Even after a few kilometers we are strung out along the streets of Bridgetown. Elite, true racers, have disappeared into the town and I am in the company of but a handful of fellow runners. Lights spill out of doorways and windows, and anonymous but universally supportive Bridgetowners cheer us on with cries of, "Not far now, man...". "There's another bloody 40 kilometers" I want to call out; instead wave feebly to them while I still have the energy to do so. Across the new bridge over the Careenage in the heart of town, past the statue of Lord Nelson that pre-dates the columned counterpart in London's Trafalgar Square and on into the northern suburbs, past the first of the beguiling beaches that necklace the island's west coast. In the darkness the senses work overtime: the pungent aromas of the fish market, the distant crows of rural cockerels, and the trickle of sweat as the body mutters, "hey: you're not kidding about running this ridiculous distance, are you?".
More Valentine cards....
Gracias por plasmar, el sentimiento de todos los que estuvimos esa noche, realmente comparto toda
lnstryker
damaliayana
thewatussi
erikpettinari
jaselineseng
anakinskywalker
coathanger007
FatsWalleter
bombayinpics
lajuntablog
annetje77
