68

The amount of minutes I have allotted for myself to complete the 8 Tuff Miles on Feb. 28th. Our local running event will sell 838 racing bibs as the actual distance is 8.38 miles. It will sell out, it always does now that it has become the largest foot race anywhere in the Virgin Islands. 68 minutes of pure guts. It is a lofty goal for a newbie runner as I have only been running a little over 2 years. This will be my 3rd 8TM race, and even more noteworthy of a time due to my age of 52. Numbers do mean something. With math being an exact science their is little room to fall off pace. Last year I ran it in 70 minutes. I totally surprised myself, along with a slew of other local runners, with my time and on that given day last year it was good enough to win my age division of 50-54. Now I must defend my title. That old sports saying "On Any Given Sunday" holds steadfast. You simply never know in local road racing who is going to show up and how it will affect the standings. Last year if I had been in the 55-59 age division I would of not even been in the top 3, and one race last summer stateside I did not even place in the top 3 but if I had been in either of the 2 Lower age groups I would have placed 1st. So the time is really the way runners measure their improvements. I would like to think that since I started at such a late age, 50, that my accelerated growth, ones ability to improve over time, is still in play. Mostly all runners my age are slowing as they have been running a lot longer than me in regards to the amount of years. 68 will be my mantra come race day. I want to still be running when I am 68. Perhaps a 68 someday in a 10 miler, my current PB, personal best, is 73. Oh the magic of 68.

What a year it was for a young impressionable boy of 12 who had spent his first 11 years in a cauldron of social chaos and the familia lifestyle of an Italian American upbringing in South Philadelphia. Coming of age in 1968 for me was an accelerated learning process on social mores. Traditions at the time I thought normal and acceptable defined one part of me, and the social and political landscape and upheaval defining another. Chicago rioted that summer at the DNC and Bobby Kennedy was shot dead, fresh on the heels of the MLK assassination. Our country, along with my impressionable mind tried to sort out the unfolding scenarios and decide who we were and what direction would we as individuals take and what path the country would be driven towards. Who can ever forget Tommy Smith and John Carlos at the 68 Summer Olympics. Moving to southern New Jersey in 1967 with my family was like going to Disney. Who ARE these people with their white socks and lawn furniture! Farmers is what us city folk called them and a one horse town now defined our new home with my Spanish Grandfather, a man with a fist of iron and a heart of compassion. I did not realize it at the time of course but he saved my life. South Philly had all ready chewed up and spit out other family members and the hillbilly ways of Jersey would allow me to calm down somewhat and enjoy some nature and smell the roses. It was a rough going at first but my street smarts from Philly carried me through. The summer of 68 in Jersey was like viewing the social unrest from a private box at the opera. Aware but protected. Gone where the riots a half a block from our Philly row house, no bloodied and beaten bodies walking by, no car windows smashed out. Forgotten was the constant threat of a beating by a rival gang simply because my skin was the wrong color. Ended where the detours home to avoid being in the wrong hood at the wrong time. Oh sweet Jersey where the picket fences were white and the cheese steaks were loathsome! I learned a lot of things about a lot of situations in those years and ran with 2-3 different groups at a time and although never really feeling at home with any of them they all had merit and pulled me in and taught me the ways of life. A handful of close friends added to my adjustment and I grew to become one of them for the 9 years I lived their. 68 produced some of the best music ever recorded and in my darkest hours I would find the necessary solace to move forward and notch out a place for my self in this utterly confusing and indifferent world.

As a runner I have become aware of a lot of things buried in the recesses of my mind. Avenues have opened that other wise would have remained blocked had I not pursued this sport. 68 will have special meaning come race day this year. I have done the training and the work to make 68 meaningful in my life. Be well