Chapter Four Spreadsheet Versus Stopwatch
Chapter Four
Spreadsheet Versus Stopwatch
Dani
At five fifty-three on Wednesday, May seventh, Amy Price arrived at Iron she adjusted her grip on the binder and started toward us.
“You remembered what she wore,” Rose said.
“She almost died in it.”
“She lost her footing.”
“Death begins with small choices.”
Amy reached the top of the stairs.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning, Price.”
Her gaze moved to Rose. I straightened.
“Amy Price, this is Rose Graham, our physical therapist and the person most likely to interrupt a workout if she believes I’m making a bad decision.”
“Which is often,” Rose said.
Amy offered her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Rose shook it. “You too.”
“Amy is training for Lake City,” I said.
Rose’s focus sharpened for a beat. Amy did not notice.
“That’s a substantial goal,” Rose said.
“I’m aware.”
“Dani will keep you safe.”
Amy turned her evaluation on me. “That remains under evaluation.”
Rose almost smiled.
She turned toward her office. “I like her.”
“She has excellent judgment,” Amy said.
When Rose was out of earshot, I pointed at the binder. “What is that?”
Amy set it on the consultation table with enough care to suggest a controlled substance. “My training materials.”
“I thought the document you sent was your training material.”
“That was the preliminary framework.”
“This is the final framework?”
“No. I revised the preliminary framework based on your feedback.”
“My feedback was that you shouldn’t run yesterday.”
“I did not run.”
“Good.”
“I used the stationary bike.”
I let the silence do one full repetition. Amy lifted her chin. “You did not prohibit cycling.”
“I also didn’t prohibit cage fighting. Some decisions are implied.”
“The bike was low impact.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“At what intensity?”
“Moderate.”
Amy’s definition of moderate was likely dangerous. I held out my hand. She gave me the binder. It weighed more than some of my dumbbells. We moved to the consultation desk near the indoor track. I opened the cover. The first page was titled:
LAKE CITY MARATHON TRAINING WORKBOOK AMY E. PRICE VERSION 4.1
“You made a decimal update.”
“I corrected minor issues without changing the overall structure.”
“How long were you awake?”
“I slept for seven hours and twelve minutes.”
“You track sleep?”
“Most phones do.”
“You track your tracking.”
“That is not a sentence.”
Colored tabs divided the binder into Schedule, Mileage, Strength, Nutrition, Equipment, Recovery, Budget, Risks, Notes, and—because Amy could not help herself—Miscellaneous.
Amy placed both hands on the table.
“Are we beginning the assessment?”
“We are. I’m experiencing the workbook first.”
“I made adjustments to the weekly progression.”
“You still have a twenty-mile run two weeks before the race.”
“Several online plans do.”
I kept one finger on the page. Amy’s expression sharpened as though I had challenged a formula rather than a schedule.
“Several online plans assume you’ve run before.”
“I have run.”
“For two minutes and twelve seconds.”
“That was not my maximum capacity.”
“No, your maximum capacity involved me hitting the emergency stop.”
Her lips pressed together. I turned another page. She had incorporated my suggestion about run-walk intervals but placed them only in the first week. By week two, she planned to run four days. By week six, her total mileage would exceed what I gave some intermediate clients.
“You can’t use this plan,” I said.
Amy closed both hands over the binder and drew her shoulders back.
“I reviewed six reputable programs.”
“I believe you.”
She flattened one palm over the binder, protecting the pages as if I might confiscate them. “I compared their progression.”
“I can see that.”
“The weekly increases are within common recommendations.”
“For someone with a running base.”
A muscle tightened beside her mouth. Outside the glass wall, shoes struck the indoor track in a steady rhythm. Amy glanced toward the runners, then back at me. “I have general fitness.”
“What general fitness?”
“I walk.”
“How much?”
“Approximately eight thousand steps per day.”
“Most of those happen around your office?”
“And commuting.” Her fingers moved to the silver watch, checking nothing. “That still counts.”
“It counts as movement. It does not count as a running base.” I tapped the strength column. “Strength training?”
“Not consistently.”
“Cycling?”
“Occasionally.”
I let the silence stretch before the final category. She already knew what was coming.
“Sports?”
“No.”
I closed the binder gently.
“Then this plan is too aggressive.”
“I expected modifications.”
“This needs more than modifications.”
She looked toward the indoor track. The rejection had landed exactly where I knew it would. I had coached enough beginners to recognize the moment when information became judgment in their heads. I lowered my voice.
“Your research is good, Amy.”
She looked back.
“You found solid plans. You organized them well. But a training plan is a prediction, and we don’t have enough information about your body to make an accurate one yet.”
“That is why we’re assessing it.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re dismissing the work before completing the assessment.”
Amy flattened one palm over the binder, protective of the hours inside it.
“I’m dismissing the mileage progression. Not the work.”
“You said I couldn’t use the plan.”
“You can use the structure. We’ll replace the content.”
“That is most of the plan.”
“It is.”
She inhaled through her nose.
“Okay,” she said.
Her controlled okay made me nervous.
“Okay?”
“Complete the assessment.”
I waited for the argument. She stood.
“Where do we begin?”
I had expected stubbornness. Compliance was sometimes harder.
The assessment began with ankle range, hip rotation, squats, lunges, and single-leg balance. Amy followed instructions so exactly that every movement became a performance review. When I asked for five repetitions, she completed five and froze.
“You can breathe,” I said during a squat hold.
“I am breathing.”
“Your face disagrees.”
She could hold the position longer. That was not the information I needed. I brought her up, checked her ankle mobility, then moved to balance. Her right side was steady. On the left, her foot touched down at twelve seconds.
“That one doesn’t count.”
“It counts.”
“A second trial would improve reliability.”
“A second trial would let you prove something I don’t need proved.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. Then she put her shoes back on while I noted the asymmetry and the larger finding: decent control, limited endurance, and no instinct for easy effort.
“What did you write?”
“That you’re competitive.”
“That is not a physical measurement.”
“It affects all of them.”
She tied her laces with unnecessary force. I inspected the track before she caught me smiling.
Strength testing confirmed what the mobility work suggested.
Amy had decent control, limited endurance, and no sense of easy effort.
She followed every instruction exactly until following it conflicted with proving she could do more.
On the indoor track, I assigned four rounds of one minute running and ninety seconds walking.
“That is ten minutes,” she said.
“Excellent arithmetic.”
“My plan says ten continuous minutes.”
“Your plan met you yesterday.”
She began too fast.
“Slower.”
“This is comfortable.”
“It won’t be.”
She reduced her pace by an amount detectable only to advanced equipment. During the third interval, her breathing sharpened. During the fourth, her shoulders rose and her face went pale.
“Walk,” I said.
“Twenty seconds.”
“Now.”
“I can finish.”
I stepped into her path. She stopped rather than collide with me, furious and breathing too fast.
“That was unnecessary.”
“So was ignoring me.”
“I was almost done.”
“You were dizzy.”
“I was temporarily adjusting.”
“That is dizziness with corporate language.”
I sat her on a bench, checked for pain and nausea, and handed her water. Color returned slowly.
“I could have completed the minute,” she said.
“Yes. Badly.”
“It still would have been complete.”
“That is not the goal.”
“It was the assigned interval.”
“The assignment changed when your body did.”
The anger in her face gave way to something quieter.
“I was embarrassed,” she said.
“About what?”
“Yesterday. The treadmill. The plan. Everyone knows I registered for something I may not be capable of doing.”
“Your ex included.”
She looked toward the track. “She expects me to quit.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. But finishing an unsafe interval is not the same thing as staying.”
Amy pressed the bottle between both hands.
“I don’t want to begin badly.”
I knew that rule well enough to hate it. Everyone began badly. I had once believed controlling the beginning could guarantee the end. Two unfinished marathons had taught me otherwise, though not gently.
“You were good at running,” Amy said.
I had allowed her to believe that meant successful.
“How many marathons have you completed?” she asked.
Shame arrived before language. My tongue found the old escape route first.
“My race history is complicated.”
“That is not a number.”
“No.”
“Does it affect your ability to coach me?”
“No.”
I answered the first question easily because it was true. The next answer resisted. I could feel the assessment room again even though we were still beside the track: tablet, glass wall, Amy waiting without rescuing me from the silence.
“I’m not ready to answer the number today,” I said. “I should have said that instead of making the question sound unreasonable.”
Her fingers tightened around the bottle. “Then when is the professional information available?”
“Before you sign anything beyond the trial week. Blake and Rose can verify my qualifications now. The parts that are personal stay personal until I choose to tell them.”
Amy considered the division. “That is specific enough for today.”
Relief loosened my ribs. It was not absolution. It was a boundary I would have to keep without turning it into a hiding place.
“The running portion is over,” I said.
“I recovered.”
“That doesn’t erase the information.”
She followed me toward the stretching area with the rigid compliance of someone already planning an appeal.
The quiet stretching area overlooked the weight floor. I replaced Amy’s twenty-week projection with one handwritten week:
· three run-walk sessions
· two strength sessions
· two full rest days
· notes on effort, discomfort, energy, and mood
“That is very little running,” she said.
“It is the correct amount.”
“What happens after week one?”
“We evaluate and build week two.”
“You want me to train without knowing the full progression?”
“I want the progression to respond to your body.”
“That is circular.”
“That is adaptation.”
She disliked relying on my judgment. I disliked how clearly I understood why.
“Planning will help you,” I said. “Using the plan to overrule your body will not.”
“I want to finish.”
“I believe you.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
Amy touched her grandmother’s watch. She told me that after the breakup she had gone to work, managed the lease and shared accounts, and accepted everyone’s praise for being reasonable.
“It was humiliating,” she said. “As though being easy to leave was an accomplishment.”
The line went through me.
“Finishing a marathon will not change what she did.”
“Intellectually.”
“It will not prove you were difficult to leave.”
“That isn’t what I’m proving.”
“What are you proving?”
“That I can choose something difficult and stay.”
One week sat on the page between us.
“Then stay for one week.”
“One minute at a time?”
“One minute at a time.”
“That sounds like a slogan.”
“Every marathon begins with a single spreadsheet.”
“That does not make sense.”
“Your heart understood.”
Her mouth almost curved. We negotiated eleven minutes of mobility instead of ten. Amy recorded the victory as though she had acquired property. Before she left, I asked for one promise.
“When I tell you to stop, you stop.”
“If you explain afterward.”
“I will. But in the moment, you trust me.”
Her thumb found the edge of her watch, then released it.
“I will stop,” she said.
Near Rose’s office, Amy returned to the unfinished question.
“Your race history. Does Blake know?”
“Blake knows I’m qualified.”
Again: true, incomplete. Amy studied me, then accepted the week-one plan. At the stairs, I told her she had done well.
“I became dizzy after less than four minutes.”
“You showed up, worked hard, and gave me useful information. That is a good assessment.”
The praise reached her more deeply than I expected. After she left, Rose appeared beside me.
“She asked you directly,” she said.
“I told her I wasn’t ready to answer.”
Rose studied me. “Better than ‘complicated.’”
“I also told her she gets the professional facts before she signs past the trial week.”
“And the personal history?”
“Mine until I choose otherwise.”
“That is a boundary,” Rose said. “Keep it clean. Do not make Amy carry an assumption because you are afraid to name the limit.”
On Amy’s revised page, she had written:
Goal for week one: Follow the plan without attempting to improve it.
Below it:
Clarify coach’s marathon experience before extending agreement.
I closed the binder. The deadline sat there in her square handwriting. Not endless. Not today.