Two days this week, my husband has gently but firmly placed his hand on my shoulder to wake me up at 5:50 am. No, I did not kill him as is my first instinct at being roused before 6 am. His life was spared because my need to NOT be humiliated on Saturday is much greater than my loathing of waking up early.

So, for two days, he has been shown great mercy as I, instead, grumble that I’m awake and I slide out from under the heavy, warm blankets like a big gelatinous blob of phlegm. Yes, I could have used a less disgusting noun but phlegm is apropos in this narrative.

I slip into my clothes without even fully opening my eyes, strap on my iPod, and galumph behind my spouse into the hallway. We trot down 10 flights of stairs in absolute silence to warm up and head out into the dark. That’s right, the sun isn’t even up yet so, not only am I forced to partake in an activity I despise, I also have to worry about tripping the whole time.

Running outside is infinitely harder than running on a treadmill. Running around this neighborhood is a thousand times harder than running around the Tidal Basin, which is flat and level (unless you run up the embankment to avoid the mud and trip over a tree root). This neighborhood is hilly and the sidewalks are uneven throughout. My ass hurts just thinking out it.

Still, despite being pissy, I’ve gotten up and endured the extra training. Why?! I’ll tell you why. I am purely motivated by the fact that 20 is breathing down my neck. I may die from the exertion of this particular 5K but I will finish this race fueled solely by spite and adrenaline, maternal instincts be damned!