“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.”
