To Our Readers

The apartment I lived in a few years ago over looked the home stretch of the Boston Marathon. Each April, it was high drama watching thousands of runners race, jog, lumber—or in some cases, stagger—toward the finish line all afternoon, and well into the evening, of the grueling 26-mile race.

Mostly, I remember the whooping, hollering cheers every time a runner made it across the finish line. Then family, friends, and supporters would huddle around the triumphant runner—with hugs, towels, and special shiny blankets.

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YOUR LETTERS
January 29, 2001
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