The flutter in my chest is proof of that. It also confirms that even if I did fall, he’d catch me. Only falling on my face isn’t what I’m worried about at this moment. It’s that, no matter how many times I flick this rubber band on my wrist, this crush may never go away.
Tethered by the rope, we start our training. As always, we start slowly, eventually speeding up to a power walk. This pace allows our muscles to wake up, but also for Garrett to position us at the track’s outer ring. It’s something other runner/guide duos recommend. It tends to be less clustered and allows you to only deal with other runners on one side of you, versus both.
Eight laps equals two miles. That’s just over one hundred and four laps to make up the 26.2 miles we’ll do in the marathon. Technically not we, since Garrett is just the substitute guide runner for me to train with until Anker recovers. Somehow, I keep misplacing that nugget of information.
“Ready?” Garrett says, three tugs accompany his question.
“I’m not, but let’s do this.”
This is the first time I’m jogging with a guide. In the solo 5K I attempted and failed at with Anker, we never jogged. Garrett and I have only power walked. Somehow, jogging is more terrifying. It’s like riding a bicycle downhill. There are brakes, but you still may hurt yourself or someone else.
“We’ll go slow,” he assures.
Nodding, I tug twice on the rope. We start slow. Though I wonder if Garrett is even actually jogging and not just walking fast. He’s at least a foot taller than me, which means for every one step he takes, I take two. Not to mention my three weeks of more dedicated physical fitness don’t compare to his years of athletic prowess. Just like Anker, Garrett was a college athlete, having played rugby, and has maintained his fitness levels after.
“Doing okay?” he asks as we round the third lap, having run the last two.
“Uh-huh,” I say through panted breath.
It’s only half a mile, but the sense of accomplishment battles with the doubt that I am going to be able to jog any further. My muscles groan, and sweat trickles down my spine, while athletic Mr. Darcy’s breath remains steady.So annoying.
“Listen to your body,” he says.
Right now, my body wants to kick him. How is he able to have a conversation?
“Slow when you need to. This is a marathon, after all.”
I roll my eyes at his cheekiness. “Aren’t I…supposed to push through? You know…find that runner’s…high?” I pant.
“And you will. We’re just base building. You have to learn your boundaries before you push past them.”
“Is that more of your…self-help stuff like telling…the…bag?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles.
“Fine.” I give the rope a tug to indicate I need to slow down, and we do.
While I understand one needs to walk before they can run—literally in this case—frustration fires awake within me. It may be unreasonable to snap your fingers and just be able to run an entire marathon after three weeks of training…but call me Ms. Unreasonable. I want to be good at this. I don’t want to fail Anker, Garrett, or myself.
“It was only half a mile,” I mutter.
“Half a mile more than you jogged on Sunday.”
“We only power walked on Sunday.”
“Exactly.” His unmuffled voice telegraphs that he’s looking over his shoulder at me. “Remember, it’s a marathon. Not a sprint.”
“Are you just going to quote inspirational pillows now? Is that, like, your thing?”
“Live, laugh, love, my dear Jensen.” An audible smile accompanies his dry snark.
“I’m too breathless to laugh!” I laugh nonetheless.
“Let’s power walk half a mile and then jog another half mile to wrap.”
I tug the rope in agreement. “Okay.”
13
