"Enough of that stuff," they seemed to say.
I walked the first hill, even though I'd used my inhaler twice.
"It's going to be a long three miles," I thought.
I tried cleansing breaths. Sighs escaped unbidden. I tried running slower and slower. Nothing worked. I walked all the hills till I reached the turn-around point. And then I walked the next quarter mile. Butch turned around and ran back to check on me.
"Try using just the same effort on the hills as you do on the flat," he said.
"I am. And that seems to require a walk today. . .Oh. . .another hill already. I'm going to try hard."
He ran on ahead. I plodded on, managing a jogging pace up that incline and the next one. At the crest of the second hill, I saw a tiny white-haired lady with the typical 50-year-old hair cut wearing a duster type coat and a purse over one shoulder.
"Morning," I hollered.
"Your pace seems the more reasonable one," she said.
Cheerleaders are always welcome on a run. I picked up the pace just a tad and soon realized I could actually breathe again. Apparently my lungs decided the air, laden with heavy mist and a tad bit of wood smoke, wasn't so evil after all. I didn't have to walk any more.
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