I set my alarm for 4 a.m. the night before my first half marathon.

Turning it off proved slightly more difficult as it turns out I have little or no control of my arms that early. I got my running clothes on most of the right body parts and managed to get better than half of my Soy Puffs into my mouth rather than down my front.

Trusting my husband with the directions, I passed out in the passenger seat for the ride to Laguna Hills, a ritzy suburb in Orange County south of Long Beach. When I woke up, the sun was that cornea-searing bright that it only gets in Southern California. I rubbed my face, tried to remember my name and blinked a few times until things started coming back into focus.

That was a mistake.

“Welcome to San Diego County!” the sign said.

Me: “Wha –” (turning on my husband) “Where are we?!”

Him: “Hmmm...maybe I missed the turn off...”

A little bit like ending up on Neptune when you’d been planning to turn right at Mars.

Him: “What time are you supposed to be there?”

Me: (checking my watch) “In five minutes.” (I manage to say this with little or no shrew-like squeals.)

My husband, who clearly watched too much “Dukes of Hazard” as a child, banked north and stepped on the gas. Ten minutes late for picking up my number but still before the starting gun went off, we two-wheeled it into the mall parking lot that served as the race staging area. I threw myself out of the car and careened toward the sign-in arms, legs and bottles of Gatorade swinging madly in all directions. “I’m here! I’m here!”

Leaving my husband to hold my place in the porta-potty line (never underestimate the importance of the porta-potty), I got my number pinned on half askew and hopped up and down on one foot while wrestling with an industrial strength plastic tie and my own shoelace trying to get my timing chip attached to my sneaker.

By the time I took over my place in the pee-pee line, they were out of hand sanitizer but still going strong on toilet paper. (You win some; you lose some.) And miracle of miracles, made it to the start line before the “non-traditional” rendition of the national anthem. (Note: Unless you happen to be Jimi Hendrix, don’t. Just don’t.)

Okay, so there was toilet paper stuck to my shoe, a big smear of sunscreen that didn’t quite get rubbed in across my cheek and Gatorade in my hair, but hells bells, I made it.

...to be continued...