Some years ago -- a disgustingly large number of years, now that I think about it -- I was running a marathon along the Mississippi River north of La Crosse. This particular course probably has more hills and higher hills than any of the six marathons I have run. Terrible hills.

Among the other runners was a young woman who would pass me periodically and whom I would pass as often. She passed me on the flat stretches, and I passed her upgrade. As I came up behind her, I could see her knees weakening and her pace slow. At times she was almost walking. Each time I passed her, the look of disgust was stronger and her despair was deeper. I admit it was fun passing a person at least 20 years younger than I was.

However, I soon learned that it was only a matter of time before she would pass me on the flat stretch with a taunting, "Hi, again!" Then off she would be, disappearing around the next bend. Interestingly -- and instructively, we finished the 26.2 miles within seconds of each other. Alright: she was first.

I came upon her again on the next hill, again getting discouraged and looking as if she was going to quit. I dug in and picked up the pace. This time she said as I approached, "Here comes that guy who loves hills!"

I do not. I do not like hills. In point of fact, I hate hills. For obvious reasons. I already said this course in the Maple Leaf Marathon confronts runners with the worse hills of any race I have ever run. I ran hills well not because I love hills, but precisely because I hate them.

I had learned on earlier marathons that I, at least, dare not give in to hills. You can't walk up hills and then compensate and recover time by running down the other side. For one thing, the way up is always at least twice as long as the way down. I went drove back once and measured a couple of hills to prove the point, but something must have been wrong with my odometer. So I just need to go by my experience of running. The way up is always longer than the way down.

Another reality about running is that a short, insignificant walk always ends up being a long, disastrous walk. Funny about these things. I learned that I dare not fall back lest I drop out.

The reason I ran hills when I hated them and, so, appeared as if I "loved" them is because I think this is the only way to run hills. You either kill the hill or the hill will kill you. When I see I am coming to a hill, I don't think: Oh, goody, here is another hill I get to run! I think: Oh rats, here is another hill I have to run, and I may as well get into it and get it over with!

I close my mind to how impossible the hill would seem if I allow myself to think about it. I run the hill with a vengeance. How dare you get it my way; I'll show you!

I can always lighten up when it's all over, but I dare not do it on the way up. A hill is not the place to slow down or lighten up. Hills are not to enjoy but to conquer.

While all this actually happened, this is also a parable. I'll let you recognize and, hopefully, experience the meaning. I'll just suggest that life is lived as a race is won.

Dr. Wallace Alcorn's commentaries appear in the Herald on Mondays.