My annual Turkey Trot in Davis is less than two weeks away, but my usual running companion, daughter Jenny, won’t be available, having moved to Brooklyn.

Sensing my plight, Cheryl is volunteering her non-running self as Jenny’s replacement. Never mind that she isn’t a runner and never had a desire to become one. She wants to be supportive.

Reviewing Cheryl’s options, we decided I’d do my usual 10K while she did the 5K, a gentler, less competitive event. Some people walk the whole thing, I said.

Once she signed up, Cheryl’s competitive juices started flowing. She declared she wanted to run as much of the 3.1 miles as possible. She talked of buying running shoes.

I tried to temper her enthusiasm. Three miles is a long distance, I said. Unless you want to do damage, you would need to train for it.

Cheryl tried a practice run. She got as far as the end of the block. Running made her feel like an elephant, she said.

Instead, we went longer and faster on our evening walks, with Cheryl sometimes sprinting short distances. She hoped to avoid being the last-place finisher.

I recommended that she not kill herself for Turkey Trot. Focus on having a good time in Davis. Enjoy the camaraderie of being with all those early risers. The autumn colors. The nip in the air.

Meanwhile, I trained like a maniac, extending my morning runs to an unheard-of five miles. I intended to wipe out all memory of my sluggish performance last year.

My zealotry made Cheryl feel guilty. I should be getting up in the pre-dawn and running with you, she said.

But did she? Of course not.

A week ago, at 5:50 a.m., I was two-thirds through my run, high-stepping it in the dark, when I spied a person jogging ahead of me with a flashlight.

I’d never seen such a thing on Partrick Road. As I drew closer, I could make out a female of Cheryl-like dimensions.

My heart exploded with joy. It most likely was Cheryl. Leaving her warm bed, she was grittily cranking it out.

The flashlight was a Cheryl giveaway, and so was the stripe on the runner’s pants. But the illumination from street lights was spotty. I couldn’t be 100 percent sure. This shadowy figure seemed a tad too large.

I became cautious. If this person wasn’t Cheryl, any attempt to engage might terrify.

From 30 feet away, I called out Cheryl’s name. It came out as a croak. The runner didn’t respond in the slightest.

Awash with uncertainty, I pulled parallel to her. The way I huff and puff, she could undoubtedly hear me coming.

She looked over and let out a gasp. I thought you were a mountain lion, she said.

That was the clincher. Cheryl always worries about me being eaten alive on Partrick.

I drew closer and started chatting like a magpie. You got up! You’re really running! I’m so proud of you!

Cheryl didn’t respond. It was seemingly all she could do to keep running and breathing while avoiding potholes.

We strode side by side for 100 yards, then I bid her farewell. I had another two miles to go up Partrick. She followed me a ways, using the yellow center lines as a navigational aid, before turning around.

For the rest of my run I glowed with pride. What grit, that woman. Imagine, running in the dark of night.

When I got home, Cheryl was in her beauty nook applying make-up as if nothing had happened.

I beamed at her. You were awesome, I said.

Displaying characteristic modesty, she demurred.

No, really, I said. You rocked on Partrick.

She gave me the funniest look. Was I mocking her?

She didn’t know what I was talking about. She hadn’t gotten up to run. That woman on Partrick? I must have been chatting up a stranger.

A shiver ran through me. My heart sank. I’d run side by side with an unknown female believing she was my wife. How was this possible? Not only was I a fool, I had undoubtedly terrorized the woman.

I was sure the jogger had called the police. At that very moment, the sex crimes unit was preparing posters for neighborhood telephone poles. I would have a lot of explaining to do.

Cheryl thought the whole thing hysterically funny. How powerful is our capacity for self-delusion, she said.

There was an e-mail waiting for me when I got to work. A woman named Sherry — the faux Cheryl — identified herself as the anonymous Partrick jogger. She had recognized me because her son is a friend of Jonathan’s.

She, too, had found the whole thing amusing. “You mistook me for another runner you know,” she said, “and I mistook you for a mountain lion.”

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com