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differential association, anomie, and hedonistic calculus. It all made perfect sense. The inexplicable became understandable. Then I took that knowledge to the streets of Baltimore where I saw levels of depravity that books couldn’t describe. I saw people who never had a chance and would never have a chance. In four years I was a changed man, and it wasn’t for the better. I found myself on a treadmill of apathy and distrust that I couldn’t escape. I had to try to identify some way of finding a glimmer of hope in the system and in humanity.
    After the Baltimore experience, I decided to return to my hometown in southern West Virginia and become a probation officer. I had seen the worst of the worst and I suppose I was looking for some evidence that criminals could be rehabilitated. So I looked toward probation work as one way to help some people turn their lives around. I guess I had some successes, but in that poverty-stricken area surrounded by hopelessness, I soon found myself back on the treadmill and in a cycle of depression.
    At first, I stopped socializing with my coworkers. Then I started finding reasons to avoid old friends. I followed that up with not exercising, taking sick days from work, reading two or three pages of a book and angrily tossing it aside. Movies—nope. Hikes into the woods—nothing. Relationships with women—infrequent and forgettable. Alcohol—more than I should have had, less than an alcoholic.
    Some days I sat. Just sat in my apartment staring at a television I wasn’t watching and that pumped out sounds I didn’t register. Other days I went to work, went through the motions, moved a few papers around my desk, started getting short-tempered with clients, and departed no better off than I arrived.
    I had no idea where my life was going and no idea where I wanted it to go. I was completely off course, and the worst part was that I didn’t even know what course I was looking for.
    “Cyprus, you keep eating your kid’s food. Don’t let anybody rob you of your childhood,” Randy crooned with mock sympathy.
    As our three-person running cabal turned past the green athletic fields toward the three-story recreation building where warm showers awaited us, I noticed a black sedan with a red bubble light on the dashboard parked in front of the main entrance. One of the student employees who usually checked university IDs at the front desk stood next to two men who were wearing dark slacks and dress shirts with subdued ties dangling from beneath somber jackets.
    I wondered why city detectives were here instead of the usual campus security guards hired by the school. If there were a theft or an assault, campus security would respond and call the police only if they were needed. There should have been a TRU security patrol car there too.
    As we approached the front sidewalk my question was answered when the student employee’s eyes widened upon seeing the four of us and with a penetrating point aimed at my chest said, “That’s him. That’s Dr. Keller.”

Mile 3
    H aving backtracked through the Strip District, the still continuous line of runners makes a hard right back across Smallman Street onto the 16th Street Bridge. This is the first of five bridge crossings that we’ll make during the course of the race. I’ve already fallen back from the 3 hour 30 minute pace group, and I expect that I’ll be seeing the 3 hour 45 minute group shortly. The elevation increases slightly as I work my way up the bridge, and it will drop off after the midway point. I can already detect hints of separation between the vibrantly colored shirts decorated with the dangling cords of iPods. It’s usually this first hill when you see the gaps form and the seamless stream of durability starts to rip apart. It doesn’t take much and it doesn’t take long. This early in the contest it’s more psychological than anything. The key is to keep your faith when things get difficult. You have to remember that even