“Would you like to join the Fitness Together team in running a 5K?”, my trainer asked me just a few weeks after I had begun my personal training program.

Five kilometers is just 3.2 miles.  That didn’t seem so far to me.  I love to walk, and over those first initial weeks I had managed to successfully “run” a few quarter-mile stints on the treadmill.  I put run in quotes because my trainers calls it a “light jog”.  Whenever he says this, I roll my eyes.  His version of a light jog is my version of running faster than the wind.

I asked a few questions:

“Is it okay if I walk?”

“How long would it take me if I walked the whole thing?”

“Will a medical expert with life support be standing by?”

General stuff.  My trainer assured me that yes, I could do a combination of running and walking (did you think he’d let me off any easier than that?) and that I could probably finish in an hour.

Not only did I agree to sign up, I promised to recruit others to join me.  You see, my theory has always been that if I have to suffer, everyone else should suffer too.  Before long, I had managed to recruit my best friend (who happens to be a fitness instructor), a workout buddy and friend from cardio class, and believe it or not—my husband.

Here’s what you should know about my husband.  I call him the next George Burns.  He’s a funny guy, but he also lives the  George Burns lifestyle.  Pascal smokes, he eats anything he wants, he likes a good glass of cognac, and he doesn’t really exercise.

George Burns once said:

People keep asking me, “George, you are 88, how do you do it?” You make films, you do television, you give concerts, you record albums, smoke cigars, drink martinis, go out with pretty girls—how do you do it?

It’s simple. For instance, a Martini. You fill the glass with ice; then pour in some gin and a touch of dry vermouth, add an olive, and you’ve got yourself a Martini.

That’s my husband (and his sense of humor) to a tee.    But, I digress.

So there we were, rolling out of bed at 5:45 am on a Saturday morning to head over to our first 5K event.  It wasn’t the first time since agreeing to participate that I doubted my decision.  But, the weather was gorgeous and I’d made a commitment.  Furthermore, I’d made others commit to me.  There was no backing out.

My trainer met us near the parking lot and led us to our tent.  I spent some time chatting with my fellow team members who seemed even more apprehensive about the race than I was.   I actually felt calm and completely unconcerned until it was time to warm up.  “Let’s start with jumping jacks”, said our trainer.   I  groaned.  Nothing like my least favorite exercise to start the morning.  Perhaps it was a bad omen.

We lined up with the 210 other 5k participants and the starting gun fired.  Here are some highlights from my internal dialogue:

Minute One: Oh no!  This is awful.  It feels a hundred times more difficult than the treadmill.  I’ve only ran for about 15 seconds and I want to stop already.  I can’t do this.  There is no way I can do this.  Oh, look.  That’s my workout buddy up ahead.  The one who begged and pleaded with me not to leave her behind.  She’s totally running this thing and leaving me in the dust.

Minute Two: Okay.  That’s enough.  I’m stopping.  I cannot run this.  I’m going to have to walk it.  Oh my god!  Pascal is actually doing the “light jog”.  I’m shocked and impressed.  I can power walk next to Pascal and keep up even though he’s running.  This is good.  I’ll just keep pace with him.

Minute Ten: Look at those senior citizens way ahead of us.  They’re walking too, but it looks like they’re not making any effort.  Why does this feel so hard for me?

Minute Fifteen: I’m so hot.  I’m sweating.  I think I’m getting a sunburn.  I really don’t want a sunburn.  That would be awful.  I can feel sweat dripping down my forehead.  Perhaps I should veer off course and look for some shade.

Minute Eighteen: I think I’m getting a blister.   Right next to my pinkie toe on my left foot.  Oh yeah.  It’s definitely going to blister.  Did I wear the wrong socks?  I’ve never had a blister before.  Great.  Now I’m hot and sweaty and I have a blister.

Minute Twenty: I wonder how long it’s been.  I’m thinking close to an hour.  Why haven’t I seen the two mile marker yet?

Minute Thirty: I can’t believe that Pascal is still jogging.  I’m so pathetic.  Here I am walking next to a guy who trained by eating a can of sweetened condensed milk for dessert last night and smoking two cigarettes with his black coffee for breakfast this morning and yet, he’s doing better than I am.  Thank God he’s here, though.  If he weren’t pushing me so hard to keep up to his pace, I’d be the last one in the race.

Minute Forty: Oh look!  There’s Justin.  It’s like my very own Biggest Loser moment.  All of the others have finished and he’s running back to get us.  That’s so nice!

Minute Forty-One: Justin wants me to run.  Really?  I don’t know if I can do it.  Okay.  I’ll try to humor him.

Minute Forty-Two: Well, I lasted for a minute.  Doesn’t that count for something?

Minute Forty-Six:  Justin wants to know what hurts more, my legs or my lungs.  Should I tell him that the two things that hurt the most are my brain and my boobs?

Minute Forty-Seven: Really?  He wants to cut a deal?  If I walk from here to the 3 mile marker, I have to run the final tenth of a mile.  Okay.  I’ll do it.

Minute Fifty: I cross the finish line running (okay, it was a light jog—whatever!!) next to my husband and my trainer.  The rest of the Fitness Together team is cheering us on!  Forget Biggest Loser.  This is Chariots of Fire and Rocky rolled into one.

We finished at the very end of the pack; only eight other participants had slower times than we did.  But in many respects, it felt like a huge win.  I waged war with myself for 50 minutes.  And thanks to my soldier of a husband and a sweet, yet sly drill sergeant trainer, I survived my first real test on the fitness battlefield.