I’m the runner of the family. I’m the one who’s trained for and completed a handful of half-marathons. Sure, that was close to a decade ago, but still. I’m the one with the medals.

Mike is not a runner. He hates running, but every now and then decides he’s going to take up the sport. This decision, at least half a dozen times, has been followed by a run in which he goes too far, too fast, and for too long. He returns broken and injured and frustrated that his stint as a runner is over before it started.

Awhile back, Mike and I completed an alcohol-free challenge. We like challenges and we’ve embraced them as a means of examining and improving different aspects of our lives. All of this ties in to The Business of Us, the venture we’ll be launching soon for others who are interested in doing the same.

We’ve done push-up challenges, writing challenges, meditation challenges, and are currently doing a StoryAthlete challenge (writing, but ties into improvement in Mind, Body, Business, and Relationships). A couple months ago we took on the alcohol-free challenge, and when you give up any vice, it’s helpful to take on a physical challenge to take its place.

That’s when we decided we’d train for and complete a half-marathon.

But I had rules. And Mike had to agree to them.

We had to stick to a proven schedule. We had to pace ourselves. We had to ice in the evenings. After all, I was the one with four half-marathons under her belt. Mike was the one who always ended up injured. It only made sense that I have a say in setting some parameters.

We started well, following my training schedule with shorter runs during the week and one long weekend run. Each week our distances increased. We had rest days; we iced. I was so proud of what we accomplished in that first month of training.

And then my arrogance bit me in the ass. Hard.

My ankles swelled up to the size of grapefruits (and let me tell you, this is not my most attractive look). I spent much of our anniversary trip to Spain awkwardly hobbling around (it was still an incredible trip). The running progress halted.

When my ankles returned to normal, Mike stepped in and created a new schedule, this time with run/walk intervals. It made sense and I agreed to it. I had a bad cold when we returned that interfered a bit, but we still managed to keep up with the schedule.

The cold subsided, and then I woke with my throat on fire, unable to eat. Can’t drink anything warm, so the next person to recommend a nice hot cup of tea can suck it.

This past week I’ve been living on cough drops and small sips of water.

I’ve never understood people who lose their appetites when ill or sad. I’ve always said I could eat my way through any number of infectious diseases or tragedies. I’m gifted like that.

But this is different. The physical pain actually outweighs the hunger. So I unwrap a cough drop and fantasize about eating when this shit is over. Seriously, you cannot imagine how much of my day is spent thinking about pasta.

Last night, as Mike snacked on a handful of roasted nuts, I actually said, “Wow. Those peanuts smell really good.” I digress.

I am SURE that I’m on the mend. I am POSITIVE that by Monday morning, we’ll be back on track and completing Mike’s schedule for the week.

It’s time for this crud that his physically knocked me down to DIE. (And along with it, my arrogance for thinking I’ve got it all figured out.)

And then, I’m going to fully embrace resuming the challenges we’ve set before us. It’s about fighting stagnation and improving every day. I’m not only going to embrace it, I’m going to ENJOY it. (And there’s a good chance I might also enjoy a giant bowl of pasta).