, his face lit up.

“That’s so cool! We need to get your training right away. What was your 5K time again? Twenty-five minutes? We could get you under two hours easily. I’ll put together a training plan at lunch. And we can get you a Garmin. The Enduro 4 is brand-new—I don’t even have it yet—but I’ll get it for you, although we could look at something you like, too. And I’ll get the jogging stroller down so we can take Ashley!”

Wait, "we?"

He kissed my forehead and left for work on a mission.

I sat there for a moment, wondering whether I was signing up for an entirely different event.

For the record, my 25-minute 5K was approximately six and a half years ago. Bubs was deployed somewhere I am not supposed to know too much about, and I had just finished weaning TJ. I was feeling a little off-kilter and needed some time away from having two small children attached to me.

I saw an Instagram post advertising a little 5K in San Marcos. I planned to walk it. My mom was going to watch the kids, and I thought a morning out of the house sounded lovely.

Then the race announcer mentioned that the local McDonald’s was giving free Big Mac coupons to the top five finishers in each age group.

Well.

I was in my twenties. I was competitive. And I wanted a free hamburger.

I ran that 5K in 25 minutes and came in fourth among women aged 25–29. I could barely walk properly for a week afterward, but I got my Big Mac. It was the best hamburger I had ever eaten.

Bubs has somehow retained the 25-minute time all these years and regards it as evidence that I am a natural running prodigy. He remembers the performance; I remember the hamburger.

I love that he remembers. I love that he is proud of me. I even love that his immediate reaction to my half-marathon announcement was to start figuring out how to help me succeed.

But I would like to point out that I am five-foot-one, have D-cup boobs that require two sports bras, and I have no particular desire to spend the next four months pursuing an identity as a serious distance runner. If there is no free hamburger waiting at the finish line, a leisurely jog or a brisk walk will do just fine.

So I texted him at work.

“Hey, remember when I said to let me do this my way? I really mean that. My idea of running a half-marathon is a lot different from yours, but I love you!”

He replied, “Hey, don’t sell yourself short! I mean, with no training you did a 5K and ran it in 25 mins! Let’s make this happen!”

I believe he got the message. At least, he says he did,  but he hasn't actually promised to let me train my way.

But he has also retrieved the jogging stroller from the attic and taken Ashley on a little jog around the street when he got home tonight. Ashley is apparently hooked. Now, I suspect that whenever I get in my car, she and the stroller stare at me as if to say, “Hey! Forget about us?”

It’s very sweet. It’s also a little alarming.

I have no idea whether a thousand-dollar GPS watch is already on its way, or whether I’m expected to be up at five tomorrow morning. I am not prepared to have a conversation about heart-rate zones, and I haven’t even ordered the glitter.

The trouble is that Bubs is genuinely excited. He wants to help me do something difficult, and he remembers a little race from six years ago because he was proud of me. I don’t want to crush his enthusiasm. I also don’t want my sisters’ Galentine’s Day adventure to become the Family Endurance Training Program.

I want the pink outfits, the silly headbands, the coffee shops, and the satisfaction of crossing the finish line together. I don’t want to spend the next four months feeling as though I’ve disappointed my husband because I’m not trying to break two hours.

So, apparently, I have a conversation to have with a man who has already hauled a jogging stroller out of the attic. In the meantime, I’m going to start looking for sparkly hearts on springs.

If I’m going to run a half-marathon, I’m at least going to look ridiculous doing it.