Hiker "Where have you guys run from?" Rod "Cape Point". Hiker, stunned "When did you start?". Rod "5:30 this morning" Hiker "Where are you going to?" Rod "Ferryman's in the Waterfront" Hiker - completely dumfounded -"Do you do this sort of thing often?"

Paul Vorwerk.- The Inaugural Tuffer Puffer - August 2000 "The flame fired in me by running, beamed merrily as we gathered to start the next adventure. The prospect of being out in the mountains for as long as it took to run 100 miles, was exciting no matter what happened. I was confident beyond any faith that I would finish, no matter what. And more, enjoy the run no matter what. We had all the right equipment for whatever the weather might do - plus a few energy bars and a grin. The time to the start passed quickly among sips of beer, jokes, looks of lunchtime passersby and the patrons outside the pub, which would be the start and finish. Plans had been made, crews to see us through the run organized, maps food and clean clothes packed. Then, after a loud countdown, we were off, running away from the workday bustle, leaving the everyday heading for magic and marvel. On the long climbs, a different perspective grew. The mountain under its cloud, closed around us as we went up the gorge; below sirens dulled, the city shrank, and our group, Bryan, Christelle and I, gathered closer. Once we were up, running was easy. The path was clear, on the way across, jumping rocks and muddy sections, easing towards the beacon that marked the highest point. The cloud thinned, patches of blue sky appeared; things were getting better. From the beacon the trail wound down through rock clefts, across log tracks over soggy areas, along the gravelly, rocky path. The view grew across the ridges we would run, far sea, opening sky. It felt all too good up there in the open, the fresh, clear air, the cool running; the small stream spilling over waterfall, shaking a tall reed in the center of the pool below. Ahead and below us, a line of faster runners ran out of view. I felt close to the mountain there, the route familiar, knowing where I was, what was to come. Too soon we reach first water supply dams, which meant we would soon be going down. We remembered a midnight run here a while ago, laughing at ourselves, and what had brought us out here. The trail led to an access road, and we ran easily along, the unpressurised running of the early stages of an ultra - strong, rhythmic, unforced. As the road tipped down more steeply, we left it for a steeper, shorter, path; slipping and falling down to the Constantia Nek and the first meal break. Roger, Frans and Sean, the overnight crew, were still tentative and polite. We were loud and boisterous. Phase one was over, and delivered more than what I expected Eating quickly (soup and bread), we took torches, warm gear, filled water and energy packs and then started the next trail section up another climb through skeletons of trees burnt black by runaway fires. Night fell quickly and the path was easy to lose, though the way up next to the noisy stream was clear. As we moved up, feeling the rocks, pulling on branches, I plugged myself into the mountain, the north, south east and west lines, feeling Table Mountain behind, the dark loom of Constantiaberg ahead, the harbour village of Hout Bay to the right, a dark forest and the vast spread of streetlights across the flats to the left. Higher the Southern Cross hung clearly. It was just right there running in the moonlight, we hopped into the mystic. Felt a marvellous warmth spread through me, a loving warmth spread by the moon. It's light shimmering in the shrubs and grass, bright enough to run by. We were still strong, alive, and aware. It was perfect, better than could have hoped been for. Once again the dream-state of all-night running lay before us. This was so nearly enough. Bryan was in his element gliding over the eroded, shrubbed, rocky track. His night-pace hardly slowed. Christelle and I were slower and I took more time to record the view, reveling in the marvel of being here. Below on the road in cars, in houses, others were heading for dinner, maybe drinks, TV and bed; we were out in the world guided across trails, through forests past dams, heading towards energy bars, a night of running, of starlight and nightjars. While exploring the tracks and maps before the race, I'd set location strands to help me find my way. The web they formed glistened in the moonlight and led me easily along the trail: up a track, down a zig-zagging path which then cut across a sheer slope above a forest; along a longer wider path and then tugged me to a stop at the right corner from which our path turned. The mental picture I had taken of the sweep of the road, the feel of the forest, the shapes of the hills clicked into place. The trail waltzed up back and forwards, under a dripping overhang; up next to a waterfall. Back in the burned area we crossed through a section of white sand and black tree skeletons towards another stream. On the next crest we stopped to nibble, to drink water crunch crisps, take in the misty surroundings, the far views, the spiralling stars, silence and space. More wonder, getting what we wanted. We ran on happily, calm next to the still waters of a dam, crossed below its wall, sped along in the fresh scent of the recently cut pines. By now we were mostly quiet, running together in our little group, imagining the path ahead and behind, where others were running. We came upon a runner who would soon stop, and ran with him down to the next stopping point. Close to the bottom we sped down calling to our seconds. I whooped in response to a call and hopped out of the mystic into the branches of a dry tree across the track, all scratching and ripping. We sat quieter as we ate, changed shoes for a short road section; feeling calmer, deeper feelings stirred. We'd been out for nearly 8 hours. Our crew had been home, had dinner and watched TV. Soon though a short road section, and back to the last trail section, heading higher, easily finding paths, easing around streams, following the track under the still-bright moon. We set dogs barking at the buildings below another dam. Then headed higher again, talking of stars and life, chewing on energy bars. The crew wasn't at the appointed place and we went on thinking they were ahead. The long road section started in wrong shoes, down a long hill, down to where I would struggle most. The eventual winner ran past us here, having started 2 hours after us. The road was long, we were in the past midnight zone, energy levels low. For a while it all became marvellous again as we headed into the nature reserve. The air just felt different, calm and quiet: while I crunched at an apple. The Southern Cross had turned over. The moon hung lower, firing a spreading path across the sea, the distant surf surged, thumped and occasionally crashed. We met Michele singing her way along. Christelle began to hurt on that section and our pace slowed. Nearer the end I ran ahead to the turn point and placed my order. Halfway: ever faithful crew calm, attentive, and tiring fast. It was around 4 am and cold. Resting there made the event seem miserable - three of the runners arriving there bailed saying they'd had enough. The crews were dressed warmly, there was little joking. One of the runners relaxed on a mattress, smoking, if I wasn't hallucinating. Bryan and Christelle arrived anguished, pained, and facing hard decisions. My internal momentum switch clicked on and I had to go. On the way to the gate, cars carrying the runners of the one-way event that would start at 5:30 passed, some hooted; the greetings were cheering. A long climb took me near the entrance of the nature reserve then I went down, the road and into the hardest part of the run, energy levels at their lowest, baulking at thought of any food. Running became a jog-walk-teeth-grit. Soon the faster runners of the morning race came past, then the slower ones, and then nearly all of them. I dug deeper and deeper; and even this is what I wanted. Struggling is this zone puts me in touch with myself as I am. I must have looked bad to those at the checkpoint and aid station. They asked if I was okay, with some concern. But inside I was fine, the flame still flared. All I needed was coke and a banana, which put a lift in my step and enabled me to scurry now and again up the hill that followed. Soon I even ran some, and then ran more. Not far past the top a longer rest stop waited, plus Vera and Roelien, - the daytime crew - and the luscious sun. It had been cold through the night, and we'd been running in the shadow of a hill. But the rest was and food was good, the sun better, and best when Sean tipped water over me so that I could wash. Feel of the cold water was great, so rubbing myself down, feeling clean and putting on fresh clothes. After cereal, banana and a cup of coffee I was ready to run the last ~60 km. With 100 km done, I set off with at brisk step, and then slowed to a sustainable pace. I'd expected to feel worse here, legs dead, relying only on little more than willpower. But my legs were still running strong. All I needed was to get the energy supply right, but that would have made it all too easy. I drank my energy drink, licked salt and pushed on. Bryan caught up to me on the last bit of this trail section. He was strong and cheery, guiding some of the slower runners of the morning race; that helped me along. The next section made me dig deep again. The sun felt bright and hot now. At the next stop, the bottom of the wagon track, and the start of a long trail section I hit the low point of the race. I tried to be hearty but mostly sat still trying to revive. My crew looked concerned, especially as I was resisting food, the thought of eating made me nauseous. Luckily Vera had learned crewing lessons well and was assertive, forcing me to eat chunks of salty potato. Dave, another runner also resting there, asked if I had quit. Must have looked pretty miserable. But there was no desire in me to quit at all, if anything I was a bit surprised that they were worried. The drive in me to go on was a strong as ever, and I've never been a good democrat, preferring what I know is right to the majority opinion. As I left I heard the race made sure my crew and Bryan had his cell-phone number, explaining that he could get anywhere in the next trail section in the 4x4. I knew that bad patches pass. Of course we walked most of the long hill that followed. The slow pace helped and soon energy began to flow again, this marvelous body was responding well. Life was reasserting itself. Having Bryan there was a real help too. There we were, 20 hours into a run, two funny dudes playing this quite extreme game. Gradually the great day spread through my body, energy began to flow as I drank form the blue sky and liquid sun. This was my race. Getting to the end was a certainty, and would be done with a bit of a grin. The sun-block felt good on my arms my neck, ears, nose. With my dark glasses and cap, I must have looked as if I was heading for the beach. I could think about and then even pick up my location-thread web; things were back to normal, plugged into the sky, the regenerating veld, the age-old mountain rising above us. Life was good That Bryan had the next bad patch was also part of the flow. We shared the run and its demands. At the next check point he found just what he needed - a bag of raisins left by another runner. Soon we were both fine again, happy to be tucked against the mountain, flowing with its curves and bulges, confident, feeling strong. A wrong choice of track made the going tough for a time, but when that passed it wasn't far to the final stretch. There was quite a crowd at the last stop. My body now welcomed food, and it was then that I knew I was an ultra runner. I tucked into the food - potato with mayonnaise, soup, chocolate. It was more than 24 hours into the race; I was lording in a fold-up chair joshing with others while Sean, back from a sleep, massaged my legs with arnica oil. And I marveled at my body, the way it just keeps going, through bad patches, through life hardly complaining at what I put it through. But then again it is a lumpy, strong body and I never push it too far. Especially, my delicate little feet. As per instruction, Vera kept checking for blisters, as I was likely to ignore them. But there were none. Those feet hardly looked as if they'd run at all, the toenails were neat and clean and they enjoyed wriggling before getting back into clean socks and shoes again. As remarkable were the tiny ankles. They had been battered and twisted, carrying my 90kgs so long, and jump across streams, but just kept rolling and flexing as always. Then the raging debate caught up with me. There was an instruction that we could not go back over the mountain; we would have to take a longer, trickier, but unmistakable and safer route home. As organizer, I was consulted and agreed with imposing caution - not wanting jeopardise the future of the race; and wanting to keep to agreements made with the mountain rescue team that we wouldn't let late runners go up on the mountain where they could easily get lost, or worse, in the dark; putting rescuers at extra risk. So, six hours lay ahead - but they would be no problem. My body had adapted. Besides a bit of sleep, it needed little now and could go on and on. The flame burned bright, and if it were possible, I was even more certain now I would make it to the end. The last hurdle was along that path. Not so much the steep climb in the middle that went on and on. It was the endlessly uneven, rocky path on legs that had had enough of moving at extreme angles. My pace slowed, I felt that was I stuck. After crossing more rock falls worrying about slipping, falling, twisting an ankle, and just not escaping the rip at my ankles, a piece of my equanimity got lost. The path and the struggle went on too long. The now slightly fuller moon that once again lit our way through the trees, failed to move me. Not even Bryan telling of his dwarf hallucination helped. S till the goodness in the run came back as we left the forest and eased along a wider, easy track. Somehow the cap on my water bag came off sending water rushing down my butt. First a trickle, and for a moment I thought my spine, or worse, was leaking. Then I could laugh and run funny as my wet pants began to chafe. A last stop. The finish was visible in the twinkle of lights below us. It was dark and cold. Running had kept me warm but when I stopped the wind blew through me. For a time I sat drinking water and munching potato crisps. Once more the seconds provided succour and comfort, another bond deepened; the dependency acknowledged, plus they had to deal with our smelly clothes and shoes. The route home was mostly familiar. My legs were strong and I could run at it. Bryan struggled, limping, his Achilles tendon torn, his chirpiness gone. We wanted to finish together and we ran on: me cutting the corners, feeling good. Bryan ran head tilted, legs churning, running at a set trajectory. Making progress felt good. The end was getting nearer faster. After climbing the last steep hill, a familiar view spread for us - city, sea, curving bay, background mountains and down below, the harbour where we were to end. The moon hung bright. We were in the magic again. And wandering there we found David another runner who hadn't been able to find the way down. He had been probing here and there for an hour and a half. He could have been long finished as we were only 3 or 4 km from the end. His biggest concern was that he would miss the cut-off and all his efforts would have been for nothing. Being the setter of the cut-off times, I could assure him that he was in no danger. His calmness was surprising. It was up to me to find the way and so, for a last time, I picked up my location web. Unerringly we hit the right turns and left turns, found the fence, scrambled down a slope to the paths above a quarry, that would lead to the road home. And then once again the marvellous finishing experience began to blossom. Knowing we could stop, knowing we had gone the whole way, knowing we done it together as planned; the tall, scrawny and shorter not-so scrawny dudes from anonymous Prestbury, World. Plus David, of course. We'd got there 31 hours and 54 minutes after starting out - Bryan despite his doubts, me because of my confidence. And I still felt running-strong, though not downhill on uneven tracks, or up-hill, or anywhere really. Hugs, cheers, applause, handshakes, medals, burgeoning happiness, billowing dreams of what could be next. My body stayed ready to go on as we moved restlessly about outside the pub for a while. Finally the euphoria quieted and I sat ready to eat. Then my body understood that this was the end, and began to switch off in great rushes. But we had to eat and drink and wait for the next group to finish, to cheer them and clap them on the back, to share the wonder. The flame in me burned higher. The run gave me some life-perspective, helped me be in the world in a special way, helped me run with its energy, and deepened some of special connections with the mountain, the stars, moon and the people around me." Sometimes the miles I run are mystical miles

The smallest second gets a helping hand from Christa on his way to Maclear's Beacon	Heather, the winning lady
Arvind Varsani - amongst the front runners of the Puffer, except he was a Tuffer Puffer!!	Michael
Christo	The seconding table at Maclears
Caroline	Rod
Winston	Bruce, Cedric, Ian, Marie and Hayden
Relief at the beacon ...!

The Tuffer Puffer, a TROG's view the man held a clipboard and a pen. he ticked off names. his name was stephen. he had a nice smile and a happy laugh. some curious passersby and a few seconds gathered outside the ferryman's pub scrutinising the 15-or-so humans and a dog named william, lining up for the 100 miler tuffer puffer in the early afternoon cape town sunshine. we all reeked of anticipation. a man wearing a green beanie pointed me out to his friend and said: "do you think he'll make it". "no," said the friend, who wore glasses and blinked a lot. "his legs are too skinny." "it's not so much his legs," said the first. 'it's whether he has the mental toughness." after the pubkeeper brought out a jug of beer, and some of the runners -- and i think the dog named william though i can't be sure -- had a few sips, the man named stephen said "run". so i started to run -- skinny-legs-and-all, mental toughness in doubt. the dog named william, who sported a golden chain which proudly boasted his home number -- just in case, probably, he met some female dog-runners on the way -- took the early lead. skinnylegs chased shortlegs but gave up the race. two legs fit, four legs fitter. william sped off like a baskerville, owner doug chasing after. across the traffic, and up the scramble cliff we went, onto signal hill. laughing, joking, puffing, panting, walk-running -- the first stage of the chase to cape point and back. down signal hill, weaving between cars, grunting like baboons, following the bearded belgian, the maddest of us all (who else would decide, due to flu, they would "only" run 80km). the bearded one, jp for short, (jean-paul for long), led us up onto table mountain, past the cable car, and then up the path onto the contour path. paul, chris and skinnylegs had decided to run together, come hell or high water (though there was an argument over which we would prefer, if it really came down to a choice) the jp group decided to take one of the most demanding routes up table mountain ("it's more scenic," promised jp, "but is a bit of a scramble.") we stuck to our plan to go up platteklip. slowly. we had a long way to go. the clouds gathered menace the higher we trudged. cape town looked gloomy. the peaks and crags at the top of the pass somewhat eerie. now we were just three. the words of the song that roger and frans, our seconds, had chosen to play as we left tafelberg road echoed in my mind -- "he was a most peculiar man". skinny-legs-and-all. lacking mental toughness. would he make it? more than an hour later we were up the top -- resting in the cloud -- when the jp group arrived. jp smiling, some of the others grumbling about how difficult their route had been. but, the cloud was light and the mood lifted as the sun started breaking thru. we were off to maclears beacon at a trot, william the dog having survived the cliff-faces and rockscrambles quite happily. he was still leading the way, chain still jingling around his neck, phone number still glinting in the sunlight for all the passing dassies, porcupines, mountain goats and french poodles to see. weather still a bit gloomy, the easy jog down from maclears began -- small figures, packs on back, skipped happily over the rocky paths, the line beginning to stretch out as we settled into our easiest paces. suddenly the beach at the top of skeleton's gorge was there. suddenly we were at woodhead dam -- grey light bouncing off the water to reflect rocks and cliffs and mountain tops and trees. a scene from an ingmar bergman movie. an isolated figure with bright yellow socks and an orange backpack ran strongly and boldly alongside the waters-edge. paul. looking strong. looking relaxed. powerful legs, powerful body. fearing nothing -- he'd run 100 miles before. he knew he could do it. we knew he could do it. no "mental toughness" doubts here. a smaller figure, compact, finely curved, one who takes delight in nature -- and one in whom nature takes delight -- chris, the world's strongest uphill runner, also running easily, nicely warmed up -- all three of us in harmony, running high up in the mountains towards the sunset. down the cecelia forest track to constantia neck, where roger and frans -- both long-time hippies of note, both happy of heart and merry of soul -- have lined up for us: chicken and rolls and drinks and chocolates and energy bars and words of encouragement and sounds of cool music. the sort of stuff that makes you feel good to be alive. now for the best part of the run. up vlakkenberg. all burnt. good moon rising on a landscape all martian-like. pluto-like. wildfire-like. magic-like. mystical-like. skinnylegs was now at his happiest. running under a bright moon and clear sky along a mountain trail, leaping and dancing and yodelling inwardly. this is what had made him enter the race to begin with. just this. running at night in the mountains. he knew he could do it all night. no problem. (whether he could come back again the next day was the real question). in the sky shooting stars. further back along the trail tiny torchlights -- other runners making their way down vlakkenberg, along silvermine -- hobbits off to the mystical mountain, mexican barefoot runners on their way to peru, japanese zen runners finding nirvana along the mountain trails. tuffer puffers wending their way southwards. life complete -- skinnylegs needed nothing more. running smoothly with two soulmates in the depths of the night. a track leading to a place where he had never been before -- more than 90km in one go. apprehension, but also excitement. what will happen beyond that border? hours later the faster runners came rushing by -- looking, as chris said, like sleek wild buck gliding over the rocks and pathways. roger and frans popped up at welcome intervals, offering soup for the body, music for the soul. then the trail ended and we knew we had 50 km of tar road ahead -- 25 to cape point and 25 back again. the real test had begun. still moving easily we started along, but gradually slowed and slowed. chris was taking strain. her ankle was swelling and, unknown to us at the time, she also was running in the grip of a hectic flu, which has since turned into pneumonia. she put up a long brave fight, but at the halfway was starting to hobble. after a long rest and a short sleep, she started out again but eventually saw reason -- 80 km over, another 80km to go, with a twisted ankle. sadly she climbed into the second's car and joined the seconding team, berating herself all the time for being a "wimp" (now lying in bed wracked with pneumonia -- would probably be in hospital had she carried on). paul by now had surged ahead and skinnylegs had to grapple with the "mental toughness" factor. no other runners in sight, and with the prospect of crossing table mountain late that night again, skinnylegs was taking mental strain. the moon had set, the pre-dawn hour was icy. the soul was feeling even colder. no bailing before 100 km he decided -- he'd never run that far before. at the 100 km mark he resolved: no bailing before 24 hours are up -- he'd never run that long before. but slowly the sun came up. it was now saturday. up ahead were some other runners. he caught them up. new hope surged. he wasn't alone out there. they helped him thru that crucial dawn hour. (thanks elna and jenny and the two cool dudes whose names i never managed to get. finally at the top of redhill, and back on the trail. the energy-draining tar had ended. my seconds were there -- vera and roelien had taken over from roger and frans. also poor chris looking miserable, but with ankle swelling by the minute. they told me paul was just five minutes ahead. my heart leapt -- i hoped to be able to catch him -- which i fortunately did within the next hour or so. back on track -- with paul i knew my chances of making it were better. the tuffer puffer began living up to its name. the sun warmed the earth and demanded an ounce more of energy from each of us per kilometre, especially up the jeep track. paul went through a bad patch then recovered. skinnylegs went through a bad patch and only half-recovered. the pace slowed. late afternoon, finally back to constantia neck. bad news -- we were not allowed to go over the top, the organisers said. by now a group of about 8 of us had gathered, and after long arguments, we accepted we would have to take the contour path around. skinnylegs' heart sank -- he knew he could make it if he went over the mountain -- he was not so sure about going around the longer, rockier, trickier, less-exciting route that would involve more road running than he'd hoped. besides the achilles tendon on his right foot was playing up. off they went at last -- at around 4.30 pm, the last leg of the trip ahead. onto the contour path, through the rocks, into the forests, across the rivers. so much of it looked so similar. skinnylegs began hallucinating. he was convinced they'd been this way before. convinced that no matter how long they ran, they'd keep coming back to this same place -- a corner where a river ran down into the valley, and where tricky, slippery rocks made the going treacherous. the forests were littered with the torsos of giant-sized pine trees which are being destroyed as part of a purge of aliens. huge trunks lay crashed across the forest floors, like behemoths whose time of extinction had come. hundreds of others stood marked for execution. tall proud trees, bark stripped at about knee height, stood in long silent rows, awaiting the executioner. skinnylegs shivered in fright more than once. then the hallucinations began to slip out, one after the other -- like greased gerbils escaping from a wirecage that has been struck by a lucky lightningbolt. around one corner lay the fuselage of a newly crashed plane, still smoking. skinnylegs wondered if there were any survivors. then saw it was just an exceptionally long tree trunk. the smoke was the early-evening haze. around another corner a dwarf stood with outstrecthed hand, offering a drink. skinnylegs reached for it -- only to find his hand striking the stump of a tree. a huge hawk/eagle/owl dived at him -- as he ran into a treebranch. his mind wandered. the leaves on the pathway were part of a huge, long blanket being knitted by someone up ahead who was managing to knit just a little bit faster than he could run. speed up the pace and you might catch the knitter-in-the-night, he told himself. but the knitter-in-the-night was too clever -- the faster skinnylegs ran, the faster he/she knitted. a sighting of paul's yellow/green socks brought him back to reality. he knew he was tripping -- stoned on mountain air and tree juice and rock dust. he was tripping as if on magic mushrooms. kinda fun. kinda scary. have been on the go for 28 hours. then 29, then 30. he shut his eyes and drifted briefly off into dreamland. the pain in his achilles wakes him up with a jolt. we finally reach the turnstyle we knew we had to reach to prove we weren't going around and around, like dervishes in a giddy trance, all effort but no progress, doomed to repeat the horror for infinity. the turnstyle proved we were still in south africa/capetown/on the contour path. we quickly covered the distance to the next turnstyle -- from where we could finally see the end. still some hours away. but there among the lights of the harbour. fairly silently, we ran up to tafelberg road, disturbing a strutting porcupine as we went. now skinnylegs managed to rein in his brain. he knew exactly where he was going. just had to get there. follow the white line. problem is, the white line lifted itself from the road and hovered about a foot above the surface. skinnylegs became a character in a computer game -- whoever was controlling him had to make sure he didn't touch the line. it sped at the same pace as him, but in the opposite direction. he and paul were running briskly now, trying to cover some distance on an easier surface. because of the brisk pace, the computer controller kept making mistakes. and each time he made skinnylegs touch the line a sharp jab of pain ran up the heel of skinnylegs, into his brain, almost paralysing him. (later he found the achilles had by this stage already torn) finally up signal hill. some people on the side of the road tell us to be careful as someone further up is shooting. great! not what we want to hear after running 96 miles, and amid all the warnings about crime on signal hill. we come round a corner. i see a man with a gun, surrounded by lots of children. it can't be the shooter because of all the children, i think. we run on. we meet the man. there are no children. just a man with a backpack. his name is david, and he is a tuffer puffer trying to get off the mountain but somehow lost the way down. he has no gun. just a nice smile and long hair and a backpack. why did i see children? i must still be tripping. we walk/run. paul guides us to the cannons down signal hill. we scramble through horrible long grass and over wearying fallen trees down a steep steep, ankle-twisting, muscle-tearing hillside. we are finally on a path that leads us to the road we need to be on. it's the last mile. skinnylegs' heart begins to sing. and his head. and his arms, legs, back, tummy, even his hair and his toes. he is buzzing and humming down the road. he has taken 32 hours -- 8 hours slower than the winner, and about four hours longer than he'd hoped. but down near the pub he could see chris and the timekeeping man named stephen. paul was running next to him, his yellow socks blackened, legs scratched, but also grinning wildly. then they were there. skinnylegs could finally stop. and stop. and stop. and stop. he'd made it. skinnylegs-and-all. Bryan Pearson

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