This news from Mary Jo....
"You & the rest of 1963 championship track team are going to the Holbrook Hall of Fame. I remember you running cross country but don’t remember your track event(s). Mile? Two mile? 🏆"
NEVER did a "champion" athlete NOT deserve plaudits ... than me in 1963.
Did the mile. Did the two mile. They were effortless; it was like flying. You wore the lightest clothing you could. Running distance events with no-weight shoes on your feet was psychedelics before psychedelics. You left scorn behind. You met sunset and sunrise on equal terms.
Because of this one thing I couldn't avoid in the first place:
I'd been forced to climb mountains in New Hampshire over the past summer, as a camper. The camp was staffed in part by college cross-country runners. We'd go on hikes of several days' duration. I'd complain the entire way, hefting a pack of snacks.
Still, unbeknownst, it was a miracle for me.
I went in one grueling summer from being the last person across the finish line in high-school cross-country ... to being first ... by a country mile.
I was clueless.
September-October-November that year were gifts. Winning at track was easy after that; triumphant and arrogant. It was just stupid; my legs were stronger, my asthma-damaged lungs were participants. By accident, I learned a tiny bit more than Holbrook's coaches about interval training (from this Harvard guy I happened into at the town's high-school track).
There's some kind of parable here. I don't know where to start....
Love forever,
tom