Features editor Laura Baginski runs for the challenge, the runners' high, etc., but mostly so she can eat a shocking amount of rich food whenever she wants.

As I loped toward my husband after my grueling finish of the Rock 'n' Roll Half-Marathon yesterday, all I could say was, "Why do I do this to myself?" I'm sure it's a question many runners ask themselves at some point, when their muscles ache like hell, or when they wake up criminally early for yet another training run before work, and all they want to do is just sip a cup of coffee and read the paper like a normal person. But we runners aren't normal. If we aren't challenging ourselves, trying to improve our time or reach a new mile milestone, we feel restless. But logic was far from my mind as I trudged through Grant Park yesterdayladen with with a post-race booty of orange slices, popsicles, Cytomax and water, and so soaked in sweat it looked like I had taken a shower with my clothes onsearching for the gear check station in a daze.

The day had started out well. My husband gave me a ride to the start line at 6amavoiding the Red Line was the best gift he could give me. Plus, Brooks was kind enough to offer me a sticker that gave me access to the company's brilliant promotion: a clean, air-conditioned, private bathroom with running water, mirror, plush toilet paper and proper toiletand I only had to wait in line for about three minutes. (Nonjournalists could have bought into this bathroom bonanza by purchasing $150 in Brooks products at the expo the Friday and Saturday before the race.) Any runner who's waited in a 30-minute line for the stinky porta-pottys and feared missing the race start knows how awesome this perk is.

The race itself also started well. We wound through downtown and South Loop streets for the first six miles, the buildings offering shade and the crowd lots of support. It was at the three-mile mark when I realized just how off the mark my Nike+ chip was (which I store in my shoe and is linked to a wristwatch): My watch said I had run 3.3 miles. By mile four, it said I had run 4.7 miles. Well, crap. That meant the pace I had been training at (which I thought was 9 min at the slow end, but really was more like a 9:30) was a little too slow to finish at my goal time: 2 hours. At that point, my legs were already starting to feel like lead, so running faster for the rest of the race seemed impossible. So I decided to stay at my pace and pray I'd have some energy at the 12-mile mark to turn up the juice.

At mile 6, we ran down the ramp to Lake Shore Drive, the most uninspiring part of the course. There were fewer live bands to keep things interesting (the rest of the course had a band set up at every mile marker), the scenery consisted of cars whizzing by and the sun beat down on us relentlessly, all of which made for a tough slog. But once we made the turn-around to head back up north along the bike path at around mile 10, things got better. The trees offered more shade, and my fairly terrible math skills told me I could still maybe finish at my goal. And then, there were the sponges. Bless you, sponge people, for handing out brick-size, ice-cold sponges, which I squeezed on my neck and head and pressed on my face. That was a wonderful surprise, but shortly thereafter, I started getting the late-in-the-race stinkin' thinkin': My legs hurt too much to keep going, I thought, I need to walk, I'll never make it. I actually tried to walk at around mile 11, but my legs weren't having it: They cramped up so much that starting running again actually felt better than walking. So I continued, doing what I call the survival shuffle, until I spotted my husband at mile 12.5 and realized I really was almost near the end. I stepped it up a little bit, then turned the bend and saw the finish line. Then I all-out sprinted, with visions of all the food and water I'd shove in my face once I'd finished.

And then it was over: I'd missed my goal by two and a half minutes, which was disappointing, but I shaved 10 minutes off last year's time, which felt good enough. What felt better: That grape popsicle I devoured.

Britany Robinson, TOC editorial intern, chases down a lofty goal as she trains for the 2010 Bank of America Chicago Marathon.

For nearly my entire life, I've been an average athlete. Soccer, volleyball, and lacrosse have all fulfilled my need to stay active, but never earned me any sort of recognitionother than the occasional coachs award for being so darn determined. Add my competitive nature to the years of playing in the shadow of better teammates, and youre left with a very frustrated athlete.

Just over a year ago, however, I found a way to push myself to an athletic accomplishment with built-in bragging rights: I started training for a marathon. I lost my 26.2-mile virginity at the 2009 Chicago Marathon with a time of 4:36. Okay, still nothing to brag about...but I finished! And in marathon running culture, anyone with the balls to train for and complete a marathon deserves a medal. (And I LOVE the medals!)

The following weeks of dropping my accomplishment into every narrowly related conversation left me with the realization of how much I truly loved this new sport of mine. They say that after your first marathon, youre either a one and done typethe kind of person who wants to complete one but after the grueling experience, has no desire to relive itor youre officially hooked. As I threw down another 100+ bucks for the Cincinnati Flying Pig Marathon registration in early January and began another training seasonthis time amidst the bitter conditions of a Chicago winterI knew I was hooked.

I completed my second marathon just about a month ago. After the torturous hills of the Flying Pig course and the torrential downpour that accompanied the start line, I was elated with my finishing time of 4:1818 minutes faster than Chicago! This realization of being capable of improvement immediately left me with a desire to be faster. Before they could drape the reflective sheet over my sopping shoulders at the finish line, I knew I wanted to qualify for Boston.

My age and gender means I need a 3:40 qualifying time to run the Boston Marathon. After my initial 4:36 finish, I figured that was never going to happen. But now, with the intoxicating burn of improvement (or is that lactic acid?) coursing through my recovering muscles, Im dreaming big. Im going to be running Chicago again this year and although I dont think its physically possible to take enough time off my pace to qualify this time around, Im shooting for a sub 4-hour finish, and a giant stride in the right direction.

Joanna Batt, TOC Kids Writer, is gearing up for her very first marathon. One small problemshe's hardly your orthodox runner. Whether this will be a plus or a minus in the long haul, only time will tell.

I hate treadmills. For all you out there who dutifully get out of work, unzip your clean, un-smelly gym bag and get to it on that electronic monster I equate to the 21st century's version of the rack, it's nothing personal, I swear. I admire, even envy you. But it's just that I really hate treadmills. After about a half-mile of the incessant pounding on the thing, I start to look around meeveryone in the gym is staring straight ahead, running at what seems like the frighteningly same pace, listening to their music, watching TV, wearing spandex clothing in the same dark shadesand the panic sets in. My mind starts reeling into fitness-themed spinoffs of 1984, I feel like one of those guinea pigs on their wheely thingamabob, and I'm painfully reminded of grueling winter training for high school lacrosse season that was done almost entirely on treadmills. Like I said, I hate treadmills.

Bu here's the thingI love running. So much, in fact, that I've convinced myself it would be a great idea to run what a Greek messenger once sprinted under pure duressread: not because he wanted towhen he was running away from a violent battle. And yep, I signed up for this.

Somewhere along the way as an undergrad, I started to experience running, not as a way to get in shape for an upcoming season, but because it felt good, great even. Over the past few years, my runs have grown...my first five mile, then eight, then ten, and recently during what was a shockingly beautiful and warm autumn in the Windy City, up to thirteen miles. Feeling cocky and very ignorant of what lay ahead, I said to myself, hey, if I can do thirteen, I can do thirteen more.

I realize I should be getting into serious marathon shape starting, well, now. Eating right, cutting down on cocktails, following the mapped-out-to-the-step Nike schedule that everyone who hears you are running a marathon promptly emails to you. But you see, I kind of feel the same way about all that as I do about treadmills. I just don't want to do all that stuff. I want to do the kind of running that I love, sublime, long lakefront runs at sunset, the jogs home straight from work after a long day, the morning-after-a-night-out run that kicks you in the you know where.

So, although this non-orthodox approach might indeed bite me in the butt, I'm going to stick to my guns. I'll steadily increase both the frequency and distance of my runs over the months that lie ahead, continuing my weird habits of packing odd snacks and running home from work, or running just because I downloaded an awesome song to run to, and definitely not giving up the vino.

Along the way, I hope to really carve out a consistent running schedule for myself, something that has been a bit of a challenge since I entered the working world out of grad school and realized, no, you can't go for a run at 3pm just because the sun came out and you don't have class. So peek back if you care to scoff, be mildly entertained or even bond over my running style as I take on my biggest trek yet. Because I'm going to train and ultimately run this marathon on my terms. And in case you were wondering, those terms don't include a treadmill.

Jessica Herman, TOCs The Get writer, shares the experience of training for her first half-marathon.

I did it. I not only did it, but I loved it. Every. Minute. Of. It.

Nearly six months ago, I set a goal to complete my first half-marathon in the spring. The training had its ups and downs: I confronted the fragility of my body and, at other times, celebrated its resistance. I surprised myself with my ability to self-motivate, and I also occasionally let myself down. Some days I slogged through a full ten miles. Other days the time flew by. Last weekend, those months of training finally came to a head with the arrival of the race.

I didn't expect to get quite so nervous. I'd missed my last long run, and the final jog the weekend before the race felt oddly challenging. By Friday, two days before the race, my stomach was churning as I started questioning how long would I be able to go before my legs gave out or my side ached or my ankles throbbed? Maybe it was a mistake that I hadn't ever run the exact course before (granted, it's pretty much all flatlands along the lake where I'd join thousands of other runners, but still). Saturday night rolled around and I barely managed to eke out five hours of sleep between my tossing and turning and the early 7am race time.

But you know what? When I arrived at the park at 6:30am to see throngs of runners of all ages stretching on the grass, lining up at the port-a-potties, pumping each other up, I remembered why I signed up in the first place. The call time came and went and I was still in line at the port-a-potty along with dozens of other runners. The anticipatory queasiness combined with my small bladder meant many, many trips to the bathroom in the preceding 24 hours. But, no bother. Five minutes later, I too, passed the start line, pumped up the volume of my new running mix (thank you, Kevin Aeh) and joined the group. The weather was perfect: hardly any wind to resist and just enough sun to keep me warm but not overheated. Within no more than a mile, cheering strangers appeared the the sidelines. Then came the Gatorade and water stands. I didn't want to risk interrupting my pace, so two-thirds of every cup made it onto my neck and shirt, but the remaining one-third of energy drink was all I needed for an extra boost.

Miraculously, my pacing remained consistently between 9 minute, 30 second and 10-minute miles the entire distance. Thank goodness for the clocks at every mile marker reassuring me that I was on track. I didn't actually feel the burn until mile ten. Energy-wise I felt fine, but my knees were ready for a break. But by then I'd come too far to bother slowing down or taking a rest. To take my mind off the discomfort, I concentrated on taking in the whole experience: the gorgeous lake scene (even more stunning now that the sun was fully shining), the eclectic crowd, the volunteers doing anything they could to get us through the experience (I mean, when else can you toss your half-drunk cup on the lawn and expect someone else to graciously pick it up for you?). I hit my stride with Rihanna's "Rude Boy," which I played on repeat no less than four times. Whatever works...

As I passed mile 12, I actually had energy to burn. Perhaps it was the reasonable pace I'd kept the rest of the run or the remaining adrenaline from all of my nerves from the past two days. Rounding the final bend, I saw the woman with whom I waited in line before the run and wanted to give her a hug (don't worry, I didn't). I quickened my pace and couldn't help but beam with excitement and pride. On the final stretch, I looked around for my friend who ran the 10k and secretly was relieved to not see her there. I knew that if I did I'd start crying. Sappy, I know. But something about following through with it all and actually enjoying the race left me verging on weepy.

And then I finished. I FINISHED! Eventually, I did find my friend, and it was all smiles and emphatic pats on each others' backs (thank god for saving face this one time). I rode my high the rest of the day.

One week later, I'm thinking about the next one.