It’s just after noon on a Wednesday — seven days into summer vacation. The aroma of bacon, eggs and waffles greets you as you enter the front door. A re-run of “Law and Order” is on the TV, but no one is watching it. A blond teenaged girl scrambles eggs on the stove while a shorter, brown-skinned girl, with sleep still in her eyes, yells down the hall for another to come eat breakfast. It feels as if you’ve just entered someone’s home, rather than a children’s shelter.
How many people do you know who train like heck for two whole weeks, run the Peachtree, almost die and then talk about how great the experience was and that they can’t wait to do it again next year? Their “training plan” is to gut it out again next year for another t-shirt and some temporary glory. WooHoo!!