So much for blending in. Nothing says “I’m not a real runner” like running a half-marathon backward.

I can explain.

The race was going well that morning. Clear sky. Warm temperature. Suburb playlist. I was hydrated, properly dressed and brimming with potassium, thanks to the two bananas I ate at 6 a.m.

I had nuzzled into a comfortable spot — in the back, of course — with a dozen other scofflaws, misanthropes and no-counts. And by that I mean atypical runners, i.e., slowpokes.

About five miles in, we came to High Point University. There was a crossroad.

“Half-marathoners to the right,” said a man, probably an unpaid volunteer, as he motioned us forward.

And forward we went. For the next 10 minutes, I was at peace. The Police were in my ear (Sting, not High Point officers), and an easy downhill sprint loomed.

About the time I noticed Mile Marker 11 — Mile Marker 11? — a gaunt-looking heavy-breather sprinted from behind like he was running from a fire. This was no amateur: He kept his cadence even as he blew a snot rocket.

“That dude’s a real runner,” I thought, leaping over his deposit. “What’s he doing in the back of the pack?”

Then another exceptionally scrawny man passed. And another. And another. Suddenly, I was surrounded by runners whose body mass indexes are lower than my shoe size, lean and hungry guys with determined looks on their pain-encrusted faces.

“Only one more mile!” cried a volunteer handing out Gatorade. “You’re almost done!”

One more mile? What happened to miles 6 through 10?

My group of slowpokes formed a circle, our mouths agape. Someone asked: “What should we do?”

“Let’s turn around and run back to where we messed up,” this guy said.

So, imagine, if you will, a group of not-so-swift runners lumbering in the opposite direction of everyone else, looking them square in the eye as they pass. We must have met 600 people — including two of my friends, who probably thought I was delirious.

“What the hell are you doing?” some guy yelled at me.

What the hell were we doing, indeed.

I don’t hold up well under scrutiny. Especially when I run. So, I turned around and headed for the finish line. Friends greeted me with cheers. I greeted them with a snarl. A volunteer draped a medal around my neck. I calmly, yet dramatically handed it back.

I’m not sure how many miles I logged — 10 or 11, based on my normal pace. Certainly not 13.1.

Disappointed? Yeah. I am. I trained with Liz Lindsay and our Janes on the Run group for months leading up to the race. I imagined myself joyfully skipping to the finish line, not looking for the first official who would disqualify my time.

Mad? Nah. The volunteer made a mistake. That’s why we’re people and not robots. The race might not have been perfect, but there were a whole of lot happy people stumbling around at the finish line.

What happened to me — not actually completing my first half-marathon — is a decidedly middle-class problem, something akin to having dishwasher spots on your crystal or discovering that your hotel room at the beach doesn’t face the ocean. It stinks. But there are worse things.

Plus I did the hard part: the training. I ran through snow, ice and walking pneumonia. Some mornings, I dragged myself out of bed at 6 a.m. Some nights, I jogged 40 laps around the YMCA’s tenth-mile track.

I’m more fit than I’ve been in 15 years. One directionally challenged volunteer can’t take that away from me.

Besides, I’m going to run another half-marathon in a few weeks. What’s 13.1 miles between friends?

The High Point race taught me one thing: Plodders like me? Runners who finish long after the winners have digested their post-race Grape Nuts?

They don’t blow snot rockets.

Color me slow. Forever.

Look at Mile Marker 5, on Montlieu Ave. See how the path turns north, toward High Point University and Mile Marker 6? Well, the volunteer sent us straight instead – toward Mile Marker 11. So we missed that entire loop up College Drive and down Johnson Street.

In the volunteer’s defense: He probably thought we had already gone around loop and were coming through for a second time. The pack I was running with was the slowest of the slow. We were so far behind the others he probably couldn’t imagine that we were JUST THEN starting the loop.

His intentions were certainly well-placed. He was a volunteer, for crying out loud – giving his time away for free. Still, though, it doesn’t change that I’m slightly disappointed.

Unfortunately, it’s a sham.

What happened? A nice volunteer inadvertently sent a group of us in the wrong direction. We missed a 4-5 mile loop through High Point University and surrounding neighborhoods. We realized this when half-emaciated men, running like they were coming from a fire, started passing us at about mile 12.

I had no idea how to handle the situation. The group I was with – strangers, all – huddled quickly to decide a strategy. We decided to turn around and run BACK to HPU. Approximately 797,000 runners saw me running in the wrong direction – a great way not to draw attention to myself, huh? I’d run about two miles when I stopped, turned around and headed for the finish line. I crossed at 2:27-ish – about 30 minutes before I should have. Based on my usual pace, I figure I ran about 11 miles, but I can’t be certain.

Crap. Looks like I have to run another half-marathon. And finish!

50 different people/groups (Bob is special and gets 2 songs).

 How it made the list: The song is performed by someone I love, has a killer hook or reminds me of someone special.

One song is “Lucretia MacEvil” by Blood, Sweat and Tears.

One is “It’s Raining Men” by the Weather Girls.

One is “Come On Baby, Let’s Go Downtown” by Neil Young.

Anyone who guesses a song correctly can have something out of my race goody bag.

Anyway, I thought those of you who have not had the benefit of meeting me in person would like to read answers to some FAQs. If your FAQ is not listed below, please contact the management at www.margaretmoffettbanksworldsgreatestrunner.org

Exactly how long is a half-marathon? 3.8 miles.

Who will you be wearing on race day? Several options have presented themselves … several designers coming forward with ideas. Right now we are leaning toward the gray tank from Target and whichever pair of running tights is clean. There might be some in the dryer right now, actually.

You’ve mentioned recently that you need to stop by the store and buy supplies for the race. What will you be purchasing? Thanks for asking. Bananas (extra unripe), a Kashi bar, peanut M&Ms and something that rhymes with ker-plodium.

Can you confirm the rumor going around that your husband unwittingly scheduled himself to go to a conference during your race? I prefer not to talk about my personal life. I wish him nothing but the best as he drives back from the beach late, late Friday night in anticipation of Saturday’s 8 a.m. starting gun.

Some people, especially those in your head, have said that taking walking breaks makes you “less of a runner.” How do you respond to those critics? Oh, I agree wholeheartedly. I couldn’t be less of a runner if I tried.

Will you next train for a full marathon: Well, training to run 7.6 miles is a totally different drawer full of beeswax from 3.8. I’m not sure how my body would adapt to such distances. But who knows. I’m not ruling anything out.

I’m going to be the only person who takes a walk break two minutes out of the starting gate. Did I say two? It may just be one minute. I’ll have to see how I feel. In any event, it will be very, very soon after you say “go.” Then it’s going to happen. You’re going to say: “Oh, great.  This one’s here’s not going to make it one-tenth of a mile, much less 13.1 miles. Hey, Jimmy, best have that ambulance ready for her at Mile Marker 4.”

But you will be wrong.

Here’s the thing: It takes me a while to warm up. I like to ease into my runs, to find my groove very slowly. Taking that first quick walk break is part of my elaborate, scientifically-calculated warming-up strategy. It is certainly won’t be the norm at your race, where Boston qualifiers will mingle with first-timers, where full-on marathoners will beat my time in the half. Oh, believe me. I’ll find my stride. But it won’t happen quick.

I’m down with that. You should be down with it, too. Unfortunately, not everyone is as tolerant, as understanding, as fully-actualized as we are. So you might want to tell your volunteers, your medical staff – and especially the other runners – not to fret over the middle-aged brunette with the pigtails who suddenly starts acting like an extra from this movie.

It’s all part of the plan.

Any suggestions? I will entertain all ideas except music involving: Don Henley, Live, Smashing Pumpkins (yeah, yeah … all your rage, rat in a cage … SHUT UP), The Moody Blues and, of course, Creed.

Our lines are open.

Yesterday, I blogged about wanting to finish my13.1 training run on a positive note. This section of the above-linked article explains why. And what I’ve got to combat:

“Confidence (or the lack of it) will be born of experience. As humans, when faced with uncertainty, we try to gain information to resolve it. So, faced with a 10K race, your brain will take the last example of a 10K race and use that to resolve the uncertainty. Therefore, experience can be both beneficial and detrimental. For example, if you ran poorly last time, your brain will worry that you’ll do it again and will channel anxiety negatively. The answer is to always go into a big race on the back of a confidence-boosting performance. This is easier said than done, but again, you can learn from past situations.”

THE BAD NEWS

1) My body did not want to cooperate today. I started running, and it was like my body said, “You want me to do what?” My legs were heavy. My arms were floppy. I couldn’t find my mojo. I ran the first 6.5 miles (with longer, more frequent walk breaks). The second half? My body sez to me it sez, “Look. I’ll cut you a deal: Walk the rest of the way and you’ll see your car again. Take off running again, and I cannot be held responsible for what happens next.” So I walked. Nothing hurt. I was well-rested. The weather was perfect. I was properly dressed and hydrated. I just couldn’t  run. Why my 12-miler started and ended perfectly last week shall remain a mystery. This one blew.

2) Wait. You hear that? That last paragraph was the sound of me getting tired of doing something. It’s a frequent pattern: Start an activity, get into it for a goodly while, then get bored. There’s no mystery here. I’m tired of running.

3) This was my last long run before the half-marathon on March 20, and it’s left me quite a bit melancholy. Wanted to go out on a high note, feeling positive about my ability to finish the race. Fail.

4) I do not respond well to platitudes, which is the essence of sports psychology.

THE GOOD NEWS:

1) I’ve had bad runs before. This one just happened to be 13.1 miles. It doesn’t mean I’ll bomb the race. It just means I had a bad run.

2) Yeah, I’m tired of running. Five months in and it’s the same paths, same music, same stinky running shoes. But at least I recognize that. In two weeks, I’ll run a half-marathon on an unfamiliar course, listening to my favorite songs, wearing what will hopefully be destinkified running shoes. And I’ll be done with super-long runs for a while, which will make running easier and more fun.

3) Eh, self, quit your belly-aching. Have a bad run is such a bougie problem. It’s a non-problem, really. Problems? Oh, I got problems. But walking the last 6.5 miles instead of running ain’t one of them.

4) There’s no good news here. Platitudes chap my hide.  And you can take that to the bank.