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in our group, including Jeff, lived in the area and had lost homes, businesses, and even loved ones in the storm.
    “My shop was destroyed,” he continued with surprising matter-of-factness. “But I was lucky. I had insurance and I was able to rebuild. A lot of other local business owners had no insurance.” Unfortunately, however, many former residents had left the area, leaving Jeff with a fraction of his former customer base.
    “You seem very resilient,” I said.
    “Do you want to know my secret?” he asked.
    “I’d like to.”
    “Running,” he said. “As funny as it sounds, it’s running more than anything else that’s given me the strength to get through it. No matter what else I lost, I could still run.”
    Through pants and puffs, another runner told me that he had recently lost eighty-five pounds. His doctor, a runner himself, had inspired him to change his life. “That’s him next to you,” he said. The two of them had driven all night to get here.
    “Talk about going the extra mile for a patient!” I quipped.
    There was a healthy crowd of supporters, local officials, and media folks awaiting our arrival at the finish line, and before I even had a chance to wipe the perspiration from my brow, a reporter jabbed a microphone at my mouth. As I answered her questions, my thoughts trailed back down the road with the few straggling runners, three of them first-timers, who were still on the course. I wanted to greet them at the finish line. Then maybe enjoy a cold margarita poolside with the whole group.
    Instead, Jimmy Hopper escorted me over to the mosh pit to do several more interviews.
    “Hey, Hopps, this is kind of draining,” I said. There’s nothing I hate more than being a complainer, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was sweaty and tired, and I really just wanted to chill for a few minutes.
    “Hang in there, bro,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “I feel for you.” I thanked him, took a quick swig, shook my head like a wet dog, and tried to regroup for the line of reporters standing there.
    By the time I heard those familiar words “Are we a bus?” I was nearly comatose. This was no time to take pity on my own sorry self, however. The crew had worked their tails off to make today happen. They had erected and then deconstructed a small city, moving thousands of pounds of equipment and supplies, and had kept twenty-one marathon runners safe and healthy in brutally hot conditions. We slumped into seats on the bus and stared at one another numbly, wondering how this could go on for forty-seven more days.
    “Things have got to be tighter,” Hopps said.
    I looked at him in surprise. He seemed so young. When I’d first met Hopps, he had an unbridled youthful exuberance that was partly expressed in the golden locks of hair that dangled down to his shoulders. Now his head was shaved, and a new veneer of manly responsibility shaded his boyish lack of restraint.
    “The process needs to be revamped,” Garrett agreed. “We need better structure.”
    Dave nodded in apparent agreement but said nothing. As Hopps, Garrett, and Koop began to earnestly trade ideas about how to better manage the press, decrease my workload, improve the runners’ post-race experience, and streamline the Finish Festival setup and breakdown procedures, I clumsily made my way to the back of the bus, struggling to maintain balance as the vehicle rumbled down the rough Southern highway. Pulling my shoe off, I saw that the blister was getting worse. It had grown wider, deeper, and more discolored. Why I hadn’t immediately attended to it after the marathon today was beyond me. I knew better.
    Koop was working as hard as he could to keep my body glued together, and here I was sabotaging his efforts by making a truly amateurish mistake and then exacerbating the problem by keeping it hidden due to my embarrassment. I was sure he’d be pissed, as he had every right to be, when I finally did tell him.
    Past midnight