At 10:45 a.m. Sunday, Cassie Peller arrives at Valley Fields and we stretch. The two-mile race is on.

"So we're just going to run together and talk," Peller says. "Right?"

"No," I say. "I want you to embarrass me."

"Oh no!" she responds. "I thought we could just chat. All right, well, we can run together to start."

Lap 1

Thirty seconds in, I blow my strategy. I meant to run at my own pace to avoid burnout. Instead, I keep up, and we talk about the weather. She strokes my ego, telling me that we are running a great pace. This "great pace" feels like a borderline sprint. She hopes we can keep it the entire run. I kill her hopes.

"I'm burning myself out," I say.

We finish the first lap in 1 minute, 45 seconds.

Lap 2

About 100 yards into the second lap, Peller notices I am not talking anymore.

"Sorry," she says. "Is my peppiness annoying you?"

"No. I'm trying to save my lungs."

"OK! So last summer, Scott Mueller and I used to come down here to play Frisbee like everyday. It's a great field for Frisbee because the wind is …"

Peller is interesting, but my mind is in faraway places. I beat myself up for conceding to her pace, all the while torching my legs, which carry 187 pounds of bad weight. As we approach the third lap, my lungs bark and my legs are heavy.

Lap 3

We start the lap 3:40 in. Peller patronizes me again.

"Man, you're doing really well!"

"Heewwuuhh. Uh, this is the last lap I can stay with you."

"All right, all right."

Peller has not even warmed up, and I am banking on a second wind. It is not there. We finish the third at the 5:36 mark, and I tell Peller to leave me behind.

Lap 4

Peller dusts me on the fourth. She advances 200 yards ahead by the time I complete the first mile, 7:47 in.

Toward the end of the lap, though, I stop sucking air. I find a second wind. I know if I keep this pace for the last four laps, I might avoid the ultimate insult: getting lapped.

Lap 5

Forget that idea. Now, I am wheezing. The second wind lasted roughly 30 seconds. Who do I think I am? I tell myself who I am: a sorry sack of fat and bones. What the hell was I thinking? This is not fun. I am about to get lapped!

She humiliates me at the 11:34 mark. She is not gassed – she is stronger than before.

As she passes, she says, "I think I'm only going to lap you once. Is that OK?"

How dare you mock me, I think. It's bad enough I'm questioning my manhood, and you rub it in my face?

Wait a minute. She is being friendly.

"Heewwuuhh. Yea. Heewwuuhh. That's fine."

She springs ahead. It looks like a sprint to me. Frustration ensues.

Lap 6

I am not sure what I am doing at the moment, but it probably could not be classified as running.

At the 12:04 mark, as I complete the sixth lap, things get worse. Peller is 250 yards from lapping me again. I stave off Peller's lackadaisical effort to lap me again. She undoubtedly is just being nice.

Lap 7

She finishes two miles in 13:31 – about 250 yards and 54 seconds before I complete the seventh lap.

Lap 8

Running a meaningless lap is like the dream where you are naked at school. I am lonely and self-conscious. My will is broken. My mind is in a zombie-like trance to repress the pain.

I finish in 16:57, and Peller laughs.