My wife, Claire, is a marathon runner, and the closest I get to actually running myself is hurrying to the bathroom when a bowel movement is crucial. It is more like a brisk walk while trying to keep my cheeks together. She runs ten miles a day and twice that on the weekends.  I 'run' errands at a walk at best, so I am supportive of her sports interests, but driving along side is the closest I come to running up mileage.
Last weekend she came home and introduced me to her new running partner, and if I were picking for her it wouldn't be him. He is too healthy, too muscular, too pretty, and far too virile for my money. I would pick someone more in the Andy Devine category.  I don't need her to be running with Cary Grant, or Paul Newman, or Chris Pratt. Not that I am insecure, but wet tissue paper is more substantial than I am when it comes to going up against the likes of Mr. Wonderful.
On their first time "working out" together it took them nearly three hours to do what was billed as an hour run. Then they ended up running by his house for a bathroom break that took thirty minutes, but who is counting. Not that I am accusing her of fucking and running, but who knows what can be done in a short time by people in incredibly good condition.
Okay, I admit it, I could start working out with her, so she wouldn't need a running partner, but then her waiting for me every block wouldn't be a big selling point. I would have to do a marathon relay where I ran a block and handed off to someone who does the other twenty-six miles.
If I wanted a one hour workout I would watch Dual Survival for 60 minutes. My idea of fun is not puking my guts out after doing something I hate for an hour. So I am a lazy ass, and do they give out metals for it. So how did a guy like me get a girl like her? Luck, I guess, bad luck in her case.
The only consolation is that I know she is so committed that if she says she is running, she would not do anything to hurt her 'conditioning' or loading on the miles. My worry is after the running is over.  I don't like the idea of her 'cooling down' with anyone but me. If her idea of cooling down is getting physical with a six foot three inch beefcake then I worry.  I can't keep up with her on the road, so how in the name of hell will I ever hope to keep up with her in the bedroom? Good point, right? But working out myself is totally out of the picture.
Now I have talked myself into being traumatized by a healthy hunk of male flesh with running shoes and wearing a sweat band. I know she is not bothered by nudity and his nudity worries me. It is what can be done naked that frightens me. I know she likes me to shower with her, so it is showering in pairs that worries me, because after the water gets shut off many nice slippery things can be done after the water and before the mutual drying episode.
Their first marathon was last month and she finished six minutes behind her "partner" and now she is depressed and thinks she has to 'work harder' to avoid another shameful exhibition.  No matter that she finished ten minutes ahead of her last partner, Cheryl, mother of three and PTA president.