The Only Victory That Counts Is The

People Who Worked With Me Or Knew Me Still Called Me The 'world's Fastest Human' Because I Almost Never Stopped. I'd Found That I Could Get More Done With No Regular Job Or Regular Hours At All, But By Being On My Own, Flying To Speak Here, Help With A Public Relations Campaign For Some Client There, Tape My Regular Jazz Radio Show One Morning At 5:00 A.m. Before Leaving On A Plane For Another City Or Another Continent Three Hours Later To Preside Over A Major Sporting Event.

Every Morning, Just Like In Alabama, I Got Up With The Sun, Ate My Breakfast Even Before My Mother And Sisters And Brothers, And Went To School, Winter, Spring, And Fall Alike To Run And Jump And Bend My Body This Way And That For Mr. Charles Riley.

To A Sprinter, The Hundred-yard Dash Is Over In Three Seconds, Not Nine Or Ten. The First 'second' Is When You Come Out Of The Blocks. The Next Is When You Look Up And Take Your First Few Strides To Attain Gain Position. By That Time The Race Is Actually About Half Over. The Final 'second' - The Longest Slice Of Time In The World For An Athlete - Is That Last Half Of The Race, When You Really Bear Down And See What You're Made Of. It Seems To Take An Eternity, Yet Is All Over Before You Can Think What's Happening.

I Had Four Gold Medals, But You Can't Eat Four Gold Medals.

I Fought, I Fought Harder . . . But One Cell At A Time, Panic Crept Into My Body, Taking Me Over.