It's a life sentence writing sentences for a living. In this issue, MR continues marking its 25th anniversary sharing memories of editors who escaped with their minds intact.

Pundits past and present pull out their keyboards, pens and crayons to dish up the drama behind the commas and the glamor behind the grammar at your favorite magazine. Since it's prophecy the last shall be first and policy that "Editor's Notes" appears up front in MR, I'll run leadoff here.

I had the impression, before I began writing for the magazine in the mid-'90s, that it and Great Lakes Sports Publications were some sort of media conglomerate, likely linked with Time-Life, Rupert Murdoch or some other non-barren baron who soon would own everything.

I envisioned skyscraper suites in Singapore (or at least Sault Ste. Marie), bureaus in the Bahamas (maybe Baldwin?), riding the Concorde between 5Ks, fending off starlets and fawning stewardesses (stewardii?) while sipping expensive Scotch.

Then-editor Dave Foley rudely awakened me to reality: pay for three race stories might be enough to buy new running shoes from the discount rack. Add photos, I could go hog wild and purchase some packs of GU.

This was my kind of business. I loved Michigan, running, magazines, writing, photography. Surely goodness and mercy -- if not Guccis and Mercedes -- would follow me if I chased this.

In '99, Dave -- who, as a runner, traverses the toughest terrain -- slipped on ice walking to a movie, blew out a knee and decided, "That's it for me as editor."

Jennie McCafferty, wife of publisher Art, took the job and kept MR going. Add a shot put to the torches, tennis and ping-pong balls she was juggling.

At the end of 2001, Art bought out his GLSP co-founder, MR's first editor and reigning financial officer, Mike Duff. This gave the McCafferties even more hats to wear, if not proffer and seek donations.

Jennie, clearly desperate, asked me to help as managing editor. After a year proved I couldn't manage, she named me editor.

The rest is mystery. Through email, phone calls, friendships and, on occasion, actual face-to-face encounters, we put out a magazine. Our West Michigan Bureau is my writing den in Wyoming; World Headquarters is Art's and Jennie's place in Ann Arbor. The Running Network, of which we're a member, contributes shoe-review supplements, national ads, more fun stuff.

This odd vessel -- held together by chewing gum, spit, rubber bands and love for not only running, but the people who run -- has flown 25 years.

And where is the Concorde now?

When I started contributing to the magazine, I had heroes: columnists Scott Hubbard and Tom Henderson, writers Doug McEwen, Ron Marinucci, Bob Schwartz, photographer Carter Sherline, who's somehow everywhere ...

Now I know them as people, they strike me as greater heroes. Time after time, they meet deadlines with stories and pictures that go beyond words and images.

Robin Sarris Hallop, Doug Kurtis and other terrific runners I'd only heard about, have proven to be even more-amazing people and contributors.

Jeff Hollobaugh, "Marathon Don" Kern, Chris Lear, Karrie Alexander, "Dangerous Dan" Kelsey, Brian Charlton, Graham Wellman and many others make my job easy.

The editor's just a ringmaster; they're the stars. Thanks, obviously, to Art, Jennie, Mike and Dave, our production and business staff, race directors, our readers especially, and that guy backstage with a hook, mouthing "Time's up." Ulp! MR