A year ago, I got together with 4,000 people – 2,000 of whom weigh less than one of my legs – and ran more than five miles for the first time in 10 years.

Afterward, all the Skinny-Runners went off on their five-mile cooldown jogs. Me? I camped out under one of the cool spritzing showers the organizers scattered about to keep people like me from suffering heat stroke, panted like a dog, and made myself a promise.

**I will never do this again.**

Later, as my sun-parched lard began to absorb some of the cool water and the medics stopped staring at me and rubbing their paddles together, I added this: **Unless I’m in better shape.**

Since that wasn’t a very difficult nor ambitious goal, I’m here to tell you that it’s that time of year again. Beach to Beacon is back. And so am I.

But this year, it’s different.

I can hear you now: “Hey, Chubby! I saw you the other day, eating a quadruple McBacon with Cheese, dipping your McMegaMeal fries into butter, special sauce and ranch dressing! You’re still the same!”

You’re wrong. I’m ready.

My original master training plan was supposed to whittle me down to a svelte 175 pounds through a combination of long, slow distance runs, speedwork sessions, and a diet devoid of McMegaMeal french fries.

That lasted a week. First, I found out that at 238 pounds, long, slow distance runs are about a half mile. Speedwork turns my feet into bloody stumps.

And man, I do like those McMegaMeals.

Still, I soldiered on. I ran … when it wasn’t too hot. And when I wasn’t golfing. Or fishing.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I got a message that changed everything. It was from the Beach to Beacon organizers, and it said (more or less): Dear Chubby: We heard you were returning, so we ordered one XXL T-shirt again this year. Please pick it up before you collapse … we mean run. P.S.: We also got a spritzer shower with a wide-angle spigot.

Since I’d already ponied up the cash, and since they were expecting me, I started training.

For seven days, I ran. OK. Five. One day I rested. One day I forgot. But through it all, I progressed, from feeling severe pain to moderate aches to an almost indescribable post-waddle desire for the sun to come up so I could go out and run again.

Skinny-Runners call that “The Runner’s High.” I call it, “Somebody Throw Me A Burger. I’m Clearly Lightheaded.”

Included in my regimen were two five-mile race-pace practice waddles – both went well, except for the fact that my feet turned bluish-red.

Which brought me to the home stretch. Three days before the race, I trotted four miles. It felt (believe it or not) **good.** Or, as my dad would say, at least it felt better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Then, as I tried to plan my crucial final two days of training, I got help from an unexpected source: A Skinny-Runner.

“You know,” said my co-worker, a sneaky grin slipping onto her face, “Anything you do in the final two days won’t help. All you can do now is hurt yourself or tire yourself out.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yup,” she guaranteed, before sharing a magic word from the world of the Skinny-Runners with me.

So today, I’m racing. And for the past two days, it may have seemed that I’ve been fishing. Or golfing. Or lounging around in the sun.

Rest assured, I haven’t.

I’ve been tapering.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter.