Jeff Barton

I texted my girlfriend, " I think I'm going to drop babe. This might be my lastloop," as I hobble-jogged past my second-last aid station. I never thought blisters would take me out, but here we were. Just 25 kilometres in, and those little bastards started forming on the balls of both feet. It started with mild irritation, but the combination of heat and sweat exacerbated the discomfort, ripping the skin right off, and leaving me with a raw, searing pain I'd never experienced before.

I had a friend a few years back who was a lot like me. We worked together for a brief time before he was laid off, while I was spared the same fate when a co-worker decided to retire. We stayed in touch after his layoff and became regular drinking buddies. He was an alcoholic; I couldn't admit I was one, too. We came from similar work backgrounds in law enforcement and corrections.

I run ten miles every other day, two different routes. Couldn't tell you if that is good for me or not; that would be the purview of a sports orthopedist, but it is my gift to me. If the day is hot and humid and my sleep was fragmented, we are talking an hour and twenty-six or seven, as in minutes. If it's wonderfully cold and crisp, it's an hour twenty. Cold, energized, and in training, I can still pull off an hour eighteen, but increasingly rarely.