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I used to insist to my (very fast) brother that my running prowess peaked in fourth grade. I ran a mile in seven minutes and forty-five seconds once in fourth grade, and felt that I needn't ever improve on that time. Every mile I ran after that one I made no effort to speed up at all, and usually ended up (predictably) much slower.

We had this thing called the Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge, and in order to pass fourth grade gym, Coach Pinkaba (yes, his real name) would stand by, clipboard in hand, as you grunted through a minute's worth of sit ups. These weren't modern-day crunches, and they weren't pretty. These were old school sit ups - back bone crunching, nearly knock yourself out on the way up and touch your forehead to your knees then crash back down while a classmate holds your feet as though you might just fly off the floor sit ups. Following the sit ups was the sit and reach, and finally the pull ups (I couldn't do any- girls did a modified "hang").

On Friday of Test Week came the dreaded One Mile Run. Coach Pinkaba would chew his eternally old bubblegum and march around in his plush velour sweat suit as he set up cones behind the gym that marked our turn-arounds.

We were to do four laps, with the cones on our left. We'd all start together and then the fast boys would take off and the slower people would begin to take walk breaks. Some kids set to talking about their days, content to make it back whenever they happened to complete their laps. I made it my mission to pass as many boys as possible, usually at a turn around. When we were done, we were to grab a cup of water and sit on the curb and cheer on our classmates.

Fast forward twenty years and I find myself sipping from a Dixie cup, sitting on a curb, cheering on my friends as they make their way to the finish line. It isn't the dreaded Mile Run, it's the Aquathlon - the weekly test of how fast everyone can swim and run. Another week, another swim and run in the books.

The difference now (aside from a complete lack of plush velour) is that I'm not happy to sit on my fastest time and call it a PR for all time. That 7:45 mile? Still fast for me, actually. But now it is a three mile run and eventually I'd like to do it pretty darn fast.

So every week I, along with many, many others, put it all out there and test myself again. No certificate this time, hardly even a blip on the race results screen. But, somehow, it matters. It matters if I get near Jeff's time (okay, only happened once, but it brought me joy) or Kyle's time (Not so much joy. Hint: one of us was very motivated to begin training again after that night).

It matters if I beat my own time, and it matters if I get lapped in the pool. These weekly tests give us a way to gauge our training, see where the summer has brought us and give us somewhere to go from there.

So, while the bearer of the clipboard has changed from Coach Pinkaba to Rane, and the cones are now chalk markings on the street, the challenge is still there and the thrill of cheering for friends never wanes.  I still can't do a pull-up, but I'm still happy to pass the boys at the turn around.

Happy Training.

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