Every Sunday morning the training group I run with meets in the upstairs room above the Runner’s Edge, the running store in Missoula. We sit with our coffee, ipods, water, watches that can pretty much predict the future and listen to our coach as he tells us what he has in store for us.
Run against traffic, he says, for Christ’s sake. We’re almost there, he says, be conservative.
As we collect ourselves and our gear a hundred or so of us make our way down a flight of stairs and onto the street. Every Sunday I notice the poster of Steve Prefontaine as I start down the stairs. His eyes are piercing, even in a more than 30-year-old black and white photograph. Nearly every week I have to fight back tears.
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