I tried to get out of the 8K last year, and Nick would have none of it. I stressed over it in all the days leading up to that last Saturday in April because, well, I don't really know why to be honest with you. I just didn't much care to see how poorly I ran five miles, I guess. But, last year, with less than a month of outdoor running on my experience belt, I didn't do half bad. I was exhilarated after the run and felt great.

This year, I begged again that Nick let me do the walk portion of the event, and again he would have none of it. He knew I was feeling rotten about my physical fitness after what accumulated to be about eight months of down time with last year's surgeries, recoveries, and pain. I gave him a lot of whining, a lot of dragging feet, and, again, a lot of anxiety.

And the race started. It was much hotter this year than last, and the thermal underthings were a very bad idea. (I beelined it to the bathroom to strip them off moments after completing the course.) The four of us lined up—Jeff, Tom, Nick, and myself—and we fist pumped each other with a motivational speech not to beat last year's time, not to beat each other, but just to finish the darn thing. It's been a slow physical year for all of us, apparently, as we all crossed the finish line about six minutes slower than last year—except Nick who beat his last year's time by six. (GO NICK!) I should have felt really lousy, but oddly enough, I was just as exhilarated after the run and felt just as great.

So, I pledged to a very grateful Nick, that I won't get all pouty and anxious next year. I had a year that wasn't too shabby, and one that wasn't too great, and I enjoyed both. Give it another month, and I'm confident that Nick will quit saying, "I told you so."