She was a 1960 MGB Roadster, not this one, but like this one. It was a car that James Bond would have drove, back when Sean Connery was Bond. Mine was dark blue, had badly faded oxidized paint, but was all a 17 year old could dream of in 1977. 
She had a rag top that would not have kept the wind or rain out, interior that was beyond well worn, good tires, and would not start. But hey, for $1,800, it was a bargain. I just did not have the cash. My grandfather would have loaned me the money, but it was an old, foreign car that would not start and would have cost a lot to work on. But, to this day, I wish she had ran.
It was an old country road from where I lived to the base of Turley Hill. My beginning days of running were there. Upon a whim, I headed out one morning and ran at a steady pace, huffed and puffed a mile away, and then returned. I was young, maybe 18 at the time. Two miles of running with no warm-up, stretching, or proper shoes should have done me in, but I was again young enough to get by with such foolishness. 
The second day, I intended to run four miles. I did in fact cover the four miles, but the last mile was walked and I was disgusted with myself. The next two or three days after that I was a sore as I have ever been in my life. I was not injured but had went too far too soon. I quit, and never tried again, until much later in life. But looking back, I wish I had ran.
Today at 48 years of age, I realize I have lived over half my life. My life has moved along a countryside like a stream, sometimes with roaring purpose, and other times slowing to a trickle or dumping into the stagnation of a pond. I have had the devil on my trail, standing at the my door, and at other times he has heard me knocking at his. Being strong yet feeling weak, I have always managed to walk away from his clutches. But I wish I had ran.
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