I was just twenty years old, and I was dying, a term used to describe a runner who has expended every physical resource, and whose pace has deteriorated to a crawling shuffle.
The 1981 Baltimore Marathon finished at the convention center. I was still miles away from there.
Two hours earlier, I waited at the starting line with more than two-thousand others, the cold late November wind made me wonder why I thought running a marathon was a good idea. Up until that moment, the marathon was alluring, something I thought all serious distance runners should do.