"You'll Have Something to Blog About Tonight."

On Monday, I showed G. the Meanie two blog print-outs of my adventures in running. He was quite complimentary, and I caught him chuckling at parts. So he knows I blog about momentous events in my training, like big weight loss, war wounds, and funny stories about how annoying he is.

The title of this blog post is something he actually said to me today. And boy, do I have a doozy of a story for you.

Until now, we've been meeting twice a week, but due to a promotion for February that will give me two free appointments if I see him twelve times, we've been meeting three times a week. On Monday, it was all about upper body strength training. On Wednesday, it was all about lower body. Friday, he told me with a sadistic gleam in is eye, would be all about running.

Oh, goodie.

Still, I was ready. I've been working really hard at becoming a runner and while I'm not entirely there yet, I've shown tremendous improvement. G. laid out the plan for me as we left the gym and walked around behind it where he's measured out a half-mile loop.

"Okay, first half mile, we're going to jog. That's a warm-up. Then we're going to do some interval training. We will speed-walk for a quarter of a mile, then run full-speed for a quarter of a mile. Then we'll repeat that for a total of one mile. Got it?"

"Got it. Sounds good."

A mile-and-a-half? Easy, peasy! I've been doing two-and-a-half miles a day for a good week now.

We set off at a jog. My form was good and I kept up pretty well. G. was impressed. We did one big half-mile loop around and I was thinking, "I RULE!"

Next came a quarter of a mile of speed-walking. This is a breeze. The hardest part is matching my pace to his, because, well, I'm a shortie.

At the halfway point, we paused. "Are you ready?" G. asked.

"Bring it on!" I replied. I wasn't really looking forward to a fast run for a quarter of a mile, but I figured, hell, I can do this.

I made it about a third of the way and started slowing. "Keep up the pace, Megan! Come on!" I was gasping and feeling like I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. I told him so.

"You're doing fine!"

But I wasn't. Suddenly there was a horrible feeling in my stomach.

"I'm going to throw up, G."

"That's okay, just turn to the left if you do." He was on my right when he said this, and I had brief-but-delightful mental images of throwing up on his fancy running shoes.

I had made it about halfway when I stopped and started dry heaving. There's just no way a body can run and heave at the same time. Finally, it happened.

I threw up.

I am not a person who throws up very often. I rarely ever get sick to the point of vomiting. A mix of sweat and tears streamed down my face as I was sick on the pavement behind the gym.

"I'm so embarassed..." I mumbled pitifully.

"Don't be. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. I've thrown up from running, too."

This all happened in the space of a minute or two, and before long, I was back to running. I finished off the quarter of a mile and turned around to speed-walk. As we reached the half-way point of our loop, I felt some mild dread, but figured I would make this happen or die trying.

We spent most of that last quarter-mile with G.'s hand on my back, bulldozing me along at the pace he wanted. I was literally gasping aloud with each breath. My whole body was screaming obscenities at me, but I didn't stop.

"Come on Megan, don't quit. Only way we're quitting is if you pass out." Gee, great, dude. Just don't let me hit my head if I do, 'k?

We reached the end of the course and I slowed to a walk, glad to be finished. Then I found myself clutching a chain-link fence and throwing up some more. How pleasant. G. kept a safe distance (probably thinking that if he got too close I might go for his shoes just to spite him) and waited for me to stumble back over to him, gasping for air and feeling ten kinds of embarassed.

We took a quick break to walk back in the gym so I could get some water and my towel. Then it was back outside to do five fifty-meter sprints. I made it through those with no problem (what's 50 meters after a quarter-mile, vomit-inducing run?) and then went back to the gym to do three sets of high-knee skips and three sets of twenty jumps onto a step-up board.

The word "tired" is hardly enough to describe how I feel tonight.

As we closed out today's session at his desk, G. said, "I thought you might quit for a minute, there."

I glared at him. "I don't quit. I might stop and throw up, but I don't quit."