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ied legs in front of me. Many looked very familiar. I had seen them just minutes before dashing across the starting line — so it seems we meet again. I knew it.
It’s funny — running. Some runners take giant strides — deep breaths, backs straight, never sweating — some take many, tiny little steps, knees high, puffing nice regular breaths — some — like me are bent forward, straining, gasping for breath, sweating, sweating, sweating.
The assent has started. That great time I was making is gone. I’m making up for the head start — it’s called slowing down.
You know, I’ve always felt that if I died at the top of the Fodderstack I would go straight to heaven because after that long trip up, one must be very close to God.
And God bless the little children — the ones that dashed amid legs to slap a dixie cup of water into my hand — which I promptly poured over myself.
I was sure I was not running at this point in time. My feet barely left the ground. I was positive my breathing could be heard for miles. But, this year I felt safe. Dr. Jerry Martin was there along beside me. He would take care of me if I didn’t make it.
I was determined I was going to run all the way up this mountain. And, No! This is not a hill. When you stand at the bottom and run up —it’s a mountain.
I couldn’t breath at all. My feet were on fire. I’m never doing this again.
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