Me, 3 Kenyans, and Owen Wilson

Before this morning, I had never done any kind of track workout to speak of, and nervous about looking like a fool at the first track group in a few weeks, I asked Over Pro Nate if he would give me a preview workout. This morning, awash with trepidation, I was not much of a conversationalist with Henry.

"Mommy, this whale is the queen of the world."

"Wow"

"Mommy, on your run today, pretend your shoes are sheep, okay?"

"Sure"

After dropping Henry off at camp and watching him do his obligatory fall in the sand, I drive over to the UMass Lowell track for my rendezvous with Nate. As I wait for him, three tall and very lanky people with the most gorgeous skin I'd ever seen jog into the track. I knew instantly they were not native to this land of deep-fried Twinkies. I watch them warm up on the track while I wait for Nate, and by 9:10, I begin to fantasize that I got the day wrong when someone calls my name.

It's Owen Wilson!

Actually, it's Over Pro Nate, who happens to look an awful lot like Owen Wilson, except with a much better nose.

"You're going to make me run with them, aren't you?" I say.

"They're Kenyan, but they're not Kenyan."

"They're Kenyan and they appear to be running faster than I drive my car. This ought to be a fun lesson in humility," I say.

After my warm-up jog around the streets of Lowell, Nate says we will start off with some 100 meter strides, at which point I remind him to treat me like an idiot and tell me which white lines to start and stop at.

Titus and Ben fly by me in whir. Their female friend follows shortly. I think I catch sight of a Mizuno logo on one of their shoes, but it could have just been a spark.

Nate tells me I am holding back on my strides, that I look tentative.

"I'm a dilettante!" I want to say, seeing Titus and Ben cruise along.

"Run like you have to grab a kid who just darted out into traffic," Nate says.

This I can do. I picture Henry stepping off a curb, and I bolt.

"That was better," Nate says. He knows how to coach a mother. I like this.

Nate then suggests we do a progression run of 3-5 800-meter repeats ending with a full sprint when I'm most tired. I look at him like he's proposed we fly to Planet Nutjob for a cup of space juice, but I agree because who could say no to Owen Wilson?

"Where do I run so that they don't knock me over?" I ask as Titus and Ben do a short recovery jog at my tempo pace.

"Just stay in lane 2." They're in lane 1, which puts me about six inches from the winds of greatness when they lap me (twice) during my first 200 meters. Let it also be said that Titus and Ben both fit in lane 1 without trouble, nearly side by side, while I feel like I could not possibly share lane 2 with Nicole Richie.

Towards the end of my third repeat, the Kenyans are jogging another recovery lap, and I'm nearly sprinting, and I get a chance to run by them for the first time. It felt so wrong. Absurd, really. They let out a pity cheer, "Good job!" and I drank it up.

As I rounded the last corner of that lap, I heard a whir behind me, like the sound of nothing moving really, really fast. This must be what it feels like to be devoured by a cheetah on the Serengeti. I am running my fastest, and Ben and Titus (followed by their friend) pass me in a split second. Have you ever been walking down a quiet street and out of nowhere a cyclist--a good one--clips past you, making you feel like you're in slow motion? Yep, that's what it's like to be clipped by a Kenyan runner. Even if he's not a Kenyan.

As I pass my three new friends who have slowed to a jogging walk to recover, I tell them they are cruel to humiliate me in front of Owen Wilson, who must have enjoyed watching the hippo be devoured by the cheetahs.

When all was said and done, we stand around and chat for a while, and I have to keep reminding myself to not start bowing prostrate. Nate tells me I am athletic (swoon), which is the good news, because he can tell how uncomfortable I am with running at my top speed. My mechanics are good when I'm doing an 8:45--efficient, he says--but I become jerky and my arms turn into wings when I get fast. He tells me that this issue will improve as I practice running faster, which is good because I don't like the idea of looking like a robotic chicken.

My 800-meter times were 9:30, 8:00, and 7:26, and my sprint at the end held the 7:26. Nate tells me that with this kind of practice running faster as I tire out, my body will learn to go faster at the end of races when I'm losing steam.

I don't know when I'll ever get to run "with" Kenyans again, so today's track workout really amounted to one of my best running days ever. I started the morning with a royal freak-out and wound up much more encouraged than I'd expected, not because I'm faster than I thought but because I am in total awe of beautiful running. Who knew that being utterly humiliated could be such fun? If he can't drag Titus and Ben out to humble me, maybe Nate can bring real cheetahs to the next session.