One year, after a quadruple bypass, he was sitting right next to me, lacing up his shoes,

getting ready to run an ultramarathon in the South Florida Sun.

Didn't tell a soul, by the way, that he had a stent put in less than two weeks ago.

No, not Tom. It was funny echoes of him a few years

back saying, Eddie, you're not a doctor. So what do I get out of complaining about my pain to you

rang through my head? There was sun, humidity, recovering body, and all.

68 years of life's trials and tribulations under his belt,

all of it there with us at the starting line as we took off.

When all was sudden done, he completed 50 miles,

which is a feat that, I don't know,

I'd ventured to guess 99% of healthy men in their 20s, couldn't just pick up and do tomorrow.

It was impressive.

But amidst the run, I forget how many miles in, this moment really stood out to me.

We were standing on this walkway that kind of diverged from the overpass, leaning against a rail.

And just watching the water pushed through the bridge underneath us and empty out into the Atlantic, he needed a breather because his reconfigured heart was throwing a quick temper tantrum.

You know, I made a joke about how it wasn't quite lunacy, but he was flirting with it.

And he goes, you want to hear a good story?

Me, of course, yes, I'm a story guy.

And he said, okay, and he was off.

He starts this story about a married man.

And this man is living in a hut with his wife in a little village.

And the man's in-laws lived in a hut, one village over. One day he woke up to the news that his

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