I reminded myself it was a necessary evil. Alternatives existed, but I was angling for captain, and the boards side-eyed the shit out of anyone who took the so-called easy route.
By the time we eventually went down to the track for the mile and a half run, I'd already be sore as fuck from the first part of the test. Even now I was sick to my stomach just thinking about how sick to my stomach I was going to be after the run.
At least it was normal for quite a few people to finish the run and promptly lose their breakfast onto the sidelines. No one would look askance when I joined them. They just didn't need to know I wasn't puking from exertion. I'd pass the test, hopefully with excellent ratings, and nobody would realize it was the pain making me sick. Or that the very mechanism of getting sick made the pain even worse. I shuddered at the thought.
There was no way in hell I would run voluntarily, but when that mile and a half was what kept me from getting booted out of the military, I'd run it like my life depended on it. Sometimes I thought it did. Give up active duty medical care and start relying on the VA after retirement? No, thanks. I preferred to force myself through a run so painful it made me vomit.
In the gym with everyone else from my department, I started the test. I couldn't wear my TENS unit during the sit-ups unless I wanted to grind the leads into my skin. As soon as that segment was finished, though, I put the pads on, connected the wires, and cranked that fucker up to try to calm down the spasms currently spiderwebbing across the middle of my back. During the push-ups, I kept the box in the pocket of my shorts, and prayed it didn't fall out. Which gave me something to concentrate on besides the pain, so it was its own weird silver lining. I'd take it.
With a satisfactory on the sit-ups and a hard-earned excellent on the push-ups, I headed outside with everyone else for the really fun part. As expected, nausea was already churning in my gut. On the way down stairs to the track, muscles were twisting and knotting in my back. How much of that was from the sit-ups and push-ups, and how much was from my anxiety about the run, I had no idea, but it hurt either way.
Clint's eyes widened. "You're really running?"
I laughed. "Until the Navy lets me do the PRT on a Segway, I don't see how I have much choice."
His expression didn't change. "What about the bike?"
"No way." I shook my head. "That's worse on my back than running."
"Really?"
I nodded. "Learned that one the hard way a few years ago."
"Damn." He paused. "You know you can get a medical waiver, right?"
I set my jaw, trying not to be irritated. He did mean well. "Not if I want to get promoted. Same reason I don't fuck with the elliptical." Though my scores probably didn't help my prospects of getting promoted anyway. Satisfactory kept people in the Navy. It didn't move them up the ranks. On the other hand, being over forty put me in a much gentler set of standards-what was excellent for me would barely be satisfactory for the younger officers. Age had its advantages.
"Well," Clint said. "Good luck."
"You too."
The group stopped on the track to wait for the last few stragglers. As they caught up, I took advantage of the pause to stretch a little and loosen up the muscles in my back. I also turned the TENS up again.
And then, along with everyone else in my department, I ran.
Every step sent pain rocketing up my spine, but I gritted my teeth and kept going. It was only three laps, and it always played out the same way. After the first lap, I was invincible. If I could run with a mile and a half in front of me, I could run with a mile in front of me. And then, after the second lap, there was only half a mile left. I was sure bones were breaking, that ribs and vertebrae were carving their way through my skin and my T-shirt, but the finish line was in sight. All I had to do was cross that line, and I could still make captain. Once I crossed it, I could puke, scream, collapse . . . didn't matter as long as I'd secured my place in the Navy for another six months and still had a vague shot at a promotion.
Halfway through the last lap, I was coming up on a group of younger guys who were jogging leisurely as they carried on a conversation. Oh hell no. Not when Big Navy would have a fit if our base's collective scores weren't up to snuff.
"Come on, kids!" I called out. "You really gonna let an old man pass you?"
They glanced over their shoulders, and as a group, picked up the pace. I stayed hot on their heels-nothing motivated lazy youngsters like trying to stay ahead of the old guy who limped around the office.
I focused on keeping up with them, subtly urging them forward like an aggressive driver on the freeway, tailgating them to encourage a few seconds off their run times. This was yet another reason I insisted on running-I was supposed to be leading these guys, which meant pushing them. I was a lot more effective on the track than on the sidelines.
The pain was excruciating, shooting up and down my spine and even into my hips, but I was almost there. Almost to the end. I'd make it.
Three of the guys in front of me broke from the pack and burst into a sprint. A second later, two more followed. The last two picked up some speed, though they were struggling as it was-they stayed ahead of me, but there was no catching their peers.
The first three crossed the line.
Then the other two.
Then the last two.
And finally . . .
I crossed the line.
It was over. I'd made it.
Vision darkening and head spinning, I slowed down.
Staggered to the sidelines.
Took a knee.
And heaved.
I couldn't believe Travis had made it through the run. He'd obviously been in pain, especially toward the end, but I had to give him credit-the son of a bitch made it.
He spat in the grass one more time and took a few breaths, as if making sure that was really it. Then, slowly, he stood, and even more slowly, straightened. When he was just shy of his full height, his breath caught and his eyes flew open. For a second, I thought he was going to get sick again. Somehow, though, he didn't. He exhaled, stood all the way up, and gingerly rubbed his back. Then he took the electronic box out of his pocket, made an adjustment, and put it away again.
My muscles hurt just watching him. His back must've been in agony right then, especially after he'd thrown up.
"Hey," I said. "You doing all right?"
He turned to me and offered a tight smile. "It's over. Can't ask for much more than that."
"Yeah, but are you hanging in there now?"
Travis nodded. "I might bust out of the office early today, but once I've had some ice and some sleep, I'll be fine." He gestured at the steps. "We should get back to the locker room."
I didn't argue. I fell into step beside him, and as we walked, couldn't help but notice that his limp was slightly more pronounced. I'd expected it to be significantly worse, but it wasn't. His gait was tight and deliberate, though, like every motion hurt like hell. Maybe that was why he wasn't limping as badly-that kind of faintly jerky movement probably hurt more than a normal, if cautious, step.
I shuddered. I could only imagine navigating through that kind of pain on a daily basis, never mind after something like the PRT.
We followed the rest of the group toward the stairs. As they started up toward the locker rooms, I smothered a laugh. It was easy to tell the guys who worked out on a regular basis from those who pulled it together enough to pass the PRT by the skin of their teeth. For the latter, the long staircase was a killer. While the regular runners headed up like it was nothing, the others took those steps like they were on the last leg of a Mount Everest ascent.
I chuckled to myself. I wanted to rib some of them and ask if they'd learned anything, but that was a no-brainer. They'd all been in long enough, if they were going to learn, they would have before today.
At the bottom of the steps, Travis stopped. He took a deep breath, pushed his shoulders back, and started up. As he walked, he gripped the railing so tight the muscles stood out on his forearm.
His struggle with the ascent wasn't amusing in the slightest. He'd already been sweating from the run, and by the time we reached the top, his hair was dripping.
I fought the urge to put a hand on his elbow as the ground leveled out. "How's your back?"
"It'll be better once I have my date with Lady Percocet tonight." He turned to me and grimaced. "I probably won't be much fun to hang out with."
"It's all right. Just, you know, text me if you need anything."
Travis smiled. "Thanks. Kimber will be home, but I appreciate the offer." His smile faltered a bit. "You, uh, don't mind, do you? If I call it a night tonight?"
"Do I mind? Are you kidding? Go take care of yourself. I'll be okay on my own for an evening." I winked. "Promise."
He studied me uncertainly. "Okay. I guess I, uh . . . I'm sorry. This drives me insane, so it's probably annoying as hell for you."
"Annoying?" My jaw dropped. "Are you kidding? You're the one in pain. What do I have to be annoyed about?"