Call me crazy, but there are days when a good, old pound-and-chase is just what the doctor ordered. Watching two to three boys of various sizes flash past with Little and his rooster tails riding along in the slipstream, I can forget the doctors I’m not happy “at.”
I can forget the one who’s sniffling all over the mike as he dictates until I find myself reaching for a hanky to blow my own nose. I forget the bronchial pyrotechnics of an explosive sneeze that shatters my eardrums. I can forget all that and laugh for awhile from my ringside seat at the running of the furry, sweaty bulls.
I never wear red, of course, but something orange instead. Which is something to be very “happy at.”