So, there I was, thinking my weekends were for, you know, maximum relaxation. My couch and I, we had a good thing going. Then she came along, full of energy, always talking about her next run, her personal bests, all that stuff. Me? I considered a brisk walk to the fridge a workout.
How It All Started
She was really into running, I mean, really into it. Marathons, half-marathons, 5Ks for breakfast. And she kept trying to get me to join. “It’ll be fun!” she’d say. Fun, right. Like a root canal is fun. For months, I dodged it. Made excuses. “Oh, my knee’s a bit twingy,” or “Pretty sure I’m allergic to sweat.” But you know how it is. You do things for love, or at least, things to keep the peace.
One Saturday, she just signed me up for a “friendly” 5K. Without asking. Just presented me with the registration. “Surprise!” she said. I was surprised alright. Surprised I didn’t fake a sudden, debilitating illness on the spot. I remember just staring at that piece of paper, thinking, well, this is happening.
The Grueling Process
So, the “training” began. If you could call it that. My first attempt at a run around the block? I think I made it halfway before I was gasping for air, leaning against a lamppost, wondering if this was how it all ended. She was, of course, lapping me, looking like she just stepped out of a sports commercial. It was humiliating. I really thought about just giving up right there.
- Woke up early. Hated it with a passion.
- Put on running shoes that felt like they were made of lead.
- Tried to run. Mostly wheezed and stumbled.
- She’d shout encouragement. To me, it sounded like cheerful torture back then.
I documented it all, mentally at least. Every aching muscle, every stitch in my side. I complained. A lot. I told her this was a terrible idea, plain and simple. That my body was clearly designed for comfort, not for this kind of punishment. She just smiled and said, “You’re doing great!” Liar. But she was patient, I’ll give her that. She’d wait for me, or jog back.
But here’s the thing, I kept at it. Mostly because I’m stubborn as a mule, and partly because, well, I didn’t want to bail on the 5K she’d cornered me into. And slowly, very slowly, something shifted. I went from wanting to die after 100 meters to actually completing a whole kilometer without collapsing. Then two. It wasn’t pretty. I was still slow as molasses. But I was doing it. I started timing myself, just little private notes, seeing if I could shave off a few seconds here and there. Small wins, you know?
The Race and What Came After
Race day came. I was a bundle of nerves. Convinced I’d be the last one, maybe even get lapped by a grandma pushing a stroller. The starting gun went, and it was chaos. People everywhere. I just focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to breathe. She ran with me, at my snail’s pace, even though I told her to go ahead and leave me in her dust. That meant something, you know? She just stuck by me, step for step.
We crossed the finish line. Together. I didn’t win anything, obviously. Didn’t even come close to a respectable time for serious runners. But man, finishing that thing? It felt pretty darn good. I was exhausted, sweaty, and probably looked like I’d been through a war, but I was smiling. A real, actual smile. I even managed a sort of fist pump.
And here’s the kicker. I didn’t stop. We started running together more regularly. Not marathons, God no. I’m not that crazy. But little jogs in the park, a couple of times a week. We’d talk, or just run in comfortable silence. It wasn’t about breaking records or anything intense. It became our thing. Something we shared. My couch still sees plenty of me, don’t get me wrong. But now, so do my running shoes. And it all started because she, very lovingly, ambushed me with a 5K race bib. Turns out, sometimes the things you dread the most end up bringing you closer. Who knew, right?
