I’m basically a lazy person. I really don’t like to exert myself unless there’s a good reason. I’m also basically an optimist. I think life tends to err on the plus side, and things usually turn out how they’re supposed to. These two traits can sometimes lead me down a tricky path, one strewn with over-confidence and under-appreciation of reality. I’ll give you a recent example.

I’m a fair-weather runner, meaning that in the wintertime, unless I’m feeling particularly disgusted with myself, I will find all kinds of reasons not to run (like, it’s 35 degrees outside, or, I’d rather nap). This also means that when spring comes around, I don the running shoes and hit the pavement as though I’ve been running all winter. I have learned over recent years that I need to stretch and strengthen in order to begin again, but for the most part, I just start running.

Two years ago a friend–I’ll call her Olivia–convinced me to run a half marathon just after Labor Day. For a “seasonal” runner (sounds much better), I surprised myself and took this fairly seriously. I trained a bit over the summer and built up my mileage to where I finally ran 10 miles. If you can do 10, I’d heard, you can run a half on race day. Still, I was nervous.

The morning of the race, Olivia showed up at my door red-nosed and stuffed-up, tissues in hand, but still determined to run. (Her work ethic is much stronger than mine.) Suddenly feeling a little lighter, I valiantly told her we’d go as slow as she needed. During the race, I, martyr-like, velcroed myself to her side (“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you!”). At our thankfully civilized pace, I crossed the finish line feeling pretty good about my “accomplishment” alongside my sniffling friend, who’d run 13.1 miles suffering from what her doctor later diagnosed as a full-bore sinus infection.

After skipping last year, we decided to run it again this year. With a big birthday looming, I thought, why not? Half marathon for a half century? Sounds good to me!

Except, I was having a bit of trouble getting motivated this summer. Down at the beach, I’d go running and have to give up after several miles or take breaks because of the heat. I rose early a few mornings, but was also coveting the extra winks and the fact that my children are finally old enough not to burst into my room asking for breakfast or an early schlepp to the ocean. (Guess I love sleep more than running.) I figured I was taking the stairs daily at this three-story beach house. Besides, I’d run this race before, right? It wasn’t so bad … Right??

But by the end of the summer, it hit me: the most I’d managed to run was 8 miles. Once.

Then, a couple of days before the race, Olivia emails me: “I think we should leave at 5:30 a.m. to get to the race in time.”

“I have clock shock,” I email back. I can’t remember the last time I was up at 5:30 a.m. And stayed up.

This isn’t like last time, I start to realize. I am truly nervous. This isn’t just a lark. I could get seriously injured.

But this is also a matter of pride, I tell myself. I am going to run this thing, even if I have to walk it. Although I’d rather not walk.

Well, as it turns out, the week before the race Olivia’s back is acting up (not from running, ironically), and whether she will even participate is a question. While I don’t want her to run and get injured, I am secretly relieved that if she does run, we will not be trying to break any records. Once again, I could be called on to “sacrifice” pace, refusing to leave her in the dust as some other lesser and more competitive friend might do. No, I will be the trusty sidekick, ready to catch her if she collapses–but hopefully not right on top of me.

Considering her track record (ha), I’m not surprised when Olivia decides last-minute to run. The day of the race, she appears at my doorstep having popped three Advil and armed with her phone in case she needs to call for backup. I cross fingers for her and breathe easier for me. This may just work out, and no one will be the wiser that I’m practically winging it.

The starting gun goes off and we are keeping a nice pace, chatting and dodging runners here and there. But as the race progresses, I see that Olivia has not clued into my secret plan. She is barely slowing down at the water stations, and her eyes are focused and determined. Mid-race, as another friend and I stop for some quick stretching, Olivia keeps scooting along with barely a glance backward, calling to us that it’s hard for her to stop and start again. I realize with growing alarm that the only way she’s going to run this race is by not stopping at all. We are the ones being left in the dust.

My friend and I turn to each other, eyes wide, acknowledging that the runner with the ailing back and back-up phone is ahead of us. Somehow, we summon some energy and kick into gear, trying to catch up with the female Forrest Gump.

In the final stretch we do just that, and cross the finish line within a few seconds of each other. As we slap backs and guzzle water, I marvel that it is not even 9:30 a.m. I begin plotting my nap time.

“The obstacle is the path,” as the Zen proverb says. It’s the idea that what we dread or fear is actually what we need to face in order to grow. But starting down that path, and staying on it, isn’t easy, and sometimes we need a few signposts along the way. I’m not saying running a half marathon is the ultimate answer–it’s just a foot race, after all–but it was a challenge I certainly was dreading, and I’m thankful for the friend at my side and the other one up ahead, pulling me further than I thought I could go.

But boy, are my calves sore.