I have created a monster.

Last year I coaxed Laurette to run the 10K Milk Run with me. We actually won a trophy, mostly because only a handful of 50-something women are stupid enough to run the race.

I am embarrassed to admit that there were women in their 60's who posted better times than we did. Wait. It gets worse. The woman who won the 70 and over category also blew our doors off. Oh yes, someone old enough to be my mother ran 10K far faster than I could. It has taken me nearly nine months, but I have almost worked through the pain, the humiliation.

And now this.

My trainer put information about this year's Milk Run up on the gym bulletin board last week. Laurette is now insanely keen to run the race again. We did it together last year, so she feels we should do it together this year. I am trying to decide which injury to feign to get myself out of this. Carpal Tunnel? Whiplash? Perhaps a fake leg cast?

Laurette is coming off a back injury. I keep pointing out to her that the sort of training we'd need to do so we could run six miles would probably re-injure her back. She refuses to listen to any reason. She wants to train. She wants to start March 1.

She is using the same tactics on me that I used on her last year. She has even used the ultimate insult, the deadly chicken call: buck, buck, buck. Yes, I have been buck bucked. By a woman who is nearly a foot shorter than I am.

Oh, I know, "sticks and stones will break my bones" and all of that. But people this is the deadly chicken call. Once you've been buck bucked there's no easy way out, not if you want your honour intact.

So I've dug out my old training routine from last year. The one that is stained with sweat and tears. Late this morning, after the gym had pretty much emptied out, I got on the treadmill and did a test run. I cannot run more than � of a mile before getting winded.

This is going to be so very, very ugly.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 195.97 miles. Duckage. My joy knows no bounds.