On the eve of the Davis Turkey Trot, Cheryl was understandably fraught with anxiety. Here she was, a middle-aged non-runner facing the first race of her adult life, yet both of her training strategies had failed her.

Cheryl had planned to run herself into shape, but after two or three fitful attempts at jogging, she had given up. Running had proved too unpleasant.

With the race two weeks off, she concocted a strategy of total desperation: she would lose five pounds, making herself ultra light. If there were a stiff breeze on race day, she would be whisked to the finish line like a blown leaf.

I hardly knew what to say. This wasn’t a plan. It was a fantasy.

You can always walk the 5K, I said. No one says you have to run. I’m sure lots of people never so much as break into a trot.

Merely walking isn’t an option, she said. She had no intention of coming in last, behind peppy preschoolers.

With the race a day away, Cheryl revealed to me her last-minute secret weapon. She was resorting to an inner power to save the day: Visualization.

Visualization?

She had been imagining herself running. Where the mind leads, the body will follow.

I had to look away. One of us was going to have the gut-busting dry heaves during the race. It wouldn’t be pretty.

The drive to Davis started out sunny in Napa, but became gloomy as we entered the socked-in Sacramento Valley. I knew to expect dank, having run Turkey Trot many times with my adult daughter.

Still, I’d hoped for sunny for Cheryl’s sake. I wasn’t sure how much adversity she could handle on one day.

Cheryl was all fleeced up. Multiple layers, with a scarf dotted with leopard spots wrapped around her neck. She looked like someone about to be airdropped onto the North Pole for a week of survival training.

Affixing the racing bibs with safety pins was more of a chore than it should have been. The cold numbed my fingers.

As we waited for the race to start, Cheryl surveyed the mob of runners gathered near the starting line. They were phenomenally young and fit, every one of them an apparent whippet.

A young woman of exceptional build, clad only in a skin-tight top and shorts, planted herself in front of Cheryl and began doing flamboyant stretching.

Cheryl groaned. Why was she running her first race in a college town? Why couldn’t she have signed up for a 5K at Leisure World?

Don’t despair, I said. The slower runners are farther back in the pack. When the race begins, you’ll be in good company.

Two minutes before the horn sounded, I left Cheryl to desperately search for Zen tranquility and walked ahead. When the churning pack of humanity whooshed by, I almost didn’t spot her. Then there she was, making a valiant effort at running.

Go, Cheryl, I shouted.

I wouldn’t see her again for nearly an hour and a half. I had my own 10K to run.

Once my race started, all thoughts of Cheryl slipped away. I focused on my own performance. Was I running too fast, too slow? Would I beat last year? Would it be wise to force my gasping lungs to work harder?

Cheryl was at the finish line to greet me. We exchanged hugs. She’d survived. I’d run faster than a year ago. Hurray for us.

Over buckwheat pancakes and Amaretto French toast in the toasty warmth of Cafe Bernardo, we processed Turkey Trot.

Cheryl said she had repeatedly burst into little runs during her 3.1-mile race, but never for so long as to overdo it. When she crossed the finish line, she’d felt profound happiness.

So much of her life is a cerebral experience, she said. Turkey Trot had tapped something deep and visceral.

Cheryl was talking my talk. Why do I jog regularly and run these occasional races but for the cleansing physicality of it all?

As soon as we got home, Cheryl sent out e-mails to her adult children. Listen up, kids. Your Mom ran her first race. Their congratulatory replies  met expectations.

Cheryl is already talking about next year. Suppose she were to actually train. How awesome would that be?

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