"Shawn! It's Your Song!!!"

It was an early morning rise at the Larisey-Causey refugee camp. At 7am, my feet were in the stirrups. And by stirrups, I mean pedals. Without a watch, there was only one way to gage my mileage: take Coach Bristow's word for it. So, I took his route down Technology Drive. Feeling a bit crazy, I decided to deviate from his suggested course onto the road leading to the Berryhill Recycling Center.

The road was a quaint country lane. A horse farm came into view on my left side. Straining to see a horse or two, I slowed down. Stately barn: check. Gooseneck trailer: check. Quality wooden fence: check. Just when I was beginning to wonder where the equine residents were, I spotted a mare with her robust foal. They both halted breakfasting, throwing their heads into the air. Ears perked, they bore their eyes into my strange person.

Passing the mother and foal, I reeled in the recycling center ahead. As I was just about to pass through the chain link gates, a white Ford truck floated past my left shoulder. The white truck was pulled around the cul-de-sac, and its contents spilled out the driver side door while I skidded to a halt.

"I didn't know people still rode those anymore!" exclaimed the man.

"Yeah, I bought this one at an antique shop in Atlanta," I said through a goofy grin.

"Is that a 10 speed?" he persisted.

"Yeah, it is."

"I used to have one of those. That was, oh, twenty years ago. The last time I rode it, I took it up Fouche Gap Road. Then I retired it," he reminisced aloud.

"So sad... Well, I better be going; I'm doing a training ride for my first triathlon. Have a great day!"

"You have a great day," he offered as I turned to pedal away.

On my way back, the mare and foal were waiting. This time, the foal started prancing toward the fence. He only did this for a few beats and resigned to watch as I sped out of his world.

By this point, my hands were hurting for want of handlebar wrap. Also, my gluteus maximus was being pinched between the ancient fossil of a bike seat and my tuber ischii. It was then that I decided the bike ride was over. I turned into Coach Bristow's driveway, slid off the bike, and popped out the kick stand. Peeling off the gloves was tedious work. Upon unsnapping the helmet clasp, I jumped into the Prelude to head to the second part of the work-out: the long run.

My running partner, Mary, was waiting behind the Cage Center at Berry. Of course, I was more than 15 minutes late. However, she was fairly unfazed by my tardy arrival despite the fact she had to report to work at the Winshape Retreat in the early afternoon. We walked past the front circle and jogged to the Ford Gym. The Clara Bowl Race was going on, so there was a queue of buses like giant yellow caterpillars following each others' tails. Runners, in droves, were warming up.

I began to think about my past: middle school hurdler, high school harrier, and college steepler. Looking across the course, as we ran, I felt the bittersweet pangs of a lost joy. How I miss training with a dedicated team over the hundreds of miles between Rome and Kenosha. Alas, I cannot return to that time. Choosing not to forget the past, but cherish it, I stopped clinging (if for the moment).

Mary and I only ran 5 miles, but we spent quite a bit of time afterwards running around to visit with former Rage members. Apparently there are more high school running coaches from Berry College than anywhere in Georgia! Luke Godleski, Brett Dettmerring, B.J. Sutton, Emily Chamberlain, Shane (?), Mary Lee, Anthony Christie, Meghan Hoover, Doran Stone, David Matherne, Michelle Palmer, and me. Ther are probably more... Also, Paul and Jay are collegiate coaches that hail from Berry.

.... that was last Saturday. Only a couple more Saturdays until the triathlon!