Once more unto the breach ...

-- Henry V

ATLANTA --- Another year, another successful Peachtree Road Race.

Thanks to all of you who inspired my annual 10-kilometer July Fourth jaunt through Georgia's capital city.

Thanks to SAFEHomes of Augusta for giving me a shirt to wear to promote their good works.

Thanks to the high school students I teach in my Sunday school class for offering me up in their prayers last week.

And thanks to my mother in Atlanta, who gave me homemade biscuits early Saturday morning before I set out.

My race results were the best in two years, despite an almost complete lack of training. I credit the biscuits, but I also credit James Brown.

A recording of the late Godfather of Soul was belting out Living in America from speakers in front of a Peachtree Street church during one rough stretch early in the race.

I smiled and picked up my pace.

That's part of the fun of running a race through downtown Atlanta with 55,000 runners and 150,000 spectators: Loudspeakers playing music and live bands line the route offering inspiration about every half-mile. There was rock, oldies, hip-hop, Christian music, country and even reggae, which appeared to be played by several women in their mid-60s -- weird, but it sounded good.

Anything with a beat is easy to run to, and that's how I believe you do it better: Think about something else -- music, scenery, anything.

Running is the only sport where you tend to do better if you don't concentrate on what you're supposed to do.

That's because after about the first mile, your body begins coming up with excuses.

Your legs are hurting. Your chest is wheezing. Sweat is stinging your eyes and causing your shirt to stick to you uncomfortably. And don't even get me started on the knees.

The body parts begin to debate stopping for a few minutes. "What could it hurt?" the feet ask, "Nobody here knows us."

The thigh muscle makes a motion to adjourn.

The lungs quickly second the motion, asking, "All in favor ..."

And then the brain puts an end to it.

"No," it dictates. "Keep going."

(Running isn't very democratic.)

Fortunately, that's the secret to its success. It's not so much form or speed. It's in refusing to stop running.

At the roughest parts, I kept trying to remember Bible verses about the swiftness of the race, and rising up like eagles, but I was too tired.

Instead I reverted to my default prayer: "The Lord is my shepherd," I whispered to myself, "I shall not walk."

And I didn't.

In the end, that got me through.

But I'm sure the biscuits played a part.