The French City Run, a race I named, was a 10K race on what was essentially my training course through Gallipolis.  It was run in early May on National Hospital Day.  This particular Saturday was unusually warm.  During the first half of the race I was doing pretty well.  As I came onto Fourth Avenue I was right on the pace for beating 40 minutes—a goal or benchmark for many runners, including me.  But Fourth Avenue was shadeless for most of its length.  With the sun beating down I felt myself fade.  I got water at the water stop, and ran under the water spray.  By the end of the Fourth Avenue I had lost several seconds off my pace.  The course turned to an up and down section that had always been tough for me, but I fought through it.  At that point there was about a quarter mile left to the finish line.  I saw a runner a good bit in front of me and I said as I often do in races, “I’ll try to catch that guy”.  So I picked up the pace.  As the distance to the finish line decreased I went faster.  Finally, I was giving it everything I had.  I knew it was going to be close to 40 minutes.  Very close.  Gasping for breath, feeling like I was radiating heat, and my legs begging to stop, I crossed the finish line—in 40:05.  Fourth Avenue did it.  Never so close again.  A 40:15 in a race in Portsmouth was the next closest.