Isit transfixed, eyes locked and set, jaw clenched, legs crossed, arms folded on my lap, each limb heavy as a steel anvil. My eyes want to fix on the same object even as I blink. My breathing is slow and deep, long inhales followed by quick exhales, as if I am entering deep REM sleep.

I have finished 18 miles, on the hills, and made it to church by 10:00. It is the first 18 of the season, a struggle, as 18 miles usually are. The first hour is on the highest hills in the state, long before daylight, dodging the occasional fisherman pulling his bass rig to the lake. The second hour is perfect, flat, magnificent sunrise, cool temperatures, and a cloudless sky. The third hour grows progressively difficult, aches and pains sprout like jonquils on a spring day. Finally, it is over, and there remains less than an hour to shower, eat, and drive to church. I am able to keep the facade of normalcy—“Sure, I’m OK, Honey”—until I ease down onto the church pew. I quickly become paralyzed.

I sit, hoping that I am portraying the perfect picture of reverence, my mind working at sub-6:00 pace, my body frozen. I am pleased to hear the announcement for the prayer, and I quickly and thankfully close my eyes. My head is already bowed. I am jolted upright by a wifely elbow, and I frown at her for having the nerve to think I was sleeping. I regain consciousness less than a minute after the prayer is finished, three globules of saliva glistening on the left lapel of my sport coat. I do not understand my wife’s quiet comment but faintly make out the word “drooling” and react indignantly with a facial contortion.

THE REVOLT OF THE BODY I hear the dreaded words “Rise for the hymn” and know it is gut-check time. Using the same source of adrenaline frightened women use to pick automobiles off their trapped children, I give it a determined try. I find that by hooking my elbow around the pew in front, then using all the strength in my other arm, I am able to push myself to a standing position. I feel pretty good, erect and proud of my accomplishment, until I realize I am not singing but rather staring at the long word at the end of the second line: “Ga-li-lee.” I find the wherewithal to join in.

Perhaps a latent drop of GU entered my bloodstream. I sing in a firm and strong voice, careful not to miss a single word or note on the third verse. Unfortunately, the remainder of the congregation is finishing the fourth.

Plopping back down onto the pew, I reenter my slight coma. The sermon is beginning, and I strain to hear the three points the pastor is to discuss. I hear him say the points all begin with the letter “S.” I think I understand all three words: siesta, silence, and sleep—although I could not be sure. After that, I kind of lose track. I did, however, determine that I can positively sleep with eyes wide open.

Part way through the sermon, the carbohydrate depletion resurfaces. I visualize a Coke Classic—not the Diet Coke I always drink but a full-flavor, full-bodied Coca-Cola containing sugar! I can hear the can pop open and, as I pour the caramel-colored liquid over the ice cubes, feel the fizz jump onto my face as I sniff the bouquet of the delicious, dark drink. From the elusive Coke, I move to the half-eaten bag of Chocolate Morsels stashed in the bright yellow bag at home on the pantry shelf. I can smell the chocolate and feel the surge of energy that comes from that wonderful combination of sugar and caffeine. The visions end but the carbohydrate craving continues.

An idea surfaces from deep within my brain. Using superhuman strength, I lift my right hand and get it into my front trouser pocket. Quickly my fingers locate what I am praying is there. A Starlight mint! I quietly remove it and start the unwrapping process. The cellophane is brittle and noisy. Crinkles echo in the silence of the sanctuary. I feel my wife’s disapproving glance. I ignore her and work silently but feverishly. The small boy in the pew in front hears Ted Veach the noise, and his

head pops over the back of the pew like a tortoise’s head extending out of its shell. His eyes focus immediately on the mint, then our eyes meet. No way, kid! You ain’t getting this! The energy in the mint carries me to the end of the service and the next big challenge, which is getting out of the church. Using my newly developed method of rising, I slowly attain a standing position and plant my feet firmly. I fortify my thinking to make sure it knows my legs will soon have to move and shuffle out into the aisle.

YOUTH! WHY HAST THOU ABANDONED ME? I see her coming, prancing across the sanctuary like a show pony—young, tanned, fit, and blond. She is a new runner, home from college for the weekend and full of enthusiasm for running. She is unaware of the horrible temporary conditions it can cause and hero-struck at people, regardless of age, who can run for long distances. I know she is heading for me. My response is immediate and spontaneous—primal—my shoulders go back, head rises, stomach pulls in. I look away nonchalantly, cool, calm, aloof, and very athletic. “Hi,” she says. “

Well, hello. I didn’t see you.” “I ran five miles yesterday.” “You did? Fantastic! That’s great. Is that your PR?” “Pardon—?” “Is that the first time you’ve ever run that far?” “Yeah. I ran with Sean. We had a great time!”

Sean is the twerp with the spiked hair and the earring in his eyebrow. How did that dork make five miles? “How about you? Did you have a good week?” she continues. “Yeah, got in a few miles. I ran this morning, before church.” “Yeah? How far?” “I got in 18.” “

Eighteen miles? How can you possibly run 18 miles?” “Ah, you know. It was a great morning for running. You know, it just takes one step at a time.” I flash a smile. “Wow! I can’t see how anybody can run that far. I’m amazed—and impressed! Sean! Hey, Sean. Come here. I want to tell you something.”

I walk away before Sean arrives, ignoring the girl and without speaking to the preacher. I do not want, among my other transgressions of the morning, to lie about how good his sermon was! My prayer is that I am out of her field of vision before I have to descend the front steps.