So, Saturday morning Ted, Steve, Mark and I took off for a little 23 mile run (that was my sales pitch anyway). Steve said he could only go part way, claiming that he had a life or something. We ran over the river (on an ancient dilapidated footbridge) and through the woods, down to the Sundial Bridge (where Steve turned back), up to the Fisherman's trail by Keswick Dam and headed back home by (mostly) another way.
On the return to Sundial we left Mark where Steve had left us as Ted and I planned to run up the Water Tower Hill and Mark was, after 20 miles, pretty much out of gas. Mark believes that running should be painful and involve lots of suffering and that therefore, training is cheating. He just takes off on long runs and races with minimum preparation and somehow remains cheerful as he slows down more and more with each passing mile. By the time we left him he was in the gear that Ted accurately named, "Glacial".
No one has seen Mark since.
Ted stuck with me up the hill and up a few more hills until, at mile 23 (about 2 miles short of the finish) he dug way down deep and found... nothing. Bonk! I left him behind as well, ignoring the little naggy internal voice of conscience humming "He ain't heavy, he's your brother...", and pressed on.
As I past Mark's house, with Ted's car out front, I thought of good buddy Ted, crawling back on all fours through the mud and broken glass and I reached into my pockets to see if I had some memento I could leave on his car as a token of affection and penance. But alas, I had no Hallmark card, no money, no trinkets or fancy gifts in my pockets for Ted. But I took everything I found there, EVERYTHING I had, and I left it all for him, on his windshield. I held nothing back.
Isn't that the truth, Ted?