The Training Program

They told the stories of their adventure over beers and wine. They talked of the physical and mental challenges, of the hilarious moments, the odd folks, the tired but determined dog, and the brushes with death.

He said, "You should go with us next time."

Such a benign little statement. Warm. Welcoming. It seemed to say that if you join us, you will be enveloped in love and laughter. We want you there. You belong there. And you will have tales to tell of your adventure for decades to come. You are one of us. JOIN US. Come, climb the White Mountains.

And so I agreed.

I agreed to a three-day, two-night hike in the White Mountains, sleeping in huts along the trail where I was told I would have no napkins or paper towels and might get to meet a skunk in the middle of the night and definitely would have a chance to pet a friendly bear.

Six months ago, The Brother, The Husband, The Jock and I started talking about training. Fitness levels were assessed and mocked.

The Brother rows. He's in shape. The Husband runs, plays tennis, and enjoys some unfair genetics. He's in shape. The Jock -- hello? He's The Jock. He's going to kick everyone's ass. Me? I play with the dog. AND I sometimes wear those sneakers that simulate walking in the sand. So, clearly, I'm in shape.

Five months ago, The Husband and I started getting in shape for our trip to New Zealand. It would be our spark to start training for the White Mountians. While in NZ, were going to be hiking and walking and bike riding and generally active. The Husband played tennis twice a week and ran. I did a 10-minute butt blaster work out on a Tuesday while waiting for my mozzarella sticks to finish reheating.

The Brother rowed. Claimed other exploits yet to be verified.

The Jock ran. He swam. He lifted. He cycled.

Four months ago, The Husband and I went to New Zealand. We carefully balanced all athletic activity with equal amounts of sloth. Husband emerged thinner and in better shape. I got a blister.

The Brother lifted. The Brother rowed. The Brother engaged in activities with his daughter. The Brother gloated.

The Jock competed. The Jock hiked. The Jock quietly rolled his eyes at us.

Three months ago, The Husband trained for The Corporate Challenge and netted a not-too-shabby time. I hugged him when he came home (arm workout).

Two months ago, The Husband ran another race. I went for a walk.

Hearing of this, The Brother indicated to The Mother his concern about my fitness levels (which he would not be concerned about if my sister, The Stud, was going with them.

And it began.

First, I claimed to be in fantastic shape and that, as happened the last time we hiked, I would beat The Brother to the top and be laying on the grass at the bottom, enjoying my thoughts, when he finally reached the summit.

The Brother insisted that would only be true if I never started the hike.

The Jock noted that he climbed 2534 feet in one mile that morning before work.

The Brother, The Husband, and I decided that he could carry us.

The Husband noted we were training by going for hikes every weekend. While true,  he left out that I kept bringing our small dog along who can't walk fast or long. When the dog bonks out (after a mile), we "have" to go home.

The Brother noted that he was in perfect shape and that I better start training soon.

The Jock said nothing.

I noted that given his advanced age and tendency to carry entirely too much food, I figured we would be about even as I was much younger and would let Husband carry 90% of my crap.

The Husband noted that he would not be coming if the sibling rivalry continued.

The Brother asked The Stud if she wanted to come in my place.

The Stud said yes.

I vetoed.

The Stud said he would run a half marathon pushing her two daughters instead. Because she's The Stud.

Three weeks ago, The Brother started carbo-loading and carrying a 150-lb rucksack everywhere.

The Jock rode from Virginia to Maine on a Tuesday afternoon.

The Husband started running four days a week and took the dogs for walks by carrying them on his shoulders.

I bought zip-off pants AND a pair of socks.

Two weeks ago, The Husband started packing.

The Jock had taken a week of and climbed Everest, just to ensure he's ready.

The Brother claimed to be running 15 miles a day. With a pack. At altitude.

I took the stairs one day.

Three days ago, The Husband started buying all of the high-energy food, printing the maps, memorizing the trail, and checking all of his gear.

The Jock confirmed all travel data.

The Brother wondered which day we were going and where we were meeting.

I asked if the hike would be hard.

Last night, The Husband made me go for a walk with a really super steep section a whole twenty feet in distance. It was brutal.

It occurred to me that I might not be in tip-top shape.

We leave in one week. My new training program is easy: rest so as not to strain myself on the climb by hiking with sore muscles over-spent from a mad week of training. Oh, and buy another pair of socks. Then I'll be all set. And I'll kick arse.

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