“I’m not exactly out of shape,” I protested.
“The Big Race isn’t about being in shape. It’s about endurance, problem-solving under pressure, adapting to new environments.” He grinned. “Luckily, you’ve got a personal trainer who comes with the package deal.”
The next morning, that “personal trainer” woke me at five a.m., already dressed in running shorts and a moisture-wicking tank top.
“Rise and shine,” he announced, flipping on the light. “Five miles this morning, then yoga for flexibility.”
I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head. “I thought marriage meant never having to say you’re jogging.”
“Very funny. Come on, the early bird catches the worm.”
“I hate worms,” I muttered, but I dragged myself out of bed anyway.
Ray led us down our street at a slow lope, then around the corner and into West Lake Park for a trial run. Not a “run to see how it goes.” A literal run.
“I don’t run,” I reminded him, tightening the laces on my sneakers. “Itype.”
“Youmove,” he said. “Fast. Under pressure. With grace.”
“That’s the dream.”
We set off along the paved trail behind our community. It was barely 8 a.m., already ninety degrees with humidity you could drink. Ray jogged ahead at a relaxed pace, arms loose, stride steady. I followed at what could generously be called a determined shuffle.
“Remind me again,” I panted, “why we didn’t chooseanotherreality show?”
Ray glanced over his shoulder. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.Is It Cake Yet?I could spot a fake croissant from a mile away. Or that home renovation show—Queer Eyesores.We could’ve redone the guest bathroom with sledgehammers and matching tank tops.”
“Sounds safe,” he said. “And boring.”
“I’d even take that British one where you live like it’s 1850 and churn your own butter.”
Ray laughed. “Would you wear the cravat?”
I shot him a look. “Only if I get to use the chamber pot first.”
He chuckled and slowed down until we were side by side.
“Honestly?” I added. “I’d rather be naked in a jungle eating bugs than jogging in South Florida in July.”
“Naked and Afraid,” Ray said. “Been there, emotionally.”
That made me laugh—really laugh. The kind that bubbles up unexpectedly and catches you off guard.
Ray looked over, eyes warm. “Haven’t heard that laugh in a while.”
The moment stretched between us, sweet and a little sad. I wanted to bottle it, store it for the hard days ahead. For when we weren’t laughing. For when we’d forget, again, how good we could be together.
We ran the rest of the loop in silence, save for my occasional wheezing. But it was companionable. Rhythmic. Something almost like hope.
For the next four weeks, Ray put us both through a grueling training regimen. Early morning runs, afternoon swimming sessions at the community pool, weekend hikes with weighted backpacks. He’d competed in enough triathlons to design an effective conditioning program, and I had to admit, he knew what he was doing.
I created my own preparation system. We’d been told the race would begin in Miami. It usually kicked off at some iconic location in the starting city, and then the teams had to get into rental cars and find their way to the airport. I created a list of what I thought were the top locations and went over them with Ray. “Bayfront Park, Vizcaya Museum, South Pointe Park, Fairchild Garden, and Key Biscayne are too easy,” I said. “They’re too close to the airport and there are plenty of directional signs.”
“I agree. What about the Wynwood Walls?”
Over a dozen years ago, a real estate developer got the idea to transform a warehouse district into an outdoor museum of street art. “Great backdrop, but the logistics for the production team would be terrible,” I said. “The show needs a big space for the teams to assemble, and then parking for the production vehicles and all the rental cars. Wynwood would be a mess.”
