The GNJR: Seven Lessons Learned

Besides having lots of fun and fulfilling a long standing goal, I learned a number of lessons on this run. A few of them are less than earth shattering. A couple of them, however, are heavy, or at least that is how I see it. And one of them I am sure you have never heard before. On the Great Noxapater Journey Run, I learned:

1. Coffee is important. The day I didn't have coffee, Day Two, was my toughest of the entire trip. I don't know that the absence of the bean was the full cause of my difficulties. I do believe it was a part of my lack of energy and inability to perform that day.

2. You can run and walk over 100 miles in five days and not lose weight. I didn't set out to shed pounds. I did, however, expect to drop one or two along the way. But I ate heartily whenever I got the chance because I was hungry and didn't want to bonk out on the road.

3. Closely related to number two is, you don't need the gazillion calories and tons of fluid everybody says you must have in order to do ultra-marathon distances. Yes, you need calories and fluid, but I have a definite stance on the Replenish vs Replace debate. In short, the Replace group says you must match calorie in for every calorie out and ounce for ounce on all the liquid lost through perspiration and respiration. They believe you must do this WHILE you complete your event or you are a novice and perform only at a fraction of your potential. That group, by the way, is represented primarily by people who are selling products to help you do exactly that. Smell it? Don't get me started here. I could go on for pages about all the hydration stuff alone. Let me just say, only certified sissies fall apart if they lose a few ounces of fluid that are not instantly replaced. In fact, much of the hydration mania that has dominated the headlines and literature for the past twenty-five years is not only unscientific (although it claims science), it is dangerous. A far greater risk than dehydration is hyponatremia (too much water, sometimes called water intoxication).
 
4. Confidence is overrated. Really. I feel sure I am the only person on earth who will say that. After my run, my son, Forrest, brought a book by Scott Jurek (if you don't know who he is, google him) to a family get-together. I picked it up and began to read. Almost instantly I came upon these words. "Racing ultras requires absolute confidence tempered with intense humility" (Eat and Run). He is, of course, talking about racing as opposed to just having fun like I was. But the point is, with a little effort, I could fill up a few hard drives with quotations and stories saying essentially the same thing. What I am about to say is anecdotal. But so is everything else you will ever read or hear about this subject. I attempted the Great Noxapater Journey Run in 2013 with 100% confidence I would complete day one. I had done a thirty-miler a few weeks earlier. How could I fail? Day two was the question in my mind at that time. How would my body respond the day ofter a long hard effort? To my utter shock and amazement, I failed on the very first day. No amount of belief or determination or toughness could have gotten me any farther down the road on the extremely painful stress fracture I had been struck by. Fast forward to 2015. I had 0% confidence I would even make the distance on the first day, much less the entire journey. I had developed symptoms of plantar fasciitus a few days before the run, and I was sure things would go from bad to worse. I made it. All. Five. Days. Throughout the journey, my confidence was like a Yo-Yo: up and down. My success was not dependent upon my confidence.

5. If confidence is overrated, what is the essential quality, the one that is not overrated? My answer to that is audacity. More important than confidence is audacity, the willingness to face down your fears and do battle with them. I have done that and failed. I have done that and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. If you have a dream, don't stupidly believe that confidence will conquer all. But do have the audacity to try. Be willing to fail. Be willing to fail again after you fail the first time. Remember the old adage, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Life is not for sissies, and great challenges are not for the faint of heart. Only cowards have to be filled with confidence to begin the quest. Confidence is for cowards; audacity is for achievers.

6. Life is struggle. The old man at the cafe in Ackerman was right. Without struggle we don't fully live; we waste the gift God has placed in us; we cheat ourselves out of an essential part of our humanity. I think that is one of the reasons I feel compelled to set goals and train and fight to attain them. It's innate in the human condition. When our falleness and our environment separate us from this aspect of our DNA, we and those around us are the losers.

7.Never forget the importance of faith. I don't mean faith in faith as is preached from many popular pulpits today. That, in my opinion, borders on witchcraft. I don't mean faith in self which is the same thing as confidence. I mean faith in a personal God whose will is not always clear and whose ways are often beyond our ability to discern. Sometimes He gives and sometimes He withholds great favors, and sometimes we know not the reason for the gift or the withholding. On the Great Noxapater Journey Run, He gave to me greatly, and for that I am thankful.

The GNJR Day Five: The Denouement

My breath was visible in the cold air when I checked out of the Village Inn and started walking south on Church Street (Highway 15) at 8:00 o'clock Monday morning. Naturally, I was stiff and sore as I made my way towards my great-grandfather's grave site on day five of my journey. My mind went back to last night's fright. When I walked up to the motel, I was immediately impressed by all the cars I saw filling the parking lot. Well, I thought, this place must be a better than I had assumed. I was quickly disabused of that impression, however, after I entered the room.

Once inside my prized palace, I found out the place was in fact a dump. I had come an extra fifteen miles, some of it in the dark, so as not to stay at a rat-hole in Ackerman only to stay at a rat-hole in Louisville. I barely had my pack off when I heard loud, angry voices outside. And thumping. The room shook with the thumping. Then I noticed the door had been kicked in and only partially repaired. Who does that? The safety latch thingy had been broken off and not replaced. Holy crap, I thought.

I wedged a chair under the door, hoping to make it secure, turned the lights off, and peeked out the window where I saw what seemed to be unsavory activity that made me uncomfortable. OK, I was frightened, so frightened I thought I might not exit the room all night, even to eat. Finally, I did muster the courage to leave the room and walk the 100 feet to the restaurant for supper, which I enjoyed immensely. Also, the restaurant helped me relax a little but not totally. Then I went back to the room, took a bath, and put on my night-night clothes. After a little TV time, I crashed like an airplane with its wings shot off. 

Now, the next morning, I was free and safe but tired and weary. Day four had been a trip-long 30.54 miles with lots of running. Fortunately, it was not even a mile to the Masonic Cemetery where I walked straight to my great-grandparents' graves. There I shot a short, emotional video, said a prayer, and thanked them, George for his successful journey and Lou Ella for my name. She named all her sons after authors, my granddad after Zane Grey. I felt like my journey had reached its logical conclusion. This is where it should end, I thought, but I had already announced Noxapater as the ending point. So I left the graves and made my way back to Church Street.

George Henry Quinton's grave

On the way through Louisville, I passed the lot where my maternal grandmother's house sat. A business now occupies that piece of land, but in my mind's eye I could still see the large old house and the yard, front where I played football and back where I ate figs. A bit farther I came to another lot, this one empty, where my paternal grandmother and then an aunt and uncle lived before they all died in faith. The April 28, 2014 tornado took away the structure but it, like the business on the other lot, was powerless to sweep away the multitude of my memories. The Christmas gatherings and summer nights I slept there with Mamaw flooded my consciousness. I remember her putting a chamber pot in my room at night, but I never wondered why until I got much older. Her house had indoor plumbing, and the bathroom was only a few feet away. She would also dust the room with some kind of insecticide, probably DDT, that she manually pumped out of some type of sprayer I haven't seen since I was a boy.

When I got out of town, I realized the final leg of this journey was going to be a really slow one. It didn't matter. My brother-in-law, RT, was to pick me up at Aunt Mary's house around noon time. As long as I made it there by then. A couple of miles south on 15 brought me to Flower Ridge United Methodist Church where my paternal grandparents are buried along with some other kin folk. I stopped and visited the graves. I have never been much of a grave visitor, but as I have aged that has changed a bit.

Flower Ridge Cemetery

Highway 15 from Louisville to Noxapater has no shoulder and is heavily traveled. That made running difficult. My fatigue made running almost impossible. In fact, I only shuffled 1.7 miles on day five. It was just a slow, anticlimactic walk, and it took all morning for me to cover the 10+ miles to the little village. I was mightily relieved when I came to the city limits sign and knew my journey was almost over. Another half mile and I was at Aunt Mary's. I shot a short video outside and then went inside and hugged my aunt, the last of my dad's siblings. I took off my pack and shoes and sat down. RT arrived a bit later and we ate some lunch before he drove me home. I did not put shoes back on for the next twenty-seven hours and that was too soon.

Selfie at 100 miles.

Day Four: Personal Encounters

"Ok.. I'm here I think," the text said.

I went out the back door, placed my Garmin on the porch rail so it could pick up the satellites, and waved to the young man in the car. When he exited the auto I said, "I'll be right out," and went back inside, put on my pack, and rejoined my companion for the day.

Yes, I made it to French Camp on day three and was able to rent a room. Even though I had partly hoped to be homeless, when I crawled into the soft, warm bed inside the log cabin and heard the strong, cold wind howling outside the window, I was awfully relieved not to have to sleep in the woods.

Then the Facebook messages started. To make a short story long, somebody had seen me running on Highway 407. Somebody's fiancee saw a Facebook post. Somebody wanted to run with me, so the fiancee contacted me via Facebook on behalf of her boyfriend and here we were, two strangers about to spend the day together running from French Camp to Ackerman. 

We left at exactly 9:00 am. I had set the time that late to allow for the sun to penetrate the cold air with some warmth. In addition to the cold (26 degree low), I was worried our paces might not be compatible. I had been going for three days, and I'm not that fast when fresh. But right away he didn't seem to be bothered by my slow shuffle.

I could tell in nothing flat that he, James Bevis, was an introvert like me. You know what happens when two introverts get together. We talked each others ears off. I haven't said that many words in the last three years all combined. 

I was first surprised that he could run that slow and then surprised that he could run that far. James is a football player from Jackson, Tennessee who recently inked a scholarship with Mississippi State University. He's a big guy and big guys don't normally do distance running, but James does and like me he does it primarily for fun.

Unlike past starts, I did not walk a long way to slowly warm up but began shuffling as soon as our shoes hit Highway 413. We ran the flats and downhills and walked the uphills while quickly becoming proficient at working together to avoid traffic. Since 413 has no shoulder, one of us, James, would run ahead so we could shuffle the white line single file until the car passed.

I was surprised at how quickly we made it to Highway 12 where we turned north-east toward Ackerman. A couple of miles later, we stopped at the Dollar General Store in Weir. I needed Gatorade, had forgotten to pack a razor, and had lost my toothbrush. After purchasing the three needed items, we were back on the road.

James Bevis and me at the Ackerman sign.

Working with a partner made the time and distance pass much faster and easier than it does when one is alone. Not only that, but I actually ran a little faster and ran a lot more. My legs were feeling the best they had for the whole trip. Day three had been a 27.46 mile effort with the most running of the journey thus far. Yet the old legs still had some juice in them, not a lot but some.

We made it to Ackerman at 12:30 after covering 14.6 miles, much earlier and shorter than expected. We stopped at the intersection of Highways 12 and 15 to eat lunch. I didn't even get the name of the place, but I acquired a plate lunch there of turkey and dressing, butter beans, and mashed potatoes. Jame's fiancee, Samantha Leeanne, arrived to pick up my partner. He was apologetic about leaving, but it was OK. I had made a new friend under the most unlikeliest of circumstances, had enjoyed our run, and we agreed to get together during the Christmas holidays to do some seriously long ambulations.

Originally, I had planned to overnight in Ackerman, but since the day was so young and my legs still workable, I gave thoughtful consideration to going on to Louisville. That would cut day five down to about ten miles and get me home a day earlier which would make my wife happy. Besides all that, I had long recoiled over the idea of staying at the Ackerman Inn.

While I finished my lunch, I made the decision. I am going on, I thought. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see who touched me.

"I'm sorry," an elderly lady who walked with a cane in her right hand said. "I have to be very careful. I broke my hip. If I fall again, I don't know what will happen to me."

She then proceeded to tell me how active she had been and how she was attempting to come back from her injury and surgery. I had heard it all before; life has been putting this story before me over and over: the aged struggling with advancing years and the numerous challenges that presents. I saw it with my grandmother. I saw it with church members. I saw it with Dad. I see it with Mom and with current friends. Getting old is a difficult deal that being young does not prepare us for.

I didn't even get her name. She made her way to her table, and I got up to pay my bill and leave. On the way to the counter, an elderly man sitting in a booth with his wife looked me in the eye and said, "You understand."

"Sir?"

"You understand life."

"Yeah?" I answered with a strong question mark in my voice.

"Struggle. Life is struggle." He then proceeded to tell me how he had recently cleaned a yard, roofed a house, climbed a tree and sawed off a limb with a bucksaw. He is eighty-three years old and told me, "I don't want to live forever, but I want to live while I am alive." 

There was a passion in his eyes as well as his voice. I was beginning to understand what he was talking about.

"Are you on a bicycle?" he asked.

"On foot," I answered.

He asked the usual questions about when and where and then, "You're doing this for your health?" Everybody wants to know why. 

"My health. Adventure. Fitness. Goal setting. My great-grandfather." Then I told him about George Henry Quinton. His deep blue eyes filled with tears.

He shook my hand and said, "You call me if you need anything. Anything. Call me in the middle of the night if you have trouble."

"Thank you," I answered and walked away surprised once more by the power of that story.

After paying my tab, I went out into the sunshine and began a slow walk down Highway 15. I was alone again, and since I moved slowly to let my food digest, I had time and energy to think. Struggle. That's what I thought about.

I think the old man was right. Life is struggle. Even in the garden of Eden, Adam had a job. He worked. The Bible says, "And the LORD took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it" (Genesis 2:15). I don't know how hard Adam's work was. I do know it became much more difficult after the Fall when God cursed the ground and told Adam that "By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food" (Genesis 3:19).

Whether we like it or not, life is filled with struggle. We try to avoid it; we try to prepare for a life without it. Could it be that much of mankind's battles with depression, aimlessness, and anxiety have to do with a contemporary world that has removed too much struggle from our existence? Yes, I understand that sometimes depression is caused by those chemical things, neurotransmitters, in the brain. Or the lack thereof. Some would say it is always caused by those chemical things in the brain. But maybe the chemical things in the brain are the symptom or results of something else, some stress or distress, or something not in line with the way God made us.

Although I have had real struggle in my years and much of it, life is pretty easy right now. The most difficult thing I have to do is try to teach students of English to begin a paragraph with a topic sentence rather than a supporting one. I look at myself as blessed because now I am in a stage of life where I can create my own struggles and make those struggles my play instead of a necessity for my survival.

I stopped on the south side of Ackerman and took a picture in front of the sign to Louisville. Then I began to shuffle some. The legs were tired, and the play had turned into a struggle. But it was a struggle I chose and created. It was still play.

I played for a long time that afternoon. It was only 15 miles from south Ackerman to my destination, but I was moving pretty slowly. Despite my best efforts, darkness caught me some miles north of town. Finally, I came to the place where the old highway-- the one that we always drove in on when I was a kid-- parted from the new bypass, and I had to make a decision. Do I go the bypass route where the newer motels are, or do I go downtown and stay in an older place but one that puts me closer to my great-grandfather's grave? I chose the latter.

The temps fell with the setting of the sun and being reduced to a walk, I was having trouble generating enough body heat. I added clothes, zipped zippers higher, and wondered where downtown Louisville was.The road had no shoulder and when my flashlight went out, I found myself having to step off the pavement onto the ditch bank whenever a car passed to keep from being run over. With my feet being terribly sore, standing on the incline of the ditch was terribly uncomfortable. Where was town? I should be there already. Finally, I approached some stores and the road now had a sidewalk. I walked past a service station and then the Village Inn, an older motel on the south side of town, came into view. There was a Mexican restaurant at the motel, El Rodeo, and I thought, this is everything I need: a bath, a bed, and a meal. So I stopped and rented a room.

Then things got interesting.

Day Three: An Uncertain Conclusion

I woke, dressed, and limped to the motel office so I could check out. Then I limped to the Exxon Station next door, bought Gatorade, and poured it into my hydration bladder. After that, I limped to Huddle House for breakfast. It was 6:50 am when I sat in a booth facing east and looked out the window the direction I had planned to go. I pondered the impending doom and conclusion of my journey. My feet were terribly painful, but worse than that, my lower right calf was sore in a frightening way. There was no way I could make it to French Camp. The human body can't limp all day without something else breaking. I would call John Misterfeldt to pick me up, but before I did, I would walk a mile or two. I would cover some distance before I threw in the towel.

At least I had coffee, and I drank three cups to go along with the three over easy eggs I ate with the grits, sausage, and toast. I finished my meal, paid my bill, and went outside to face my failure. "Lord," I prayed, "at least help me get to Highway 407. Get me there, please." 

I then began to limp down the shoulder of the highway until I was able to turn onto the old 82, a less traveled road. Slowly, my body warmed and my pace improved. I was watching with interest the numbers on the Garmin and noticed the tempo, very slow at first, become quicker and quicker. A little over two miles later, I was at the intersection of Highways 51 and 407. "Thank you, Lord. Help me to get out of town, to the airport road. That won't be as embarrassing if I can make it out of town."

Amazingly, my feet didn't hurt anymore. I found that to be the pattern of the trip. Each day started with sore, painful feet, but a mile or two in and they felt OK. My calf, however, was still sore, worrisome. When I made it to the airport road, I prayed for God to help me make it to Vaiden Road. If I can get there, that will be some sort of victory. I shot a short video as I continued to walk along saying that The Great Noxapater Journey Run as turning into The Great Noxapater Journey Walk. 

But the calf was loosening, my limp was disappearing, and my confidence was starting to rise like the day's temperature. I topped a hill and thought, I can shuffle to the bottom. I did and when I got to the bottom I kept going. My legs felt fine, and I thought, I'm OK; I began to have fun again like I did on the first day. I made it to Vaiden Road, and then I prayed to get to Community Baptist Church which is on the west side of the Big Black River bottom. 


I got to the church at 11.53 miles, and since I had many more miles to go, I decided to take a break there. I stopped under their breezeway, hooked my phone to its charger, and plugged it in. I stretched my calves on the edge of the concrete slab then I lay down and ate a Cliff Bar.

When I left twenty minutes later, I was running and praying to get across the Big Black River bottom, which I did. The next goal was to stride into Poplar Creek. First, I had to climb the 1.1 mile hill that rises out of the river bottom back into the hills. I walked that whole thing. Although I was feeling confident now, I feared a run up that incline would put way too much pressure on my plantar fascia and calf. Not only that, but with all the miles I had come and still had to go, running up hills didn't make much sense.

Poplar Creek is a community, not an actual town. But is was a nice milestone for me, and I knew when I passed through it there would be precious few humans until I came to French Camp.

I made it several miles past Poplar Creek when I took a pull on my hydration tube and got only bubbles. I was out of Gatorade and had a long way to go before the day was done. I heard a four wheeler and some voices. Off the road to the right, I could see some campers on the other side of a line of trees. Deer camp, I thought.

"Hey," I hollered and crossed the road.

"Hey," someone yelled back.

"Can I have some water?"

"Yeah. Come on up."

I met Phil Lekner from Biloxi who was very interested in my journey. He was even more interested in how many deer I had seen, which I told him consisted only of a dead one strapped to the back of a four wheeler which was strapped to a utility trailer which was pulled by a truck. To make a short story long, I left with water in my hydration pack, a cold bottle of water in my hand, and a cold coke stuffed into my pack. 

Despite a chilly start, the day had been sunny and warm. But a cold front was moving in and the sky began to darken while the wind rose blowing the fall leaves over the road and into my face. I decided to drink the water and the coke before I resumed running, and while I walked along, I tried again to call the bed and breakfast at French Camp. I had been calling all morning and could not get them on the phone. I was beginning to think I might be homeless for the night. I know what you're thinking: why did you not have reservations already? Shoot me; I'm a procrastinator. 

The temps were predicted to make a major dip in the night,  to below freezing, and for a bit I became frightened at the prospects of being without shelter. Then I thought about my great-grand father. He was homeless for six months; I could survive being homeless for one night. The more I thought about it, however, the more exciting the idea of sleeping in the woods became. I could put on all the clothes I had packed and make my way to one of those pine thickets beside Highway 413 where I would get out of the wind. I'd gather a mound of pine straw and dig myself into the center of it. If I could get even a few hours of sleep, I should be able to move on in the night and generate enough body heat to stay warm.

As the sky continued to darken and the air began to chill, my spirits soared to their loftiest highs of the journey. A line from a movie came to mind which reminded me of another reason I do this sort of thing. In The Shawshank Redemption, when Morgan Freeman's character boards the bus for Mexico at the end of the film, he says, "I felt the excitement that only a free man can feel at the beginning of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain."

As I ran along towards French Camp, I felt the freedom of a little boy turned loose to play for the day. I was excited. I was happy.

The GNJR Day Two: Tears in my Chicken

The pole barn at Seldom Seen

I woke around 6:30 Friday morning to a cold house and an empty stomach. I had ferried some supplies out here Monday afternoon, and now I made my way downstairs to devour part of them and the others I would later load into my pack. I fixed breakfast, two sliced bananas mixed with a can of sardines in oil, and no I did not drain the oil but sopped it all up with the bananas. I then ate a Moon Pie and washed the dishes I used before going upstairs to get ready for the morning's launch. 

The first thing I did was work on my feet, applying tape, duct and kenisio, to critical areas. Then I begin to dress a little at a time. There was in no hurry since I was waiting for the sun to warm things some before I left. I wore my tights for the first time on the trip and put a couple of more layers on up top. I loaded the thirty-two ounces of Gatorade into my pack's hydration bladder and packed the extra Gu gels, Moon Pies, and protein bars I had stashed here for the remainder of the trip. That added probably three pounds to my load. Not good. That was one of the problems I had in 2013: my pack was way too heavy. Although I did not weigh my pack then, I did weigh it Thursday before I left: 11.4 pounds. Not too bad for a five day run. But now it was heavier. My appetite should remedy that, however.

I waited a while longer for the weather to warm, and then left Seldom Seen at a quarter till eight, on my journey for Winona. After making it to McCarley Road, I walked the first long hill leaving Wilson's place and then began my first run of the day going down the other side. I could tell right away it was going to be a tough day. My legs were spent from the start, and things would only get worse as the day progressed.

Fortunately, McCarley was much closer than I thought, and after only four miles, I was downtown, such as downtown is. Although my body felt bad, my brain felt good that I had reached the scene of my 2013 surrender when I was forced to take a ride back to Greenwood, unable to continue my journey. This time I was still in the game. I took a few photos and then headed onto the gravel road that leads eastward out of town.

Those roads between McCarley and Winona were the best ones I encountered on the whole trip. They are almost uninhabited, pretty flat with a hill thrown in here and there, and for several miles one follows the old abandoned C&G Railway line. This was only the second time I had been through here, the only other time being in my truck while scouting out a route to keep me off Highway 82.

One of the neat roads beside the
old C&G Railroad.

I saw precious little wildlife, but I did feel the solace of the silent woods as I wondered the road-trails among the trees which were awash with their fall colors. As the morning wore on, however, I became weary, very weary, maybe a result of a less than stellar night's sleep, or possibly the consequence of a lack of coffee. I normally drink a quart of the liquid bean per day. Seldom Seen had a coffee maker, filters, and coffee, but I didn't want to open a package of someone else's bean so I went without. I should have taken some out there with my groceries.

Two and a half hours into the morning, I checked my Garmin to discover I was walking along at 25:00 minutes per mile! That's grocery shopping pace, but it was all I could do. My feet were sore, my legs were dead, and my energy was low. A nap was all I wanted, fantasized about. 

I found a place in the road where the shade hit and some leaves lay making me think cars rarely rode over that spot. A good place to sleep, I thought, so I stopped and began to take off my pack. Then I had a faint inkling of how stupid it would appear to anyone who heard of me getting run over because I was asleep on the road. 

I should have opened that coffee.

I continued on for what seemed like days but in reality was only hours. Finally, I came to the paved road that runs parallel to I 55 and only a little ways north of Highway 82. I was at Winona. I checked my watch. It was only 1:30, too early to check into a motel. I made my way across 82 to Kentucky Fried Chicken where I ordered a three piece meal. The chicken, I surmised, would give me plenty of protein to repair my damaged muscles.

I sat down with my food and the profundity of my fatigue overwhelmed me. I thought about my great-grandfather who walked from Utah to Louisville, Mississippi when he was but a boy. He was a better man than I when he was only twelve years old. I lowered my head and put my left hand on my forehead to cover my eyes so no one would see me cry. I tried not to drip tears onto my chicken which I devoured with relish despite my highly emotional state.

After eating, I wearily wandered next door to the Magnolia Lodge where I checked myself in. Immediately, I removed my shoes, lanced some blisters, and took a long, warm bath. I put on my night-night clothes and crawled into the bed. I was asleep within seconds.

Tears and chicken were my lunch/supper.

I woke up about two and a half hours later. It was 5:00 pm. I spent the next five hours watching TV, taking naps, and eating protein bars one half at a time. The extra protein would help my damaged muscles recover. Eating one half of one every thirty minutes would give my body the ability to uptake all the amino acids. Or so I surmised. Somewhere around 10:00 o'clock, I slipped off into a sleep from which I am sure not even an F 5 tornado could have awakened me.

Distance for the day was 11.54 miles.

The GNJR Day One: Dogs and Bigfoot

The confidence, excitement, and eagerness that had been building inside me for months were all gone smashed like a wrecked ship and sunk by the rocks of pain, fear, and dread. The long-awaited Great Noxapater Journey Run was here, but my prospects for success had vanished like a thief in the night. Monday evening after a short run, I began to feel pain and soreness in my left heel. What?!?! I have had plantar fasciitis before. This meant doom, maybe months of it.

Selfie near the start on the
Yazoo River levee.

I took another short run Tuesday afternoon, felt more pain, and my anxiety level shot to a 15 on a scale of 1 to 10. I wanted to weep, my mood became somber, I became sullen and dark. For years, literally years, I had planned and trained to make this run, but injury almost always prevented me from starting. Finally, I was healthy enough to start in 2013, but went down in flames, failing on the very first day with a stress fracture. Now it was happening all over again: same song, new verse.

Wednesday I went home after work, tried to stay off my feet as much as possible, and pondered and prayed if I should even start the journey. My head told me no, don't do it, put everything on hold; but my heart pushed me out the door and at 11:58 Thursday morning on November 19th I begun what I fully believed would be another ill-fated attempt. I expected to have to be rescued on the first day, but something inside told me I had to try. Since my spirits were so low, I started with a slow walk to let my legs and feet gently warm up. It was a full three and a half miles later before I dared to switch to a slow shuffle. 

Surprisingly, everything felt good when I started running as I shuffled out Browning Road, over to the highway, and then east on the shoulder of 82. I prayed as I pounded the pavement and asked God to at least help me get to bottom of the hill. I ran to Valley Hill and then began a slow walk up the long incline while cars and eighteen wheelers whizzed by. As the mile numbers mounted, my confidence gradually rose like the temperature on a July morning.

As soon as I could, I crossed the four lanes of traffic to get to the old Highway 82, a quieter, gentler road more satisfying to my soul. When the old highway came to an end, just like I did in 2013, I opted to ambulate the longer but safer and more scenic Skating Rink Road. This year I found it just a pretty as I did twenty-three months ago, and I also found myself praying for God to give me day one, all of it.

Somewhere after the road turned gravel, I picked up two dogs who seemed determined to go the distance with me. I did nothing to encourage their company, having learned long ago that canines love to ramble with strangers. As we re-approached 82, which I would cross once more, I prayed the dogs would go home, but they seemed set to stay with me having the time of their lives. One was a large, light-tan cur-looking male of about 60 pounds; the other was a full-sized but smaller black, shaggy female of an estimated 35 pounds.

Much to my chagrin, we, the dogs and I, crossed the busy highway and spilled ourselves out onto Providence Road, a shady stretch of tree-lined gravel that leads to the old town of Carrollton. We were getting a long way from the dogs' home, and I began to worry more about them, if they could get home, would they be safe. I caught the big dog and found a phone number which I promptly called. The man who answered said he was on the other side of Eupora travelling the other way, but he would make a call to a friend in the area who maybe could pick up the dogs. 

Supper at Dixie's Cozy Kitchen.

Just before we came into Carrollton, my canine companions got into a fight with some local dogs. This caused me to worry even more because I wondered how they could possibly have the nerve to come back this way even if they knew the way home and wanted to go there. 

In Carrollton, the traffic was surprisingly heavy and the dogs were constantly in the road coming frighteningly close to being struck several times. We went past my brother-in-law's house where my niece, Cheyenne, a lass about twelve years of age, was outside holding a puppy, and the brown dog acted a little aggressive towards the innocent puppy sending my stress levels even higher. 

When we got a little farther down the road in front of Dixie's Cozy Kitchen, a woman wearing an apron ran out of the cafe and started calling the dogs by name. She was the friend the owner phoned. While we were scrambling about attempting to corral the dogs, a deputy sheriff rode up and stopped in the middle of the busy road.

"What's going on here?" he asked as if he had caught us red-handed committing a crime.

"We need some help," the woman in the apron yelled back at the office who responded by speeding away in his patrol car.

We caught the brown dog and locked him in the woman's SUV. She said she would take him home when she got off work. But the black one was still on the loose when I left about thirty-minutes later. I don't know how that story turned out. I went inside when the apron woman did and ordered a hamburger and fries, and drank three glasses of tea.

When I left the cafe, it was dark and the temperature had fallen from warm to what a Southern boy calls cold. I pulled some clothes out of my pack, put them on and began the last leg of my day's journey, the three miles to Wilson Carroll's Seldom Seen where I would sleep for the night. Since I had just eaten, I didn't attempt to run, but hiked in the dark the two plus miles to the turn and then the almost mile up the gravel road/drive.

Inside the house, I quickly shed my pack and shoes, lanced two blisters-- one on each foot-- and took a bath. I then put on my night-night clothes and went downstairs for some TV time, reflecting on the journey thus far. I left home with zero confidence in my prospects for success, but God gave me the day. I was grateful. Now I was thinking, maybe, just maybe with prayer and effort, I can pull this off.

I became groggy so I went upstairs to turn in for the night. Having come 23.1 miles, sleep should be no problem and I was in the twilight zone, fading fast, when my eyes opened wide at a startling sound.

Pop.

Pop. 

Pop.

Over and over and over and over.

It was loud, way too loud for a mouse or rat or whole heard of rats even. Something was downstairs causing chaos. And then while my heartbeat shook the soft bed I lay in, something outside let loose with what sounded like a Bigfoot call, you know how they do on the show Finding Bigfoot. "Are you kidding me?!?!?!" I thought. Then after a few seconds, the yell broke loose again.

I crept out of bed and retrieved the large folding knife I carry on long runs for protection, more concerned about what was inside the house than what was outside it. You know I felt threatened since I had the blade out. I sneaked to the door, down the hall to the stairway, and then nervously reached for the light switch afraid at the sight I was sure to see below. I expected to see something, maybe a cow having crashed through the wall and standing in the middle of the room or Bigfoot himself or a crew of thieves wearing ski masks and black gloves. But when I did flip on the switch what I saw was nothing, or nothing amiss. I could view the entire room except a small area directly under the stairs, and though I hate to admit it, I was too frightened to go down there and look under the stairs

I spent the night with my knife in my hand, the hall light on, and my face pointed towards the bedroom door. Though I yearned to roll over onto my left side, my normal sleeping position, I dared not do it.

Yeah, I'm a fraidy-cat.

The distance for the day.

The Buddy Bones New Year's Eve Fun Run

Me n Buddy left the house at 2:38 pm heading out into a clear but cold New Year’s Eve Day. We crossed the Yazoo River on the Highway 82 bridge, the first leg of a circuitous journey to Penny’s dad’s where we had an appointment with a steak and a movie. Over the bridge and down the highway a bit, we turned south headed out into what was once the Industrial Park. There are still some nice roads out that way but no industry as far as I can tell. Hey, you know I don’t talk politics and I thought Ross Perot was a kook, but nobody ever did admit he was right about that “giant sucking sound heading south.” Maybe it would have happened anyway, but he said it would happen if . . . and if happened and so did the sucking sound. I heard it right here in Greenwood, Mississippi.

We walked early because yesterday we did leg presses and ran 8.08 miles. Like usual, we shuffled and walked our way to Highway 49 south of Greenwood, but this time instead of continuing our southward journey, we hopped atop the Pelucua Creek Levee where it crosses 49. Just recently, we ran Pelucia Creek from the hills west to Humphrey Highway. Now we were running east from 49 to Humphrey Highway and like last time, we were in new territory. I had never been here; I’m not sure about Buddy ’cause he don’t talk much.

A few miles out the levee and we saw at least seven deer and they played like rabbits in the spring time. I thought about how pretty they were and how they add beauty and wonder to the earth. We saw woods. We saw water. We saw fields. It was all lovely.


Deer on the levee

When we made our way to Humphrey Highway, we were 10.75 miles into our journey. It is eight miles to the same spot coming a more direct route from town. It was also getting pretty late in the day and my slow pace was getting slower. Once more, we were going to get caught in the dark. I debated long about which road to take into the hills. Up the paved hill feels safer in the dark but adds about two miles to the journey. At my fatigue level that wasn’t appealing. Up the gravel hill is more direct but takes us through some spooky woods where I saw a large cougar in April of 2008. I can’t get that out of my mind and when it gets dark it’s like I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. We aren’t supposed to have cougars here, and if you report one you will be treated with the same kind of contempt you get for sighting a Bigfoot. So I don’t say much about it. I told it to a fellow teacher once, and he went ballistic on me. Wow!! Like I make stuff up.

Me n Buddy turned onto the gravel road and headed for the cougar woods. I was not afraid while we shuffled along in the dark, but I figured I would become so as we closed the distance. What happened instead was a text from my wife asking me if I wanted her to come get me. “Darn tootin!” was my reply. She picked us up at 14.46 miles before we got to the spooky part. Crises averted. One crises.

Just before we got to Hillbilly Heaven, we were forced to stop due to a truck parked dead in the road. Penny said, “What’s going on here.” Then she saw it, a deer lying in the gravel, and when the animal moved she burst into tears. I got out and the young woman, whom we knew, asked me to finish the deer off. All I had was my folding knife that I carry to protect myself from coyotes. I managed to get Penny’s truck around the poor creature so she wouldn’t see what came next.

I know three men, lifelong hunters, who stopped hunting after they had to kill a deer with a knife. I stopped hunting several years ago, in part, because I just didn’t want to hurt things anymore. Let me tell you, killing a deer with a knife is not easy, physically or emotionally. It was not the most unpleasant thing I ever did but it ranks in the top two.

Then we went to the house and tried to make merry when all I wanted to do was go alone into the woods and weep.

The Buddy Bones Turkey Butt Marathon

After falling off the wagon with some deep fried turkey butt on Christmas day, Buddy Bones and I knew we had to hit the road for some serious mileage. We had another eating to attend for the evening of December 26^th, my brother-in-law’s birthday party. So Buddy and I planned to leave the house around 11:00 am and make a long circuitous route to Carroll County. I lifted weights in the morning and got delayed resulting in skipped lunch and leaving an hour late. What could possibly go wrong?

We hit the road at 12:00 pm, crossed the Yazoo River, and headed out Grenada Blvd. As usual the boulevard was heavily trafficked and not a pleasant place to run. When we made it to Highway 7, we crossed over onto Grenada Blvd Extended and had a pleasant mile and a half until we had to get back on the highway. But we only had a half mile or less before we got on the Big Sand Creek Levee and headed east for the Carroll County hills. By then, I already knew it was going to be a tough day. My legs were tiring and we had a long, long way to go.

When we got on the levee, we were fewer than five miles from my front door and were seeing something totally new for us. I had never run, walked, or driven here before and that gave me a thrill. We crossed a couple of gates that made me a little uneasy. Eventually we could see some hunter orange way up ahead on top of the levee. Since I am nearsighted and don’t wear glasses, I couldn’t tell what it was until I was very close. It was a hunter.

We chatted a little and he must have said five times that he had never seen anyone run this levee top. I do a lot of things no one else around here does, especially since I started hanging out with Buddy Bones. I don’t know why I didn’t remember his name. He said he was the land owner and lived in Greenwood. I went on ahead and as I was nearing the end of the levee at the hill line, a truck came up from behind and stopped. He was also nice and I remembered his name, but told me it wasn’t a good idea to be running out. “We’ve had a lot of trouble in this area,” Justin Acey said. “I lot of people are going to be looking at you.”  I told him I was trying to get to that little road that ran along the foot of the hills to Highway 82. He pointed out a turn row I could have taken or the railroad tracks up ahead. We chose the tracks.

The abandoned C&G Railway line was grown up so thick we had to walk the ditch beside it, but we found the little road and started shuffling towards 82. We crossed the highway and headed towards Pelucia Creek and got on the levee there and headed west towards Humphrey Highway. Once more, when we got on the levee, we were in brand new territory and we ran and walked and walked and ran until we made the highway a little under six miles later.

On Humphrey Highway we headed south back towards the hills again. I was really tired now and was walking a lot. It was getting late. The birthday party was to start at 6:00, and I didn’t think we would make it. Surprisingly, I was able to shuffle up the big hill, a difficult feat even with fresh legs. It was dark now and once on top, it began to rain on us. I was ill-equipped for rain and the temp was dropping fast. That’s when my father and brother-in-law drove up. Buddy and I tapped out. We had only covered 23.5 miles, but we had fun, ran off some turkey butt, and saw some new territory. For us, that’s what it’s all about.

 

The time was terrible, but we had a good time.

 

The Buddy Bones Tanglefoot Trail Marathon

A bright sun was lighting up a blue sky when me n Buddy Bones drove away from 333 West Monroe Avenue Tuesday morning December 16th. The excitement was palpable as the long awaited Buddy Bones Tanglefoot Trail Marathon was only a couple of hours away in driving distance and time.

Since I meet Buddy and started training with him, my running has taken a definite upturn. He is so easy to get along with, only talks when talked to, and is ever up for whatever I want to do. A perfect friend and training partner. Of course, I have John for the pool swimming and weightlifting, but for running, Buddy is the man.

We drove up to the Whistle Stop in Algoma about 10:00 am and were thankful for a place to park and use the bathroom before starting. Somewhere around 10:20 we were off with plans to go 13.11 one way and turn around. We headed north into what was for us unknown territory. The air was a brisk 48 degrees with a light wind blowing into our faces. A few birds chirped and occasionally the wind whisltled through the pines, but mostly the day was silent save for our footfalls and breathing sounds.
Despite the fact that it was a weekday and a winter one, we saw several cyclists, a few walkers, and a couple of runners. But pretty much we were alone the whole way.

We saw some lovley woods, a beaver pond, a shooting house, and bean fields. We crossed over a highway, ran past some ball fields, and saw houses hidden in the woods. Occasionally we crossed a road, until we came into Pontotoc. It took a long time to get through and out of that town. Oddly, there was no Whistle Stop there. There were signs on the Tanglefoot with arrows pointing into town announcing bathrooms and food, but nothing on the trail itself.

Finally north of Pontotoc, we were in the country once more. As we approached the thirteen mile mark, I could see up in the distance what looked like and proved to be a Whistle Stop. When we got there, 13.85 miles from Algoma, the sign on the building read Ecru.

When we made the turn and headed back south towards Algoma, I was surprised at the level of my fatigue. I had been hoping to hold up better on this one that the last two. For this one, I set out shuffling 3.25, shifting into marathon goal pace (9:30) for a mile, and then walking for a half mile. I only did two 9:30 miles before my legs just didn't have it in them anymore. On the way back it was all slow shuffling and some walking. The first Buddy Bones Marathon I finished in 5:57. I know that is pathetically slow, but bear in mind, except for Buddy, I am alone and I have to run the marathon as well as work the aide stations. The second Buddy Bones Marathon I did in 5:33. I was hoping to break 5:30 today.
By the time we had made it back through Pontotoc, somewhere around seventeen or eighteen miles, it was looking like I was going to have to ditch my run/walk strategy and shuffle all the way in. I walked one solid mile through town and when I started back, I determined to shuffle all the way to 26.2 and that is what I did although my pace kept getting slower and slower. 

We finished in 5:21 a new Buddy Bones world record. The drive home in the dark was tiring and when we finally made it and got out of the truck, I discovered I was the Tin Man. It felt like all my joints were rusted solid. Seriously, I could barely walk at all. Nothing hurt. I was just so still I could hardly move. Muscles and joints both had rusted everything shut while I drove home. But I did get inside, spent some time with Luvie, took a bath, and slept well.

Buddy wants to do another marathon next week. Stay tuned.

Poor Buddy Bones

Thursday ended my last day of regular classes at work for this semester. What lies ahead is the chaos of exam week. Then I think I will be off a little, but I am not sure. I did a very short run, 2.25 miles, and then went to DSU. Things are not sounding well there either. The Mad Swimming Scientist is talking about the pool being closed for several weeks during the break. Are you kidding me? I guess I will have to get my wetsuit and go to the pond if I want to maintain even a modicum of swim fitness.

Last night my muscles felt a lot better in the water. I got 1,300 in before we started the main set. This time I warmed up and my muscles relaxed and felt ready to go. We did 8 X 200 with a floating fast 50 in the first four. We rested :20 after each. Coach gave us the option of repeating that pattern for the next four or start with a fast 50 and add a 50 on each rep until we finished with a full 200 all out. I chose the more difficult option and was rewarded with some heavy breathing and hard heat beating, but my muscles felt good. What a difference a day makes. Tuesdays swim and Wednesday's weights tuned up my upper body muscles. I swear, I can get results in a single swim practice. Running is just not like that. After the 200s, I swam an easy 200 while my teammates finished up. Then it was 50 swim/50 back kick until we did 400. We did this with fins which means I got my butt handed to me. After that we did a hard 200 with fins. As usual, I go from dominator to dominated when fins are involved. That was the end of practice, and I cooled down with an easy 550 with small paddles. Total: 4,200 yards.

Me 'n Buddy Bones had big ideas for today, Friday, but they had to be cancelled. I'll spare you the details, and yes I am groaning a little. It it just the one day of the week that I often get to play as long as I want to. I still remember the joy I had when I was in the first grade and Mom dropped me off at Rob White's house and said I could play for an hour. An hour! The freedom and joy I felt that day as the world's greatest mom drove away leaving me free for an hour was addicting. An hour, a whole hour! I have been trying to recapture, recreate that feeling ever since. Sometimes I get it, and I always cherish it when it happens like a newborn baby that needs feeding and hugging and protecting. It is precious and should be defended, fought for at all costs. I sometimes get this freedom and joy when I do a long, long run or swim or bike ride, and don't have to worry about the time, to get back and take care of some sort of business. Me 'n Buddy Bones got it twice recently. It was super. But not today.

The Buddy Bones Bridge Marathon

Oops, we did it again. Me 'n Buddy Bones, for the second time in five days, ran a marathon. That Buddy is one heck of a running dude and his imagination and lust for adventure matches my own. Now that I have a training buddy to run with, there is no telling what I might accomplish or how much fun I might have. Let the games begin.

The bridge between Greeenwood and Sidon

Wednesday morning I knew when we left the house that 26.2 was the goal, and we left about the same time as we did five days ago, 9:45 am. Originally we had planned to drive to the Tanglefoot Trail and run there, but sometime during the night before or early morning, I woke up and remembered that my inspection sticker was very expired. I will get a ticket for sure, I thought, so I began to scheme on Plan B.

Plan B turned out to be a lot like the Buddy Bones River Marathon. We shuffled to Highway 82 and like last time we crossed the bridge headed south and went out into the inustrial park. When we got to the old Highway 49, however, instead of running straight out as far as you can to the levee, we took the little side road to the new highway and ran over the Pelucia Creek Bridge and then ventured into Malouf Trailer Park which led us back to the old 49. This was my third time running this stretch of road and I liked it. When we exited the old highway half was between Greewood and Sidon and went west over the Yazoo River Bridge, we were on roads I had never run. I like that.

The only irritable thing of the day was the wind which I had to battle all the way from Greenwood. We crossed the bridge at 8.65 miles and when we turned north, finally we had the strong wind to our backs. I changed the run/walk pattern to 4.0/.65. When we started back running north of the river bridge, our pace was the fastest we had run all day. I was starting to get stoked about beating last week's time.

Finally in the country

Basically, from crossing the bridge until we got back to Greenwood, we followed the river along a lonely gravel road. At one point, the river became the French Bend Cutoff and then the Yazoo River again, but we were always beside a body of water. When we crossed over the bridge at Fort Pemberton and entered the island of north Greenwood, I saw we were going to have to do some additions to get our 26.2 in, so we went behind Walmart, out John Pittman Drive and crossed the Tallahatchie River and ran out Wade Road and then back into Greenwood and to the house.

We beat our first marathon by twenty-three minutes then decided to cool down for a total of twenty-seven miles. Inside, the cats stalked me knowing I was about to crash. When I did crash, they crashed with me and we had us one heck of a nice nap.

The Buddy Bones River Marathon

Friday was a very enjoyable and exciting day. I left the house on an adventure run and wound up running a whole official marathon. Even more surprising was I won! It was the dangdest thing. Let me tell you about it.

A prison off in the distance

Me 'n my new friend, Buddy Bones, hatched a plot to do an adventure run Friday, November 21. We left the house at 9:47 a.m., and I was loaded down with two packs, 68 ounces of Gatorade, four gels, and a few other edibles. Buddy doesn't eat or drink so he was travelling light. We headed for the Greenwood, Mississippi Industrial Park and when we got out there, the traffic fell off and although there were buildings in sight, on our right the land opened up into vast tracks of farmland. Way off in the distance I could see the tree line that marked the river where we dreamed we might be running in an hour or two.

The plan was loose but we thought we would run out 49 and get on the creek levee and run it to the river levee. We got on the old Highway 49, and when it came time to turn to go out to the new highway, we decided to stay on the old road and go straight to the river levee. That would cut out the highway, which I have never been fond of running, and the creek levee, which looked like it might be a little rough on top.

We got to the Yazoo River levee at 5.45 miles, and on top the surface was flat, lightly gravelled and soft. Perfect. I had never been here and that made it all the more gooder. We started shuffling north, back towards town, but the river makes a huge loop west, and I didn't know how far it would be to get back to town. in a mile or two we made it to the pumping station. I had been here, way back in 1971 when I started hanging out with the Pine Street Gang. At the station, I sat down and taped up the fourth toe on my left foot. It was still a bit sore from last Thursday's run and I knew if I did not attend to it early, it would get bad. After the kinesio tape job, I felt it no more.

Just onto River Road Extended.

Running the levee was nice. Every now and then we shuffled past a patch of woods that made me think of my .22 rifle. Sometimes we could see the river. Sometimes not. Eventually, about ten miles in, we made to to an giant old house at a place where two gravel roads met. I thought about getting off on the roads but decided to stay on the levee. Bad choice. The road on top of the levee disappeared and in its place was tall grass, uneven dirt. and armadillo holes every foot or two. It was a wonderful place to twist an ankle or even break a leg. Luckily after only a hundred meters or so, we came upon the C & G Railroad line which gave us a chance to follow the tracks back to the gravel road.

From the road, we could see the end of River Road Extended way off in the distance. Between us and it were wide open harvested cotton fields and clear air. I felt free. I didn't ask Buddy how he felt. I guess I like him a lot because we don't need to talk to stay friends.

Eventually we made it there and were headed back into town. River Road Extended is a very pretty street lined one house deep with giant old mansions on its south side with the Yazoo River on its north. Decades old oak trees provide and peaceful shade and a family cemetery in one yard reminded me of the vast local history that most of us never know. The road led us to the Yazoo River Bridge on Highway 82 which we crossed at thirteen miles into our journey and then turned left on the levee road of West Claiborne Extended. We were still running the levee only we were on the other sided of the river now headed west instead of east.

The levee road on the Tallahatchie.

After a couple of miles, West Claiborne Extended ends and one has to get on Highway 82 or turn on the frontage road. We crossed the highway and got on another levee road but this one was on the Tallahatchie River not the Yazoo. At this point we took a long walk, a bit over a mile, to take in some calories and fluids. This levee road ends in a field which we had to negotiate through mud and tractor tracks until we made it to  the levee road off Riverside Drive where we re-entered Greenwood this time on the north side of town. We shuffled Riverside Drive to Grand Blvd and then crossed the Tallahatchie Bridge. After crossing the bridge we ran out Wade Road  and then turned north onto a turnrow which we followed back to Money Road. At Money Road we were nearing nineteen miles so we headed north to get some more distance.

We turned back towards town when we were far enough from home to finish with about twenty-three miles, but when we got to the foot of the bridge, Buddy said, "Let's run out here a bit," as he turned left onto the gravel road. When we did get back into town, we were only one block south of Bankston School when Buddy spoke up again. "Let's run this way," he said turning off the boulevard.

"You know we are doing a full marathon," he added.


At the trail head and back on the river.

"I was beginning to suspect that," I answered.

"Not only are we running a full marathon, we are doing an official one."

We shuffled along in silence for a while. Then I said, "An official marathon has to have a name."

A minute or two later he said, "The Buddy Bones Marathon. Or the Buddy Bones Yazoo River Levee Marathon. Or the Buddy Bones Yazoo and Tallahatchie Self-supported Levee Marathon."

We were on Lidell Street now and our distance was approaching twenty-four miles. Then Buddy added, "You know you are in the lead?"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How many are back there?" I said referring to the runners behind us.

"Tens," he answered.

I gave him a look.

"Dozens."

I gave him another look.

"At least a hundred."

That made me happy. In fact, I almost cried.

When we got to East Monroe, I knew we were seven tenths of a mile from home so we kept heading south, and I did the math in my head as we got further and farther from home. We made to to the Yazoo River levee, got on top, and then I saw it, the entrance to the Yazoo River Trail. It ain't much, only about a half a mile, but it is a nice trail, and I love to run it so we did. I stopped to pee when we were just inside the trail. The air was cool and the tree leaves fell in the autumn breeze. I felt great. I was running a marathon and about to win it. Then I remembered. "How close are they?" I asked Buddy.

"They stopped to pee too," he told me.

Then we started back shuffling. My legs were very tired but I was very happy. We made twenty-five miles while still in the woods. I knew we were a mile from home at the bridge so we were going to be a little long. "What about that?" I asked Buddy.

"Don't worry. We will stop at 26.2 and take a picture of your watch. From there we just walk home."

The time may have been slow, but it was
good enough for first place.

So we did. We took the picture at 26.22 and then walked the .17 mile to the house. When I stooped to pick the newspaper up out of the driveway, I audibly grunted. I was stiff, so stiff it was like I was bones or something. Then I went inside, drank a recovery shake, and talked to the cats.