Turkey Trot Training
When the finish line is just the starting point
If you’ve ever stood on the edge of your own skin, wondering if anyone would see the body you’ve fought for—the version they never met, the truth no photo can post—then this story’s meant for you. There’s a finish line and a starting line. You don’t always know which you’re crossing, or who might be waiting on the other side. Sometimes, when you let want win, you find more than muscle or medal—you find the kind of touch that teaches you survival isn’t the only goal worth chasing.
The First Mile
I didn’t sign up for the Turkey Trot because I love running; I signed up because Thanksgiving makes me want to change my own skin. The holiday meant three generations at the table, every one of them waiting for another chance to weigh in on my body: how broad my shoulders had gotten, how much softer my jaw looked, the slow retreat of any visible jawline beneath the spread of November comfort food. The comments always landed like coins in an empty glass, loud and inevitable.
This year, the plan was simple—run a race, earn my carbs, post a bib-photo that made it impossible for my family to argue. I wanted to be someone who finished something. I wanted proof I could do more than survive another season of side-eye and disguised concern.
So, six a.m. outside the community center, the cold biting and my breath fogging the air, I bounced in place and tried not to look at my reflection in the glass. Cheap gloves from CVS did nothing for my fingers. The only warmth came from the comforting blue of pre-dawn and the hiss of parking lot lights overhead. I kept my eyes focused forward, trying to make my thoughts as numb as my hands.
A voice, grounded and wry: “Thought you might bail.”
I turned—Luca jogging from the lot, a smile already breaking past the chill. Beanie over his ears, running tights under gym shorts, hoodie zipped almost all the way up. The guy was built for mornings like these, every muscle defined even in grayscale, breath streaming in bursts that made the air look less empty.
We met three weeks ago at the gym’s Saturday run club, and while everyone else had laughed at my nervous “does walking the uphills count?” Luca had shrugged, “Counts as survival.” He didn’t play at being a coach; he just showed up and made the weather seem less cruel.
“Didn’t bail,” I said, trying for bravado and managing something closer to honest. “Just regretting every life choice that led me here.”
Luca tucked his hands under his arms. “It’s just intervals. Show up, run, swear at me, stretch, and go home smug. That’s the religion.”
“Amen,” I said, pulse rising. I imagined dying on the route, my final photo that damn numbered bib pinned to my chest. Instagram legacy, one last time.
“If you die, I’m stealing your bib,” Luca grinned. “Need the content.”
“You’re a terrible coach.”
“I’m an excellent coach. You’re here, aren’t you?”
He clapped his hands, fog drifting up. “Warm-up. Two laps. Easy pace. If you can’t complain while running, you’re going too fast.”
We jogged—frost slick on asphalt, shoes echoing against the brick. My thighs already ached thanks to the panic-bought training plan from the internet. In the haze, Luca ran half a step ahead, matching my pace so smoothly it never felt condescending.
“So, family coming in this year?” Luca’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Full circus,” I said, each exhale colder than the last.
He winced. “That bad?”
“Imagine a panel of judges using your waistline as the only metric,” I said. “Add in group chat access, and memories of my high school glory days.”
“Yikes. At least my aunt only asks when I’m getting married.”
“Which is technically about someone else. Mine’s strictly about…me.” I gestured at my gut.
Luca’s gaze flicked there, assessing but not cruel. “You look fine.”
“Fine means I’m not magazine cover ready,” I shot back.
He snorted. “Fine means I don’t want to get punched before sunrise.” Then, softer: “Honest answer: you look like you have a body. One you can work. That’s all I care about.”
Some part of me unclenched, just a notch. The line wasn’t flirtation; it was fact.
“What’s on the menu today?” I asked, deflecting.
“Three-by-eight hundred, two minutes hard, one minute easy, repeat. You finish, stretch, go home and think about how superior you are to everyone still asleep.”
“Says the guy who’s awake and cheerful at this hour.”
“It’s six a.m. Already better than half the city.”
I wasn’t sure I bought it. But when we lined up on that path—a narrow strip of almost gravel—the tension faded, replaced by the jitter of anticipation.
“Ready?” Luca bounced.
“No,” I replied on reflex.
“Perfect. You’re not supposed to be.”
We took off. The trail coiled through bare trees, past the illusion of a frozen pond, the world tight as a breath. I lost the sense of order. No more judging eyes, just the slap of shoes and the mechanical burn in my lungs.
“Thirty seconds,” Luca called. “Don’t sprint yet.”
“Feels like dying.”
“That’s anxiety. Save your legs for the hill.”
“Hill?”
He laughed. “Oops.”
When it hit, it hit—gravel loose, calves howling, chest tight as a fist. “I hate you,” I spat out.
“There it is. Up. Fifteen seconds.”
Tunnel vision, taste of metal. I dug for air and found it grudging. By the time we reached the top, every muscle screamed, but something in my heart was awake.
“Ease off,” Luca said, slowing us to a walk. “Still alive.”
“Debatable.”
He stepped closer. Hands gentle, he guided my palm to his chest. Shirt hot and damp—his heartbeat heavy under skin. “Mine’s a mess too,” he said.
I wanted to memorize the moment—standing on a frost-heavy hill, hand over someone else’s heart, both of us breathing in sync.
“In on four, out on six,” he instructed. “Count it.”
And we did. My heart aligned to his, ribcage vibrating. Maybe the armor worked both ways.
After, Luca dropped back. “Ready for round two?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Means you’re ready.”
Intervals blurred—legs aching, calves shot, lungs pulling cold fire. Stretches were silent, not awkward, back in the parking lot’s early light.
Grass, stretching, Luca correcting my form with warm hands at my hips—each touch more grounding than the running itself.
“Hinge here, not from your shoulders. Let me help,” he said. His thumbs found the dip at my waist, the stretch deeper, the heat threading through my thigh.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Good,” I replied, honest.
Breathing together, his hand a signal for what came next. “Body’s smarter than the brain. Help it open.”
“Brain’s objecting,” I said.
He smiled—breath warm against my ear. “It’s not invited to this stretch.”
Every stretch, every adjustment, each new touch: trust layered in. His gaze didn’t slide, didn’t linger, just learned.
Standing quad stretch, his hand on my shoulder again for balance. I leaned in. This time, I didn’t need the extra stability—but I took it anyway. Something inside refused to let go.
After, other runners arrived, chatting, laughing. Luca didn’t move away.
“You did good,” he said.
“I nearly died.”
“That’s progress.”
Chest warm at the praise, I didn’t say more. We stood together until the parking lot filled in.
“Same time Wednesday?” he asked.
“Family starts tomorrow,” I said. All that cooking, all that scrutiny.
“You need the run more.”
He offered “Armor,” as metaphor. “Proof your body can do something difficult is the best shield.”
“You’ve met my family?”
“I’ve met mine.”
Phone exchanged. Number added. “Armor run. Wed 6 a.m. Don’t make me trot alone.”
My own phone buzzed—not just an alert, but an anchor. A heartbeat from someone who didn’t care about the other numbers.
“Strong opener,” I said.
“You should see my second texts.”
He left for clients with “burpee personality tests,” as he called them.
Left alone, medal imaginary, legs dead, heart very much alive.
