Comeback
The thought of a comeback assumes you've been somewhere. Mine was doomed by its very premise. Undaunted by logic, I laced up my running shoes and began.

First a body check: Feet? Hurt. Legs? Weak. Stomach? Queasy. Chest? Undeveloped. Brain? All the above.

And this was before I stepped out the door.

I learned everything I know about my body through running injuries. Iliotibial band? Never heard of it till I hurt it. Quadriceps? Ditto. Triceps? Triceratops? With the muscles I've trashed, I should be extinct.

People love rags-to-riches stories. Riches-to-rags stories sell well too. Sequels - "Champ Resurrects Self After Catastrophe," "Pauper Wins Lotto, Blows All" - launch follow-ups until interest is milked to death.

My story - polyester-to-middle class - is like Ultimate Oatmeal. Can Sullivan Go From Lukewarm to Lackluster? Tepid to Bland? It puts even me to sleep.

Still, my dream is to Be Someone. If I have to enhance the worst parts of my story so my ascent into mediocrity seems phoenix-like, hey, it worked for James Frey in "A Million Little Pieces." The world's best-known marathoner, Oprah Winfrey, endorsed Frey's book, boosting sales further. Who better to take the "f" out of my "life" story than me?

Plus I had running magazines to guide me. If I followed their 5 Easy Tips, 8 Guaranteed Steps and 12 Sure-Fire Hints, my lard and flab would become rock-hard abs, I'd complete a marathon in 10 hours ringed by group-hugging peers wearing matching t-shirts ... my life, in short, would be so sublime there'd be no point continuing as it could only go downhill, so I might as well end it all then and there.

I thought of everything I could to postpone my comeback, but there is no part of my rehearsing-for-a-Hearse body I have hurt worse than my brain. Out the door I went.

Every muscle I'd folded, spindled or mutilated in 30 years' running howled like Allen Ginsberg. The harder I ran, the faster it seemed I went nowhere, or even backwards.

Who'd made the world a treadmill while I was injured? I wanted answers. I ...

Hey, the air smelled sweet. It and blood pumping through me, in spring sunshine, felt like living.

There's no coming back, at whatever pace, if you've not gone forth. MR