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peace, and so is a life well lived. “Run with your heart,” he had told me.
    I ran my first marathon later that year. It wasn’t an organized race, but a fund-raiser for underprivileged children. We students collected pledges for each lap that was completed on the high school track. Donors typically pledged a dollar per lap, and most of my classmates ran between 2.5 and 4 miles—about 10 to 15 laps.
    I ran 105. It took almost six hours to get through it, but I simply wouldn’t stop until I’d completed the equivalent of a marathon. It was dark and deserted when I finished, except for a few die-hard friends who were blown away by my persistence.
    You should have seen the look on people’s faces when I told them they owed $105. Shock, mainly. A fair share of congratulatory gestures. And a few brow-raising disbelievers, who quickly paid up when I removed my shoe and showed them the blisters.
    There had been a girl on the track during the run earlier in the day who had intrigued me. She was stunning, and even more so because she was covered in sweat. Most of the “beauty queens” at our school would have nothing to do with running or sweating in public. But she was a beauty who didn’t seem to mind. I dug the way she looked, all flushed and exhausted, trying to complete another lap around the track.
    I found out she was a freshman and that her name was Julie. Eventually I got up the courage to ask her to a movie. Grease ? Saturday Night Fever ? I can’t remember. All I remember is her—that she was next to me, that she was on a date with me. I mean, the seniors and star jocks wanted to go out with her. Sure, I was an athlete, but an offbeat one. I didn’t play baseball or football; I went running and surfed. I thought she belonged with the varsity quarterback, and there she was with me.
    It was my first date ever, and I fell in love—not just some fleeting high school infatuation, but genuine, head-over-heels in love. Reflecting back, that is how I did things. Either a 100 percent commitment, total unwavering devotion, or nothing at all. Falling in love was no exception.
    The two of us became inseparable. In keeping with Greek tradition, Julie became part of our family and didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with the custom, even though she was a reserved WASP in a house full of boisterous Greeks. She seemed at ease during holiday gatherings filled with bantering relatives, flowing ouzo, broken plates, and living-room dancing.
    Like my sister, Pary, Julie was the only girl in her family, and their friendship grew exceptionally strong. The two of them seemed to share a particular poise and composure, even in a room filled with domineering Greek men. Julie could hold her own against any ouzo-influenced chauvinistic uncle, in a spirited and fun way. Her quick wit won us all over, as she learned a couple of choice Greek words and would humorously spring them on unsuspecting assailants at the most opportune times.
    Now that the cross-country season was over, there was only one organized option to keep me running—join the track team. Track season began after cross-country season ended. It was almost like defecting to the enemy, but I let my love of running get the better of me.
    Bilderback, the track coach, put me on the team without a formal tryout, which was nice enough. But my first encounter with him as a coach was disastrous. I showed up for practice on the first day and, as usual, wasn’t wearing a watch. He had me run a series of time-trials. As I completed each lap, he looked at his stopwatch and yelled out the times, banging on a clipboard with his pen as he screamed.
    This was irritating. I’d done well in cross-country without someone barking orders every time I ran. So after Bilderback had clocked me, measured me, evaluated my stride, and dissected my split times, I mentioned that there was really no need to scream out my times as I ran.
    â€œBut if