Laurette's back problems continue to bother her, so I thought I'd pretty much weaseled my way out of training for the 10K Milk Run in June. But now Patty, another woman I tried to con into doing it with me last year, has decided to take the run on this year.

Oh, how I regret my enthusiasm of last year. Really, the word "regret" does not begin to encompass the feelings I have about last year's run recruitment drive.

Oh, if I could only take it back.

Patty has already worked through Week 1 of the training program and has been shooting me The Big Hairy Eyeball pointedly over my treadmill slackitude. I look over at her, sweating terrifically hard, putting everything she has into this, and huge waves of guilt wash over me.

Forget torture�if you really want to make someone do something, just smack 'em with The Guilt Club. Ve Haff Vays uf Makink You Run is not nearly as effective as guilt.

So this week I jumped into the training program at Week 2 level so I'd be on a par with Patty. "After all," I told myself, "I have basic fitness on my side."

That decision and the rationalization behind it are proof positive that I must have been dropped on my head as a child.

Repeatedly.

Patty has decided throughout her training to set her treadmill to the random setting which means that the treadmill will raise itself up and down without notice, simulating hills. This is much, much harder going than running on a level treadmill at a consistent speed. Since it appears that we will be running this race together and I do not want to hold her back too far, I, too, set my treadmill to random.

Ignore the whimpering sound. Really, it just helps me work through the pain.

Right now we're running intervals. Short intervals. Run two minutes, walk one minute, do that for 20 minutes with a five minute warm up and cool down tacked to both ends. Last year I ran the race very, very slowly at about 12 minute miles. Patty has decided that we can do this much, much faster and is setting a 9 minute mile pace.

Ignore the sniffling sound. I'm not really crying, it's, uh, allergies. Yeah, that's it, allergies.

I just barely got through this week's training. At the end of today's run, I had one of those horrendous stitches in my side. My lungs burned, it hurt to breathe. It now hurts to sit because apparently I used my buttal muscles in ways heretofore unexplored. And this is just two minutes of running nine minute mile pace. If we do the whole race at this pace, we'll have to run for about 57 minutes at that speed.

I don't think I will be able to come anywhere near that.

Normally this would be the point where I throw up my hands and set the bar a bit lower, something that's more do-able. But the thing is, Patty is no fitness goddess and this comes as hard for her as it does for me. If anything, I have a big advantage over her because I'm much taller than she is and my longer legs mean I have to take fewer strides than she does to cover those miles.

So if this very determined woman is willing to push herself this hard, then I will have to do the best I can to keep up with her in the coming weeks and resign myself to eating her dust on race day. Patty's ten years younger than I am. I can console myself with that, eh?

Well, I can as long as I studiously ignore the women in their 60's and 70's who also run this race and do it far faster than I do.

Man, but this fitness dealie is hard on the ego.

--Marn

P.S. � Diaryland is offering a RSS feed. Mine is at: marn.diaryland.com/index.rss for those of you who understand these newfangled technologies.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 285.22 miles. Double Duckage. My joy knows no bounds.