I survived the StockaDEATHon! Fifteen kilometers of pure uphill devilry. Maybe next time I'll train properly so as to avert stabbing upper back pain for days afterward.

Around mile 8 (out of 9.3 for all of you metric-ly challenged), some dude runs up next to me and pulls ahead slightly. He's an older man, probably in his mid- to late fifties. He turns to me as we are huffing up hill number 5,003 near Central Park and says,

"I've been chasin' you since about mile 3."

Taken out of context, that could be the worst pick-up line I've ever heard. But in context...he continued,

"Now that I'm ahead of you, I don't know what to do with myself."

Seemed like a nice-enough guy, but I still pulled a Seabiscuit on his ass. I already was in line for my bananas and juice boxes in the pavillion by the time he crossed the finish line.

Moments like that make training and racing worth it...and there aren't any hard feelings afterward, cuz it's all about finishing.

And speaking of survival...

I went out on a nightside story last night to the smallest town in which I have ever set foot. (Now that's not saying too much, seeing as I consider Albany to be a one-horse town...)

The smallest town I'd ever been to before last night (or the one most notable in my mind) is the tiny gambling mecca of Winnemucca, Nevada, where my mother and I barely escaped with our lives from a throng of baseball-sized flying cockroaches.

And then there was the time I was in East Jesus somewheres off the Indiana toll road, where Wolfie and I had a chance meeting with the bearded lady at a rest stop/electronics dealer.

And then there was the time I went to Delaware with the J-schoolers and ran afoul of glorified and ho-ified townies outside of a beach bar. Yeah, we were in...Delaware.

So based on prior small-town encounters, needless to say I was apprehensive about venturing to what I expected would be a "small town." At night. In the dark.

I cruised into the little hamlet (we will call it Sticksville) looking for the VFW--I was to meet with a citizens group there. Some developers came barging into their quiet community with plans to build a monster of a biomass incinerator, and they are rightfully worried about their quality of life. But that is another story entirely.

Anyway, I crossed the border on the state highway and sped cautiously into the town. No street lights, shadowy mountains looming, not a sign of life. I felt like I was driving up to the hotel from The Shining. I turned on the radio and all I could get clearly are the country music stations...

After several miles of doubting my trajectory, I saw a sign of life. A small inn, a post office, a church with a Virgin Mary illuminated in the front garden and a police station. A street sign reading, MAIN STREET. Then a four-pump Cumberland Farms. It was something straight out of Identity.

Once I passed the gas station, it was back to the darkened and eerie country road. Alone was I, with my thoughts and with the depressing thoughts of some poor schmuck singing about a girl who took his dog and left him for his best friend.

To make a long story short (too late!) I found the ole' VFW in the middle of nowhere. When I parked the car and got out I could hear nothing but the crunch of gravel under my sneakers. Not even a cricket. Oh boy, I thought. The agoraphobe in me wants to get back in my car and drive back to civilization. I mean, there wasn't a Target within thirty miles! (I threw that one in for you, RM.)

The only door unlocked was the door to the bar around the side of the building. Inside was your typical VFW/Elks club type bar...although when I think of that, I think of the Rugby club in Cardiff. I asked around for details on the meeting (for which I was, amazingly, slightly early). I got one response from a number of flannel-shirt clad individuals seated at the bar.

"I ain't heard of no meetin', but it's pool night tonight!"

The bartender was an elderly lady with calloused hands. She gave off the "I've heard it all vibe." She eyed me with a "you must be from the city" look, but with a kind undertone. "Meetin's upstairs at seven. Can I getcha somethin' ta drink?"

I asked for a glass of water and sat down at the bar. NBC Nightly News was underway on the 1990s-style televisions mounted on the walls. It broadcast home-video footage of the Iowa tornadoes. A squat chain-smoking lady sitting next to me was giving a steady commentary on the footage as it aired. "Weee-ooh, that is crazy," she said a number of times.

Anyway, I'm rambling on about my experience in the small town as if there was a point to it all...that kicked in later in the evening as I sat with the concerned citizens group--a group of some of the most thoughtful and self-motivated people I have ever had the honor of meeting. They are trying to fight off billionaire developers who want to move in on their territory, pollute their environment and tarnish the peaceful beauty of the valley they love. Some of them have devoted almost every waking second in the last few months to research into the effects of biomass fuel production and how precisely it will affect their community. And they're trying to make surrounding towns and cities join in a fight that would seem hopeless to outsiders.

For a small town with only a few thousand people, the sense of community here might as well be as large as city of millions.

Unfortunately, that isn't enough to entice my citified bottom to settle there--but it is a good cure for agoraphobia and the loneliness I perceive in wide open spaces.

And despite my revelation, I did speed back to Noho and "civilization" that night like I was bein' chased.