I high tailed it over to registration and I was somewhat surprised that I got the classes I needed I went to my morning class. Friday was going by at a pace I had almost forgotten.

I quickly ate lunch and headed toward the meeting. Simply put there was going to be a team next year. Dr. Wells presided. We now needed a coach. We decided that since the Chemistry professor had coached distance runners in the past and ran himself he was the most likely candidate. We were going to draft him. We marched down the quad to the Moody Science center and asked him the whole group. We had hijacked our coach I stood in awe the team now had a head. I now had to start training it had been almost a year since my legs had run any sort of distance. I decided to run the great campus loop twice yielding two miles. I had still two hours to wait. The last thing I wanted was to earn the name "French fries." The memory was funny, as it was when it happened. Coach Streety had us doing killer 800s eight of them, as the bandit would say with the hammer all the way down. We were given just enough time to have our pulse drop from the stratosphere to the scant number of 120-130. After about number five our intrepid hero steps to the infield seconds later we found out what he had eaten for lunch: cheese fries. For district we purchased special shirts and customized them with our names. I wore Ace for being methodical. One could set their clocks by my pre-race ritual witch consisted of three phases. He wore the title Frenchfries as a laugh demonstrating the gallows humor that distance running breeds. Every runner knew there was a race that nothing would go right on. Every runner knew that one day we'd all be bug on the windshield or the ball getting nailed by a Louisville slugger. We embraced the notion of injuries acting up at bad times, dehydration, and the side stitch that decides to go full blast halfway through the first mile of a three-mile race. Those moments we would be the butt of joke and the best thing to do was laugh while trying to make the best if limited wiggle room. As a former teammate said when I was a freshman distance runners weren't sick we were simply twithsted. Finally the hold time on the meal ended. The band had started warming up for a sweet last waltz.

I stretched and wondered about my knee, which had become the subject of dark song I had made up hijacking the tune from the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." I would soon find out. I decided to run the inside do a U-turn and run the outside and call it a run. I started out. I mashed the throttle down and my legs predictably responded with nothing. The cruise was slow as I did a straight away followed by a slow climbing left-hand turn. My brain had quickly reawakened the challenge at hand and I found much to my chagrin my instincts returned as I found the perfect line and ran it. My instincts returned as if I had never stopped running cross-country. The stride would slowly shrink uphill and I plotted the line between to tight and too wide on turns cutting distance and avoiding excessive maneuvering. With no traffic to contend with other than the occasional car my run was becoming a mental flow drill. Flow is perfection in distance running where anticipation, careful evaluation coupled with intelligence sets up a pattern of one thing leading smoothly to the next with three minor changes being preferred to a single major one, that scrubbed speed away or caused one to go past the Lactic Acid Threshold needlessly. There were other factors harder course meant more speed. Gravel meant loss of traction and waste of energy and slower times every thing was weighed instantly and hopefully the perfect course line would be run. I rolled on by Flato and LA beyond the parking of the Library and School Store beyond the admin building. Open road let my plot the perfect course through a shacane (two right hand turns canceling each other borrowed from Grand Prix racing). I was breathing hard but was happy to be alive. The first downhill came and without thinking my stride was lengthened and my center of gravity shifted toward the forward of edge of my base of support leading to a semi-controlled cannon ball. I could not help but be happy. I turned around the backside of the loop riding the momentum for what it was worth and slowly killing it with a ninety-degree turn putting me on the backstretch. Moody passed by as I hit a steep uphill. I had already altered my course sticking me on the outside of the gravel patch. My stride shrunk and I added power going above the Lactic Acid Threshold and I held it two strides past the top rebuilding my momentum I could see my dorm now. I held the speed steady. I got to where I had started and turned around. This time the downhill was steeper and shorter once again I let gravity add to speed I passed Moody again and started a wide ninety degree turn as this time I was on the outside of the loop. The uphill was shallow and long but still I had to cross the Lactic Acid Threshold to hold my speed. This was complicated by the fact at the top there was two short ninety-degree turns before I was in front of the Admin building again. I pushed it feeling tired and once again extended my stride as my legs hurt and I could feel my heart pounding as my lungs sucked in great volumes of air. I went down in front of Trull the nice dorm on campus and once again I had a small series of turns that once again I ran the perfect line in. I was running in front of Flato hall in anticipation of a shallow downhill a right turns and then I was done. Once again the mental work was done effortlessly as I extended my stride took power-off shifted my weight slightly forward. I had done this time and time again and despite the year lay off what was once learned had become instinctive done without thought. I felt the recklessness from deep within my soul as the final two hundred yards approached. I gave it all I had and pushed myself to the point of a dry heave. I finished the run satisfied as I known I once again was pushing it. I felt physically like garbage. I walked half a mile and then headed for a hot shower. I realized as an extra bonus that nobody would be using the community showers at the time and there would also be an abundance of sweet hot water.

Friday night at the cafe took a restful tone. I was busy but not overly so and Donna seemed to be doing well. We did not chat much till it was over with. When talk came to the rebirth of Schreiner cross-country we both knew that I was training up for my final season. I was waxing sentimental. The sport though and I were due to part and it was looking like the break up would be friendly. I slid in a Neil Young "Freedom" tape with the song that had the mood I was feeling towards running pegged, "And though their love was hanging on a limb she taught him how to dance and start again."

Saturday rolled around and at the cafe thing got interesting. Doug and Brook Estes who had recently avoided me like the plague showed up. They had seen a transformation in me. I was smiling more and was more relaxed. I had been somewhat transformed and a new set of wings was emerging. My former Texas History professor rolled in as well. Donna brought up a fire cracker topic for all Christians. The topic dealt with a substituted hydrocarbon that had mind-altering effects and was legal. The topic was alcohol. In Southern Baptist tradition it was strictly verboten. That same tradition was dying. I was one of the young breeds who were killing it. My professor brought an interesting perspective to the discussion. America had gotten both the drunkards and teetotalers from Europe. The end result was a culture highly dysfunctional to alcohol. It was either abstained from or drank it to excess. The culture sent a mixed message on the subject. The question was for the Christian what to do. I was 19 at the time and the point was still moot with me since I was supposed to obey the law and speak out against wrong laws through a proper manner.

I being raised within the Catholic/Latvian Lutheran tradition saw alcohol as an everyday thing too much of it there was an unmistakable hazard. Drinking in moderation was never regarded as sinful. Frankly drinking never struck me as a life or death issue to write my congressman about. I served alcohol and did so with a clear conscience but I had rather firm limits and I cut people off way before they have had anything resembling close to too much. I lived in a dorm where the hazards of excess were demonstrated every Thursday night. I likened it to the speed one flies on final. In a Cessna 150 one flew final at 65-80. To fly final any slower than sixty-five meant death. At 80 and beyond one had to deal with that strange aerodynamic phenomenon of ground effect leading to ballooning and floats that go on over half the runway length. The point was in moderation alcohol was not only safe but could be considered a guiltless pleasure. If taken beyond moderation serious and potentially dangerous effects were risked. One could avoid those risks by not drinking at all. We started digging scripture and the issue about recovering alcoholics and yielding to the weaker brother was brought up. In all spiritual matters the weaker brother had the right away. We also had two generations of tradition remaining that alcohol was strictly forbidden and we could not openly buck them. The church quite simply had failed on the issue. Brooke was with Young Life and the issue was inappropriate for that ministry. We had to end the whole double talk about it. We reached a consensus that alcohol was not without its risks not without its rewards. There were some people who should refrain from it family history of alcoholism and addictive personalities and those who themselves are recovering alcoholics. The church though was wrong for strictly forbidding it in any way shape or form. The discussion ended and the rest of Saturday proved to be a good restful day.

Sunday at church was great. Donna decided to join me as I hung out on the ghost campus that day. I convinced her to walk with me to Gaudalupe. We went behind the dorm and walked the short distance. I was calm and happy. We hung out on the point where Quinlean Creek met the river forming a small gravel point. It was a beautiful spot and we both drank the beauty in. Upstream of us a small rapid emptied into a wider channel. Besides us the compressed Gaudalupe flowed swiftly against the point and a steep southern shoreline. Downstream the river widened again and with trees on both sides forming a near arch rolled on down slowly hiding a few deep points beneath its flowing dark green surface.

I made the comment, "This is no hick town this is no backwards spot of terra firma if only New Braunfels had half the common sense that some in this town had?" She looked at me understanding and made the comment, "Doug and Brooke were impressed with our discussion regarding alcohol." I replied, "We all contributed to the discussion you looking up scripture like a pro." Donna then said, "I heard at the cafe Campos was elected to the school board." I shouted for joy. I made the comment, "On the wrecked lives of many the revolution came the memories of those lost need not haunt us for a wrong will finally be set right." The expression on her face said it all. There was a half smile but the pain of carnage that we would always carry on behind the smile. The victory was bittersweet yet the dream gone wrong was finally killed. The deep scar that New Braunfels had left on both of us now finally had an opportunity to start healing and fade somewhat from our souls. We celebrated the victory was won in the end by others yet we had fought in the war. I then realized why Kerrville worked. It pushed the envelope with many people responding to decay before it occurred creating a high level of common grace. The previous day I had played a roll in it. I had been playing with the fact for the last two years but I hadn't figured out that holding onto the past in and of itself was destructive. Clint had all but spelled it out to me that very early Thursday morning. The innocence I savored in Steve Miller's "Jungle Love" was not because it was written in the seventies but because the ideas it contained had certain validity in truth. That truth alone was worth preserving and everything but the truth was to be discarded. I than realized that the obsessive holding onto the past had create Hotel Unicorn. I stopped crying for yesterday at that moment. The America I was raised in had long since gone every now and again I would could catch the sweet smell of its glory and I should draw strength from it. That America though was gone. I had crossed my second major hurdle since arriving in Kerrville I still though had a whole lot to learn.

Monday morning came and I once again awoke early for a flight. It was going to be one of two. Cheryl Ann Blackshear was waiting for me and threw a hard pat to my shoulder. I cringed as she made contact with a shallow bruise. She then made comment, "Welcome to the honorable order of the five point bruise." She then continued "Mine is deeper and larger since I pull more G's doing the likes of Cuban 8's Hammerheads and Lumshovaks." For those non-pilots a Cuban eight is two half loops tied together with a roll, a hammer head is turn that without bank goes from a vertical climb to a dive and Lumshovak is when an airplane literally tumbles in the air. We both got into the airplane and once again till we hit five thousand feet I was just a passenger. I was still enamored by the sub ten second take off run and the ballistic missile climb.

We did spins followed by loops and then rolls. My rolls showed some improvement but not much. She then made the comment, "You ain't gifted with the best motor skills eh?" I replied, "I'll never in my life be accused of being as good as Charlie Hillard I guess." She laughed. We did more spins rolls and loops and then she knew I had hit saturation point and after about an hour we were once again on downwind runway 30 Kerrville full stop.

Once again she debriefed the flight. I was having difficulty seeing subtle changes in pitch and bank and the result was especially in rolls a problem would get out of hand I would over correct. She saw I was in a hurry and I told her the reason. She then popped to and said, "I'll continue your debrief during breakfast." As we drove she asked me, "Where have you heard about Hillard?" I responded, "I had read articles on him in Flying and I always hoped to meet him at the hangar he owned near where I got my license. She responded, "Great guy, pilots pilot he and Patty Wagstaff are my heroes. I've had the pleasure of meeting them both". I bought her breakfast while we ate the debrief was finished. I had class to go to and I would be skipping lunch for my second hop.

I sat through Human Biology half paying attention waiting for the class to end. I would have another hour after that for the hop. She wanted some semblance of recovery time. I was thankful for my good average in the class prompting the professor to ask why I had not taken A&P. I was a history major and yes I could hold my own in the physical science realm but gosh I hated math and memorizing things. I also was a firm believer in doing as little as possible in topics that were of only passing interest. The reason why I paid so much attention during discussion of cellular respiration was that simply put as runner it was my business. I was also going to take a fewer upper division exercise science courses for similar reasons. Human biology was just a science class for liberal arts people like me and that Monday I treated it as such.

After class Cheryl Ann met me and we headed for my dorm room. She would watch TV and I would knock out some English homework. I could on occasion be accused of being a good student. I could hear though the Schreiner rumor mill about ready to hit full speed. Kat was right in calling it simply High School part two. I did my part to stay above it all and tell that aspect of college life to go to hell. Many people on campus had strong opinions about me. I knew it and they knew I did not give a care about it. In some cases stupidity was its own punishment.

After an hour or so we went back out to the airport and once again it was fun in the air. After four loops four spins and four rolls, I was told I had fifteen minutes of playtime. I rolled the plane inverted south of campus over flew campus upside down within 15 degrees of pitch either way over interstate ten rolled normal pulled a four G turn and rocketed over campus using the smoke generator. I was then a passenger again.

The final debrief was simple. She gave me what I had been doing how I had improved and how different doing the same maneuvers in the Super Decathlon would be. The Pitts had more rudder and aileron giving it much more roll rate and faster recovery time on spins. Doing loops I would have less P-factor to deal with and my feet would be slightly less lively. I paid her and I bought a membership to the international aerobatic club. I was now an aerobatic pilot.

In the brief window between class and the cafe I started working on a song describing the joys of aerobatic flight. I also got teased a bit about having a thing for short women. I guess I had brought 2 highly attractive shorter women to my dorm room in the last 48 hours. This alone was enough to give the rumor mill enough fuel to for thirty days of fodder. I couldn't help but laugh. I went from gay to straight in 6 months my reputation on campus was definitely improving. I went out for a run and started a workout schedule. I would do runs MWF followed by pushups and due knee maintenance weights T and TH. The whole week had been a blizzard and after the run on Monday things started to quiet down a bit.

Thursday I debuted my new song at the cafe. I had practiced the thing till the point it was down cold. The slow dirge like backbeat played off the E and C chords was fitting with lyrics that seemed more confused and weary than angry or cold: "Sorry if I don't remember your name a life time ago I knew your face the road itself has been too long too many people now are gone." I had found myself unable to get close to fellow Christians it was like I had come from a different universe. The TAMsters and I had been shot in the same shell and we had been blasted all over the United States. We whether deliberate or not had taken on the perversion of the cowboy ethic. We did not talk much or make any effort to communicate with each other what so ever. I was scared but as I called to mind the emotions it faded into nothing and the only thing that was real was the song I was playing and singing. It drew thunderous applause.