I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!  Never had I ever thought I’d ever hate Chip Morton. Right now he was lucky that we weren’t in Seaview’s missile room or surely I’d have stuffed him in a torpedo tube and consigned him to the briny blue.

C’mon Lee,” he came toward me in the boat's small gym. “You’ve only done 25 crunches. Your quota’s 75 per day this week.”

“I quit! I’m sore, I’m tired, I ‘m hungry and you won’t let me have any coffee!” I groaned as I sat up, and just as quickly lay back down on the bench.

“You can’t .”

“Watch me!” I yelled and tried to get up again.

“Do you really want to disappoint the crew? ”he helped me sit up and handed me a towel to wipe my sweaty face,  “ They’re all behind you. And  what about the Admiral?  He entered the marathon himself because of you and he’s not whining.”

“He has a professional trainer after you wouldn’t take him, good food, and he can have all the coffee he wants, and  I have a slave driver.”

“It’s different if he doesn’t plan on actually winning the damn thing.”

“I never said I was in it to win!”

 “You never said you were in it to come in last either.  Lee, what’s wrong? It’s not like you to back out, especially from something you yourself wanted.”

“I’m so  sore and tired, Chip…”I whined. Hell, I didn’t care anymore if I sounded like a petulant child.

“No pain, no gain.”

“Chi-iii-ppp” I dragged his name out.

“Lee-eee,” he responded in like. “You drafted me. Hell, you blackmailed me to be your trainer. By the way, I haven’t gotten the latest payment in brownies from your mother. That aside,  I refuse to back out from my responsibility. The responsibility you gave me and  I accepted.  You practically begged me to keep you from backing down at times like this.  Or do you need me to remind you of the direct quote you gave me.”

Damn, he was going to start putting my words back in my mouth. Why, oh why had I ever thought I could run the Santa Barbara Marathon. I’d drop dead within the first mile. I knew that the first day Chip made me run around the perimeter of the Country Club golf course and I’d fallen into the first of several ruts. “That’s no excuse,” he’d yelled from the golf cart, “get up and get going! Move, move, move!”

I had  and was rewarded with ‘That’s the worst time I’ve ever seen!’ (that he’d never seen anyone run a golf course before was beside the point.) You’d have thought he could at least have said ‘good job trying’.

And so I’d run up and down the stairs at NIMR for him, put up with soybeans and tofu instead of real food. Hell, I’d even put up with Gatorade! (for the electrolytes). And all the while, he chided me with demands of ‘more, more’ more’ of the various methods of torture that were supposed to help build and strengthen the muscles needed to run the distance. He wouldn’t even let me swim in the NIMR pool or aquarium as that, he said, would defeat the purpose as other muscles would be used, citing why ballet dancers don’t swim very much as it affects their performance. Where he got that from is anyone’s guess. Probably Angie. She has a pretty little niece who’s picture has a place of honor on her desk. All pink and frilly in a tutu. Well, I’m not a ballerina and I told him so!

That little outburst gave ‘Coach Mega mouth’  the gumption to demand two extra miles from our planned  run downtown as he rode alongside on a bike. With a megaphone! “Move it Lee! Move it! Don’t you dare even think about it!” he yelled as I slowed and began to run backwards alongside the Doughnut shop. I did the only thing I could think of and stuck my tongue out at him before I entered the establishment, come what may.  

“Coffee… doughnuts…a dozen of them…assorted…”I panted.

“Belay that!” my nemesis appeared, his bike leaning in the doorway. “He’s in training. No arguments. NIMR will compensate your shop for non-compliance if Commander Crane  ever sets foot in here again…until after the marathon,” and gave the counter boy his business card. “Tell the manager. I’ll have a coffee though, and one of those jelly doughnuts. Lee, you can take a pee break if you like,” he condescended.

I wondered if the men’s room had a window big enough for me to escape through, steal his bike and leave him stranded. Let him walk or run back to our starting point at NIMR. No luck.

“Hurry up,” he entered, the thought of a potential escape on his mind as well, “oh. Sorry.”

After I emerged, the manager, hastily summoned by the counter boy, shook my hand vigorously and said how proud he was of NIMR and that not only was our famous institution sponsoring the run, but also had someone entering.

I hastened to add that Admiral Nelson himself was a registered runner before Chip took my arm  and headed us out before I got too relaxed. Back to the grind, he had a little difficulty managing to yell and finish his doughnut  at the same time, riding alongside on his bike, his coffee already having been consumed.

Was it my fault that a little later the cops gave him a ticket for distracted driving (hey, a bike is a vehicle) and disrupting traffic? Still they were pretty good about it. In fact,  Officer Coats offered a police escort along the actual route, which wasn’t downtown Santa Barbara,  if we could do it in the wee hours when there wasn’t much traffic.

Mollified, Chip had accepted the offer and demanded I pay the fine, after all he was my coach. It was my responsibility to handle any bills that came our way, including his damn coffee and doughnut!

Was it any wonder I wanted to quit already?  It would be so easy just to go shower, return to the Control Room and forget all about ever setting foot in  the marathon or any marathon ever again. After all I’d entered the contest myself. No one had forced me.  I could still ace my fit rep coming up. That wasn’t why I’d registered. I have no idea why I registered but Chip was right about disappointing the crew if I quit. They’d even made signs and banners they were pleased to show off  that they’d be waving on the day. One was on the wall. Daring me to quit.  And Harry, well, he’d be so disappointed if I backed out. He’d never back out, even if he was probably looking at coming in last.

“Okay coach,” I said as I wearily retraced my steps to the bench, remembering  just why I ‘hired’ Chip in the first place,  “ 75 you said? 50 more coming up…”