ABSTRACT
Not a class runner, not a racer, I have an affinity for the solitary run, an affinity for the hills, which, now in steep ascent, are tearing at my fibers, finding flaws in my structure, applying petty pains, and challenging desperate lungs and the self-esteem of a person not young, surviving in the arena of youth. I have made the top, and the tall buildings of campus are below me. Now I can relish the glide down through the still-brown foliage of early spring, consciously holding back against the hill and the downward slope’s invitation to maximum speed. Then the kick to the gym where the comraderie of the weight room is waiting for me. Exhilarated, I work around the pain in my left shoulder.
