Amberly McAteer is just getting over bronchitis, and still nursing a foot injury - but she's set on completing (at least showing up to) the Sporting Life 10K race on May 1.
Nine weeks ago I began this column with scores of excuses as to why I've never been able to finish a 10K race.
Reading that article now makes me cringe. After weeks of training, my relationship with running can no longer be defined as "love/hate." It's not a weighty chore I squeeze in twice a week to punish myself for an overindulgent weekend. I never thought I'd say this - and mean it - but I legitimately love to run.
I used to scoff at the idea of a "runner's high." Now I crave it. I'm one of those annoying runners with a big grin on her face as she dodges strangers on the sidewalk.
There are a few reasons for the shift: first, my outings have become much easier. I no longer run with a puffer, my lungs are happy for the exercise and not shocked into cardio-overload. I push myself - honestly - just for kicks, and my legs are, if I do say so, beach ready.
What has helped me most has been the overwhelming response from readers. The advice, support and yes, even the sarcasm has been invaluable. If I slacked off, or whined too much - you called me out.
When I was convinced my foot would be the end of my short-lived running career, I heard Rob Duncan's advice: "You can make that finish line." When I felt guilty about rejecting my friends' invite for a group run, I heard Johnny: "Do it on your own terms. Crank the tunes and go." And when I'm fretting about the details, there's the advice from the ever-so-honest online personality J Potato: you have truly mastered the art of drowning in a glass of water.
Advice and support from hundreds of readers is with me every time I hit the pavement. Thank you.
But there's been one small hitch in my beagle-to-greyhound transformation:the universe is testing my resolve.
I've been dealt two very good excuses to bail on this thing: an injured foot and, more recently, bronchitis. My doctor listened to my chest and actually belly laughed. "And, remind me again, just when do you plan on running this race of yours?"
Six days.
The farthest I've ever ran is 6.17 kilometres (but who's counting) - and that was three weeks ago. I'm terrified of incompletion. The thought of an "I tried, but didn't make it" column keeps me up at night.
Desperate to find hope, I headed back to the man who silenced my self-defeating internal dialogue last month. "How do you eat an elephant?" asks Alan Chud, owner of Absolute Endurance fitness centre in Toronto. I respond with awkward silence, suppressing a coughing fit.
"One bite at a time, kid."
He insists I'll finish - by breaking up the 10 km beast into measly 2 km races, and stopping to congratulate myself after each one. There's no question I'm doing this. "But what if that fourth 2K is too hard?" (I'm whining again.)
"What fourth 2K? That doesn't exist until you've completed the third one. Trust me, you've got this thing." He's good; I believe him.
One thing is for certain: I'll cross that elusive starting line next Sunday. And it might take me a while - no, a very long while - but I'll meet you at the finish line.
Follow my training progress here, and pick your training program here.
Amberly McAteer