I met a debutante's family in the 60's.  They lived in Bryn Mawr.  The father was an advertising executive, who routinely came home from work, spoke to no one, got a cocktail, and went down to his basement shooting range, where he banged away for half an hour at man-sized targets; then came up and was sociable for dinner.  He also made (and played) harpsichord replicas.

I last ran as a bandit in the Boston Marathon some seventeen years ago and dropped out at mile twenty.  Today I'm on a treadmill in my local gym, following the race on an overhead TV, and remembering the sights, the smells, the company, the pain, the dream.  I watch the leaders pass familiar landmarks.  Life itself is our glory and ordeal, I think, our measure of heart, and of passion.  We do our best.  There is no finish line.

I forgot that my usual jogging path was being used today for a Gay Pride Run, which hadn't yet begun.  So the guy holding up a sign with a big arrow where my path divided from the sidewalk seemed absurd.  "All you need now is a big bow," I shouted, jogging past.  "Oh, boy, do I ever!" he called.  Some fifty yards later, I caught the pun.