It's Halftime!

Tomorrow is June 30th. Half of the year is gone. So tell me (or someone else or just yourself), how's it going? Are you on schedule to have the kind of year you planned? Business working? Family? Recreational activities? Other things? How's your running going?

I don't believe in New Years resolutions. To me, any day is a good day to set goals and strive to get better. I do know, however, that many goals are set in conjunction with the calendar year. So, since tomorrow is the halfway point, I'll ask again, how is it going? 

For me, I am on target for some of my goals, really close enough to call it "on target" for some others, and there are some that simply are not happening as I planned. As a result, I am optimistic about a few, hopeful on some others and ready to either alter a few OR find some new approaches that will help me achieve those pesky ones.

As runners, many of us log our mileage because it gives us feedback on the way to our goals. Mileage might be a goal, a PR at a particular distance or in many cases goals are event driven. To finish a marathon, to participate in a special event. There are as many goals as we are able to imagine. So, how are you doing?

I set several goals this year and will be accountable right here, right now. Mileage: goal is 2700, after tomorrow's run I'll be at 1328. Very close to halfway to the goal. Since I'm about to begin an 18 week marathon training block, I'm feeling pretty good about that one. Next goal was to run every day. Well, so far, so good. I haven't missed a day yet, and while I don't get overly obsessed with the "streak," I like it as it means I haven't been seriously sick or injured. Goal 3: to complete a marathon..... done! Napa Valley in March.

That leaves two other goals: to complete a Half Ironman and to qualify for Boston. Those have yet to come. HIM is set for September 11th and it is my plan to qualify for Boston on November 5th in Savannah, GA (which according to the new Boston qualifying rules, that should get me in for the year 2031 - if I'm far enough under the standard...).

For me, and hopefully you as well, none of this is a surprise. I monitor my goals constantly. Like the blue dot steadily moving along the purple line of my iphone Google map, it helps me to be able to see where I am along the purple line that is my goals and the direction of my life. If I don't know, well...... I don't know. So, I want to keep track.

When the Cheshire Cat told Alice that it doesn't matter which way you go if you don't know where you're going, he was unknowingly referring to goal setting and achieving. What he didn't tell her was that if you not only don't know (or care) where you are going AND have no idea where you are, you are in double trouble (ORRRRRR maybe completely happy not worrying about such things, but I digress...).

So what am I saying?

If unlike Alice, you have a goal, a destination, now is a good time to evaluate how your journey is progressing (as is every other day but halfway is kind of a landmark). If you're on track - great. If not, it's perfectly okay to alter the plan or even the goal. Yes, even the goal. They are yours, by the way, no one said they weren't adjustable.

It's halftime. How's it going?

Robert Gilbert Sands: Happy Father's Day

My Dad circa: 1948

Tomorrow is Father's Day. I've written numerous newsletter posts and blogs about my Mom over the years, but never really pontificated about my Dad. My favorite Dad stories have to do with sports: the one he wanted for me and the one he didn't.

My Dad wanted me to play baseball and for years I played in every summer league in town. He rarely missed a game and always staked out the same location: right behind home plate. You see, I pitched and my Dad loved that by engaging in that activity I was giving him the right to criticize, harass and just plain be mean to whomever was unlucky enough to draw the home plate umpire duties for the day. From his perch, my Dad powered through every ump cliche ever used, as well as a few of his own. His trademark, however, was the extra pair of glasses he would offer after a disputed ball was thrown.

One time when I was seventeen, about 20 minutes before a game I was warming up on the sideline and our umpire for the day, Sam Palmara, opened the gate, entered the field said "HI" and then did a double take. He stopped and said, "Sands, you're pitching today aren't you?"

"Yeah," I answered, "is there a problem?"

"Not with you. That just means I have to put up with your old man. Man, he gets to me."

"If you called them all strikes, it wouldn't be a problem, huh?"

Might be the best picture I have of my Dad

My downfall with my Dad (probably not my ONLY downfall) was that I didn't end up playing baseball. I chose to run and worse than that, I chose running in college over the war in Vietnam. Despite never missing a ballgame, in the 25 years I ran while he was alive, he came to ONE meet. It was the Schafer Relays and I was mid pre-race ritual for anchoring the 2 Mile Relay. Out of what seemed to be nowhere, my Brother Ernie appeared and said, "Dad's here."

"What's he doing here?" I asked. "He came to see you run. You'd better be good."  Yikes.

They handed me the baton that day in fifth place. I moved us up to second. In the process I ran my fastest half ever, a 2:02 (even splits of 61, 61). When I arrived home that night, I handed my Dad my medal and said, "Thanks for coming to watch me run."  "You passed alot of guys," he said. And that was it.

My Dad died of cancer in 1991. The night before he died, I was able to fly in from Colorado to spend some time. "Richard needs to be here," he told my Mom. That night, I barely understood a thing he said. After six years of fighting and having half his neck and throat removed in the process, much of what he said had to be in a faint whisper. Instead of making him talk, I read him the newspaper.

Visiting us in Colorado 1984

The next morning, I awoke to what seemed incomprehensible. My Dad was in the living room, talking AS PLAIN AS DAY, to my Mom. Knowing our time was short, I spent a great deal of the morning just yacking with him about whatever crossed our minds. Later in the morning, after amusing himself with my Mom's antics while losing a game of Dutch Rummy to me, he laughed, excused himself to take a nap and left us for the last time. We tried to wake him a few hours later to take his medicine, but he was gone. He hadn't looked so content and peaceful in years.

A few years before his death, it dawned on me that in my whole life, I don't ever remember him telling me those words every child wants to hear, I Love You. My Mom said it was just his way, heck, he rarely told her either. He ADORED his Grandkids. There was no doubt about that love. I took it, however, as a challenge. From that moment on, whenever my Dad and I conversed, it always ended with me saying, "I Love You, Dad!"

The closest he ever came was at Christmas, a few weeks before he died, he answered, "You too."

Robert Gilbert Sands: I love you. Happy Father's Day!

The Beautiful People Are.... well, Beautiful!

My Memorial Day Monday was spent in Boulder taking in the Bolder Boulder Pro Team Race. I enjoy the Pro Race (the Elite race), partly because of the Team competition, but mostly because it's fun to watch the best of the best. This year, my son Ryan and I passed on the running to partake in the spectating.

While 54,000 hit the streets earlier in the morning, and I would dare say most all could be classified as beautiful, the elites gave the word "beautiful" a new definition.

Ryan Hall in full flight

In college, at 6-1 139, I remember being a little bigger (at least taller) than my distance running cohorts. To today's elite athlete I would have looked like a giant.

Ryan Hall, who appears to tower over the Kenyan and Ethiopians on television, is just a little bit of a guy (don't get me wrong, though, the dude looks like a stud!). The East Africans are like finely tuned race cars: lean, light with powerful motors.

As small as the men are, the women are/were even smaller. Amy Hastings couldn't have been cuter, while at the same time more fit and chiseled for racing. Renee Metvier-Bailey and Magdalena Lewey-Boulet were both considerably tinier than I had imagined.

Abs and Abs

The visual gift of the crop top made it clear that, despite what we might want to believe when we read the monthly running articles, these athletes are serious about strength and core exercises. The abs of the day, by the way, belonged to Adriana Pirtea Nelson (who claims to do only three core exercises). I must say, all in all, I haven't seen so many six packs since my fraternity days!


That brings us to another Bolder Boulder revelation: all those form drills. Does anyone REALLY do them? Well, I can tell you first hand, because she worked through her set directly in front of us, Amy Hastings does her form drills. As shown in the first few minutes of the women's race video below, Hastings works through her motions with focus. They must be working as Amy has a powerful, fluid stride.

We saw the racers only three times: the start, just past the one mile and right after five miles. Unfortunately, that was it. A few years ago, the Bolder Boulder elite course was a loop where the runners passed a plethora of time. It was a little bit more spectator friendly. Neither course allowed one the opportunity to both watch the race and see the finish in Folsom Field. Because of that, I have no actual Race Report for you.


All I can tell you is that the beautiful people are ..... still beautiful!

My Name Is Rich and I Am Injured!

There. I said it. I realize that Step One is admitting I have a problem. Done. Check!

It began back in February on a long hilly 20 miler as I noticed some discomfort in my right hip flexor. As per usual, I figured it was just a product of a twenty mile run by a heavy old man. In the following month it went from bad to tolerable and while present, was not an issue at the Napa Valley Marathon in March.

The post marathon recovery was pleasant but the discomfort lingered. It never got so bad as to warrant the canceling of a workout, but never got better enough for increased mileage and hill work.

In the olden days, this would be a minor inconvenience and a day or two of easy running would cure it with no sweat. It was easier then. As Bob Seger sang, "I was living to run and running to live. Never worried about paying or even how much I owed." These days debts linger if not completely paid in full.

So now, several months later, I'm tired of it and looking at the year ahead it's either time to take care of this annoyance or sacrifice several goals. I'm not good at sacrificing my goals, so I have decided to back WAY off and succumb to some treatment. You'd think that after almost 45 years of running and 35 years of coaching, I would have handled this a long time ago. Do as I say, not as I do, right?

After consultation with my medical team, I have adopted a combination of ice (I hate icing), moist heat and light stretching and have sworn to run no more than 4 miles at no faster than 11 minute pace until the pain has been gone for five consecutive days. I have also promised that if the treatment has not delivered a pain free hip flexor in a reasonable amount of time, I will stop running and give in to a more serious protocol (missing days is serious all by itself, as one of the goals this year was to run every day - continuing the streak from the last quarter of 2010). 

Step Two is giving in to a higher power. I am about to do that right now. There is a bag of frozen corn that has my name on it. Either that or it's calling me names. 

So far so good.

Rest In Peace, Sammy Wanjiru!

It is with great sadness that we read of the death of 2008 Olympic Marathon Gold Medalist, Sammy Wanjiru. At 24 years of age, he was one of the greatest marathon RACERS of all time. Details of the death are sketchy at this time, but given the roughness of the last six months of Sammy's life, anything is possible and frankly, I don't want to know.

I remember Sammy running away with the Beijing marathon with the confidence of a veteran in the body of a 21 year old. He was faster than everyone that day and grabbed the field, as well as the heat and humidity by the scruff of the neck and didn't let go.

Maybe his greatest moment, at least for me, was in Chicago last year. His epic battle over the last couple of miles with Tsegeye Kebede was incredible. As Toni Reavis said during the broadcast, "what balls this guy's got."

Sammy was one of my favorite runners. So fast, so strong, so willing to take a race to the edge. Maybe I liked Sammy so much because he seemed like a Kenyan Pre. Young, fast, a bit brash but with the amazing talent to back it up.

I was hoping that Sammy's life would come back together this year and enable him to be ready for the 2012 marathon in London. Sad that not only will that never happen, the world will be without one of the greatest running talents of all time. Rest In Peace, Sammy Wanjiru.

Here is the link to that amazing Chicago finish. http://www.flotrack.org/speaker/8874-Sammy-Wanjiru/video

Enough Already!

The last four or five weeks have been barely short of mediocre. My favorite T Shirt says it best... Time to Get Serious!

Man vs. Computer: Round 3

There's a fresh skiff of snow on the ground. The high today might reach 40 degrees. I'm still feeling the effects of Thursday's terrible 17 mile run. It's not the best start to my day. Someone or some thing has to pay.

If you recall, not too long ago I decided to strike a blow for all of human-kind by negating the depressing results of the Man vs. Computer contest on Jeopardy by challenging my own computer to a five mile run. You can read about this lopsided event at http://runspittle.blogspot.com/2011/02/man-vs-computer-round-2.html. Short story even shorter: I won.

This morning I decided to give Mac (my Macbook) an opportunity for redemption. I challenged Mac to a bench press contest. Knowing that, when purchased, Mac was touted to be lighter, faster and more powerful than previous versions, I was a tad worried. 

I was open. I would have considered an alternative lift. I would have even competed on the weight machine. But Mac seemed much more comfortable on the free weight bench so we went with that. We started extremely light (10 lbs) and that was it! Game over! I'd show you the picture of me triumphantly holding my ten pounds overhead (yeah that's 4.5359237 kilograms, baby!), but it's probably best I don't publicly humiliate Mac. I need him for work.

So Round 3 is in the books and the results are in: Humans win again!!!

You're welcome. It's the least I can do.

Dr. Wittenberg Leaves Me For Dead!

If you read my last post, you are aware that I have been fighting a severe case of the shpilkes. Shpilkes is characterized by a nervous energy or anxiety that can cast a gloomy cloud over any day. The person that could have cured me was Mary Wittenberg, head Honchette at the New York Road Runners. Dr. Wittemberg held my life in her hands.

I love the New York Marathon. I ran it in 1993, 94 (on my birthday) and 98. It's a great event, loads of fun and an awesome reason to pack up and head for New York City. It would have been easy, Dr. Mary; draw my name in today's lottery, let me run the NYC Marathon (on my 60th birthday) and I would have been cured. But, NOOOOO! Couldn't do it, could you?

So, I am left searching for a fall marathon. Shouldn't be too tough, there are plenty.

In the meantime, Dr. Wittenberg, I WLL COME BACK from the dead. And next year, there'll be no lottery for this fellow: no opportunity for you to cast me aside on your electronic whim. NO Dr. Wittenberg, next year I WILL QUALIFY for your race.

Better go for a run! Got some training to do!

Need a Shpilkes Cure: Where's Doctor Mary Wittenberg?

It's an open and shut diagnosis, I have the shpilkes. I learned about shpilkes from my wife, Linda, who spent a previous lifetime (she called it a lifetime, not me) married to a Jewish man (and from what she has told me, his previousness had little or nothing to do with him being Jewish).

You don't have to be Jewish to have the shpilkes, just like you don't have to be South of the border to get Montezuma's revenge. In fact, anyone can truly get either and while I'm not asserting that they go together, they certainly could.

According to the plethora of online dictionaries, shpilkes is basically nervous energy - anxiety. Frankly, I think that nervous energy is one of those things that could be good OR bad. Unfortunately, my nervous energy is not in anticipation or pre-arousal of some wonderful upcoming event. It is also not some in-born ancestral reaction to a fight or flight type of experience. In fact, lately, my nervous energy would choose to neither fight or flight. My nervous energy does not feel good and my shpilketic friends tell me that most real cases of the shpilkes are not very pleasant.

At this point you're probably concerned for my welfare. You may be feeling empathy - or even sympathy. More than either of these, however, you may be getting nervous about the potential for shpilkes entering into your world.

In the interest of science and shpilke prevention, I am going to sacrifice my own pride and privacy needs, pull out my chart, and share my symptoms with you. It is my hope that by sharing, we all may become more educated and maybe, just maybe, shpilkes can be prevented. If my experience can help just one person, it will be worthwhile. My symptoms:

1. My daily pre-run ritual is to stress over where to go, when to go, how far to go and then I get mad at myself for not making a decision.

2. I need new shoes and I am not one bit excited about getting them.

3. I haven't stretched in weeks (oh wait, sorry - I don't stretch anyway - never mind).

4. I recorded three hours of the Boston Marathon, watched it in ONE hour and almost consciously DELETED the recording when I finished!

5. I haven't pontificated on my RunSpittle blog in ages.

6. I'm uninspired watching a Flotrack Workout Wednesday video of Maggie Vessey in those skimpy, tight, bunhugger shorts (well okay, maybe a bit inspired - I guess that feeling I'm having is inspiration).

7. I went to letsrun.com and didn't even get pissed about the juvenile idiots posting their ridiculously stupid hater posts.

8. I can't seem to pick a fall marathon (This one really bothers me because I need the goal; the objective so that my training can have focus. The problem is that I am waiting to see if I get into the New York Marathon and that seems to be blocking my ability to see other marathons clearly).

WAIT!!!!!! As Alexander Graham Bell said, "Watson, come here!" (or maybe that was Sherlock Holmes). Either way, I have found it! I know the cure!!!!

On Wednesday April 27, 2011, the New York Road Runners will have their lottery for participation in this year's New York City Marathon on November 6 (which just happens to be my 60th birthday). If Mary Wittenberg would just pull my name out of the hat, my shpilkes just might be cured. I ran New York in 1993, '94 and '98 and have been dying to get back. And what could be better than returning for a birthday run? A 60th birthday run? Instant shpilke cure!

So, it is clear. Mary Wittenberg, NYRR Head Guru, possesses the miracle cure to my condition. A single, solitary entry nod from her, and all is well again. I need Mary to race through the jungle, like in those Tarzan movies, carrying the magic elixir delivering me from my shpilkian death bed.

Then again, maybe not. I can't really decide if that would do it and am way too stressed out to even think about it.

A "Brief" Memo to Nike...

Saturday it was 80 degrees, this morning's run, it was 16. It's springtime in Colorado. So just when I thought it was safe to store my winter gear until the fall, I was breaking out the tights and jacket this morning. The tights are the issue.... oh the tights.

I'm a loyal consumer. I bought my first pair of Nike Waffle Trainers back in the mid 70's. Other than a few short escapades with a great pair of Tiger Oboris and Brooks flats for racing, I have been extremely faithful. Find me on any run and I will be branded in sartorial splendor as a dedicated Swoosher. Shoes: swoosh; socks, yep; shorts, you bet; top, arm warmers, hat - check, check, check. Outside of some technical gear from the latest races and the jackets obtained at those same contests, I am swoosh-boy. I have never asked for anything in return and have never complained about my "contract" with Nike. As stated, I am loyal.

So, back to the tights. I own two pairs of Nike tights. I don't wear them. I suppose I could give them away, send them back, take them to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. It's not that they aren't nice or don't fit or are some hideous color. I don't wear them because they don't take care of me. In fact, if I were an Adidas, or Asics, or Brooks, or Mizuno guy I wouldn't wear theirs either. I wear Pearl Izumi tights.

The reason is simple: Pearl Izumi was wise enough to insert a brief into their tights. Everyone has them in shorts - no brainer, right? But what about tights? Doesn't anyone know that Daddy still needs to keep the package in a ....... well...... package?

Sure, I could wear shorts underneath, but that is SOOOOO 80's AND kills the smoothness of my rear end view. And since most of my shorts are longer than the average, it would not only look terrible, but would feel like I was carrying a load in my britches. Not good.

So, hey Nike...... (or anyone else), what's the deal? What about me, what about MY needs? Let's jump into today's world and help a guy out, briefly of course.

It Was 40 Years Ago Today.....

Sgt Pepper may have taught the band to play 20 years ago, but if you double that you'll find an event of greater significance (at least for me). It was forty years ago: March 27, 1971 that six daring youths from Wayne State University set out to run from the campus in downtown Detroit to the Mackinac Bridge, what we charted as being 337 miles.

What began as a goofy chat in the student union between John Gores and myself, slowly became a reality for us and the four others we "recruited," Geoff Lane, Ray Evanoff, Pat Klotchko and Keith Wright. The plan was to run for eight days (Spring Break), camp as we went and roll into Mackinac fresh as daisies (we were young and didn't know any better). The hope was to be able to run across the bridge upon completion (even though pedestrians were prohibited from crossing the bridge except for the annual Labor Day walk).

Day one had us looping the track one time (like the Olympic Marathon) heading through campus and on to Woodward Avenue and North. Our goal was to chop up our days into three runs, stay together when possible and steadily make our way to the Bridge.

Keeping in mind that it's been forty years, I have forgotten a great deal about the details of the run. Some things, however, are as clear as if they happened yesterday. I would like to share some of those.

On Woodward Avenue, we were intercepted by a news truck. The reporter, who for some reason I think had the last name of Berry, hopped out and being the typical man-on-the-street-story-kind-of-guy, ran alongside as he interviewed us for the nightly news. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Berry (?) was a rather portly fellow thus limiting the length of our 15 minutes of fame.

Once outside the city limits, the loneliness of the long distance runners set in and the task at hand became more apparent. It was going to be a long way!

We camped that first night. I couldn't tell you where although I think it was somewhere near Ortonville. My Uncle Dave lived near there. We didn't visit. The setup was pretty simple. John Gores' wife, Jackie and Keith Wright's wife, Mary, were our support system. They dropped us off, picked us up, cooked for us, supported us but mostly put up with their men and these other guys as we routinely going between bouts of trauma and downright silliness.

On Day two we made an alteration of the route. Instead of hanging a right in Standish and following US 23 along the Lake Huron shoreline, we decided to pierce the middle of the Michigan mitten and continue up Hwy 33. In each of the first days we ran about 40-45 miles a day.

Day three had three distinct memories. 1) We lost Keith Wright to an ankle injury (which means we also lost Mary). I have to say that when Keith went down, it was the low point of the journey. Keith was the eternal optimist and always pleasant as someone with whom to share a running conversation. 2) It was our longest day - 52 miles. Small country roads with snow packed on the side. An occasional horn honking supporter passing by. I remember feeling fairly okay that day and John and I finished in beautiful Alger, Michigan before the others. We sat in front of the Alger Post Office, chatting away, munching on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. John and I could always chat (as well as sing Rocky Raccoon until silenced by unappreciative and tone deaf teammates). In fact, I suppose it was our chatting that got us into this mess! 3) We decided we were done camping. 

As we headed further north, we were close enough to Harrisville, Michigan (and the cabin belonging to Geoff Lane's parents) to head for a night or two of non-camping warmth. We never camped again.

Mornings were odd. We were young and somewhat full of that energy exclusively given to athletes in our age group. At the same time, the wear and tear of the journey was taking its toll. Each morning, I would take inventory: calves okay, hamstrings still kind of loose, quads alright. We'd even say to each other, "hey I feel pretty good." "Yeah, me too.".... then, we'd actually stand up... OUCH! 

Days four, five and six were long. The roads were lonely (part of the reason for the route change was fewer cars and trucks) and everyone was hurting to some extent. 

John Gores was the trooper. He was the one who kept us going, stayed optimistic. John's biggest problem was that he seemed to attract hostile dogs. I can't tell you how much we used to gripe about our crappy, baggy WSU sweat pants. The griping ceased when it was the pants bagginess that saved John's leg one day as some hungry country dog could only get a mouth full of cotton instead of calf.

Jackie was a saint. How she ever put up with the bunch of us was beyond me, but she did.  Geoff Lane was our result oriented guy. He had a work ethic as a runner and as a person that was one of the best I've ever known. He was also strong and fast. Ray Evanoff and Pat Klotchko had the toughest time. Pat was hurting most of the way but always good for a witty comment about the days events and Ray, a converted 880 runner, got pretty sick near the end. We were a ragtag group, but one united by a goofy spring break idea.

Somehow we became the story for a Detroit News reporter named Bill Halls. I would call my Dad, tell him where we were, he would call Bill. My Dad relished this role as news source and Detroit News insider. All in all, Mr. Halls did a nice job covering our little jaunt.

We spent three nights at Geoff's cabin. I'm not sure we'd have made it if we hadn't made that move. It meant driving early to get to our starting points and driving back to sleep at night, but the extra comfort was more than worth it. Besides, the cabin became a home of sort.

Near the end of Day Six we saw the sign that said "Mackinac Bridge 100 miles." 100 miles is a long way, even in a car. This sign, however, was a sign of hope.

As you can imagine, there was some rough weather along the way. It was Michigan in March after all. For the most part it wasn't too bad. I only remember being REALLY cold in Onaway, where we spent night seven. John's wife, Jackie, was related to the Young family (uncle and aunt, maybe) and they were our hosts prior to the runs final day.

On the last day, our coach Dan Watkins, showed up. While not the biggest supporter of our run (it WAS going to bang up most of his distance crew prior to the outdoor season), his job was to do two things (at least as far as we were concerned): get us a hotel room once we were done and arrange it so we could cross the bridge. The man to convince was Henry Debereaux, the bridge supervisor. I don't know how the negotiations went. What I do know was that they were not thrilled to have a bunch of college kids run the five miles across their bridge. Especially when the blizzard started.

It was snowing like crazy when we arrived at the Big Mac. Henry let us go anyway. Of course we had talked the tough talk about how they couldn't stop us or they'd have to arrest us, shoot us or worse. Mostly, we'd have been pretty devastated had we not gotten to run the bridge. But run the bridge we did!  The sun actually came out for a bit near the top and at the end. It may have been the best five miles of the run.

We locked arms at the finish. Sat down when done and laughed, cried and everything in between. We went out to eat that night (no one being happier about that than Jackie), stayed in a motel and returned home the next day. Just in time to start the Spring Quarter on Monday. A Detroit bowling alley owner donated trophies to mark our accomplishment (I still have mine) and Coach Watkins popped for some Detroit to Mackinac T Shirts (long gone from being worn a bunch).

I look back on the run and am pretty amazed we pulled it off, if for no other reason than logistics. All in all, we ran roughly 343 miles (sorry, Garmin hadn't blessed us with the Forerunner back then). In the big scheme of the world or even the Wayne State campus, it was barely a blip on the radar screen. But to quote the Wayne State student newspaper the South End, "All the efforts got them was blisters on their feet and a sweatshirt from their coach indicating the number of miles they ran on the front. I imagine, however, that their self-satisfaction has reached a level few other people know." Well said.

I salute you gentlemen (and lady) on the 40th anniversary of our endeavor! A wonderful memory. Thanks.