Race Day: Adrenaline, Jitters & That “Let’s Go” Feeling
You wake up early—maybe even before the alarm. Heart’s pounding, not because you’re out of shape, but because it’s race day and nerves are normal. I’ve been there a dozen times. Half the time I barely sleep the night before, and that’s okay. It’s part of the game.
You remind yourself—you’ve trained for this. Your kit’s already laid out (and if it’s not, that’s your first pre-race lesson right there). Bib pinned, socks chosen carefully to avoid blisters, shoes laced and double-knotted, energy gels tucked in, watch charged. No guesswork left. Just movement.
You force down that pre-run meal—even if it feels hard. For me, it’s usually oatmeal with a banana and maybe peanut butter. Not glamorous, but it works and it sits right. That part matters. Stick to what worked during training. Don’t suddenly decide race day is a good time to try something wild like a bagel you’ve never eaten before. Trust me, your stomach will make you pay.
You arrive at the race venue. The air crackles with energy. You hear music, smell coffee and nervous sweat, and the porta-potty lines already snake halfway around the park. Pro tip—get in line even if you think you don’t need to. You will.
This part is wild. You’ll see runners of all shapes and sizes—some bouncing in place, others looking like they’re about to puke. Totally normal. I usually do a light jog and a few hip openers to shake the stiffness out. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get warm and loosen the mind.
And then… it’s time.
The corrals fill up. Pace signs wave in the air. You sneak in somewhere between “ambitious” and “realistic.” Maybe chat with someone next to you—“First time?” is always a good ice-breaker. Someone laughs nervously. The announcer starts the countdown.
And boom—you’re off. You’re running your half marathon.
Miles 1–3: Don’t Be a Hero Yet
That first mile? It’s electric. Everyone’s fired up, flying past you, and your legs feel brand new. You’ll be tempted to chase them. Don’t.
I learned this the hard way in my first race—I blasted through the first mile over a minute faster than my goal pace. Felt awesome for about 15 minutes… then crashed hard.
So now I tell myself—and every runner I coach—“Run the first mile like you’re jogging with your grandma.” Seriously. Hold back. It should feel easy. If it doesn’t, you’re doing it wrong.
Use those early miles to warm up, not to prove anything. Your legs might feel a little stiff from the taper. That’s normal. Let your body settle into it. Check your watch once in a while if you’re wearing one—but don’t obsess.
If you can say short phrases to yourself like, “This feels good,” without gasping, you’re on the right track.
And look around. Enjoy the signs (“Run like you stole something!” is a classic), the high-fives, the kids ringing cowbells. Smile. You trained hard to get here. Soak it in.
Miles 4–8: Settle In & Lock Your Focus
By now, you should be in a rhythm. Not cruising, but working—comfortably hard. This is your zone. This is what all those tempo runs were for.
The crowds thin a bit. The pack spreads out. You can breathe without bumping elbows. This is the grind portion.
Fuel starts to matter here. I usually take my first gel around the 45-minute mark. Sip water at aid stations even if you don’t feel thirsty yet. Hydration isn’t just about now—it’s about having something in the tank when mile 10 punches you in the gut.
Mentally, this is check-in time. Are you upright? Shoulders loose? Breathing deep? Feet light? I go through this checklist every 5–10 minutes.
You’ll feel small things creeping in—tight calves, maybe your hamstrings chirp a little. That’s okay. Make a small adjustment. Don’t panic.
Your mind might start wandering. Let it. I once ran a half where miles 5 to 8 followed the coastline—waves crashing, kids holding “Tap here for power” signs. I barely looked at my pace. That’s how in the zone I was.
But sometimes it’s the opposite. Your brain goes, “Still five more miles? Are you kidding me?” When that happens, I reframe it. I’ll say, “Just make it to the next aid station,” or “Run this one for your girlfriend watching at the finish.” Give each mile a reason. It helps more than you think.
And by the time you hit mile 8, here’s the truth: you’ll know what kind of day it is.
If you’ve paced it right, you still feel like you’ve got another gear. You’re tired, yeah, but you’re not cooked. That’s your green light to lean in a little.
If you’re already struggling, no shame in backing off. Adjust your goal. Walk a bit. Reset. The name of the game is finishing strong, not crashing hard.
I’ve had races where mile 8 felt like a rocket boost—and others where it felt like mile 20 of a marathon. It all comes down to how you trained and how you handled those first few miles.
So ask yourself: “Can I push now?” If yes, go earn that finish. If not, get gritty and stay smart.
Miles 9–12: Where the Real Work Begins
Let’s be honest—this stretch is where it gets gritty. Miles 9 to 12 are the heart of the fight. The hype of the start is long gone, and you can’t quite smell the finish yet. This is the no-man’s-land of the half marathon—the part that tests everything you’ve trained for.
A buddy of mine once told me, “The first 10 miles are just a warm-up. The last three are the real race.” He wasn’t wrong.
By now, your legs are talking back. Maybe your breathing’s heavier, your calves feel like they’ve aged 20 years, and that tiny blister you ignored at mile 4? Yeah, it’s raging. Little annoyances turn into full-blown distractions if you’re not ready for them.
(Quick side tip: if you’re new to racing—lube up. Inner thighs, underarms, toes, nipples—don’t be shy with the BodyGlide. Your skin will thank you at mile 11.)
This is also the danger zone for negative self-talk. Around mile 10, your brain might start whispering garbage like, “Why the hell did I sign up for this?” That’s your inner saboteur trying to hijack your race. Don’t give it the wheel.
Here’s what works for me: I break it down. At mile 10, I tell myself, “It’s just a 5K left. You’ve done that in your sleep.” Doesn’t matter how tired I am—mentally shrinking the distance makes it feel beatable.
When I hit mile 11, I switch to full-on survival mode. Sometimes I dedicate the mile to someone who means something to me—my grandfather, a training partner who’s battling injury, or even just my past self who put in the miles to get here.
I’ve literally said out loud, “This one’s for you, Grandpa,” just to get through it. That emotional pull can light a fire under dead legs.
Another trick: mantras. I’ve used everything from “strong and steady” to “keep moving forward.” Simple, rhythmic phrases that match your footfalls can drown out the pain and keep you locked in.
And hey, if you’re deep in the struggle—cramping, fading, gas tank on empty—it’s okay to walk. Seriously. One or two minutes of walking at mile 11 won’t ruin your race.
I’ve done it. During a brutal hot race, I hit the wall hard. Took a 90-second walk, shook out my legs, stretched a bit, and told myself, “We’re not done yet.” I started jogging again and finished strong.
Spectators are your secret weapon. High-five the kids. Laugh at the signs. I once saw one that said, “You run better than our government,” and it gave me life. Another one said, “Pain now, pizza later,” and I swear I picked up my pace picturing a greasy slice with extra cheese.
If you’re near an aid station, take advantage—grab some sports drink for that quick sugar + salt combo. At this point, even a small hit of carbs can bring your energy back from the dead.
Mile 12: The Final Countdown
You’re close now. One more mile. The crowd’s louder, the finish line buzz is in the air. This is when I start thinking about all the people who helped me get here.
My girlfriend who didn’t complain when I set alarms at 4:30 a.m., or my buddy who dared me to sign up in the first place. And yes, I also start fantasizing about stopping. I imagine lying down, medal clutched to my chest, not moving for hours.
Don’t be surprised if you start to feel emotional here. I’ve had runners tell me they felt tears creeping in as it hit them—they were about to finish. That’s not weakness. That’s power.
That’s months of training and sacrifice turning into pride. Let that emotion carry you. Don’t fight it—use it.
Mile 13 to the Finish: Your Victory Lap
Here comes that sweet, sweet 13-mile marker. You’ve got 0.1 miles to go—about 200 meters. That’s it. This is where the crowd’s roaring, the music’s blasting, and if you’ve got anything left in the tank, now’s the time to empty it.
In my first half, I had nothing left. My legs were barely lifting. But the second I saw that finish line arch? Adrenaline kicked in like I’d been shot out of a cannon. I sprinted—well, more like aggressively shuffled—but it felt like flying.
Crossing the line is pure magic. All the early mornings, the sore legs, the mental battles—they all melt into one single feeling: I did it.
Some people cry. Some raise their hands. Some just collapse in silent joy. There’s no wrong way to finish. Whatever you feel, let it hit you.
The medal goes around your neck and—boom—you’re a half-marathoner. That piece of metal might be cheap zinc, but to you, it’ll feel like pure gold. You earned it.
After you cross, don’t plop down right away. Keep moving. Grab some water. Walk it off. Your legs will thank you later.
I usually step off to the side, take a deep breath, and watch the finishers come in. Every one of them is a fighter. Doesn’t matter if they finished in 1:20 or 3:20. They all showed up and gave it hell.
What Happens Next?
You might get some sweaty hugs from friends or family. You might swear off running forever. You might start scrolling for your next race within the hour. I’ve done all three.
Eat something. Hydrate. Stretch if you can—or just crash on the couch later with your feet up and your medal still around your neck.
I wore my first one to sleep. I’m not even embarrassed to admit it.
Running 13.1 miles changes you. It’s proof that you can chase something big, suffer through the hard parts, and still come out the other side stronger.
It teaches you discipline, toughness, and pride.
So when life throws hard days at you, remember this: you’re the kind of person who runs half marathons. That strength? It’s not just for race day—it’s in you every single day.
Your Turn
What was the hardest mile for you? How did you push through? Drop a comment—I want to hear your story. Let’s swap war stories and help the next runner fight through their mile 11.