For most high school graduates, the letter jacket, hats, and t-shirts adorned with the mascot of their schools sit in a closet. The one-time student who used to squeeze in between friends on the front row bleachers on cold December nights to cheer for the football team might only check the score in the morning paper now.

There are graduates who still do go to some games, maybe pulling out a sweatshirt that fits a little tighter than it used to. They sit with parents of current students, reminisce about the way the old gym used to look and smell.

Then there is Jeremy Dixon, 25, class of 2001. William Fleming High School’s self-described number one fan.

Tonight he’s early for the basketball game. No, not early for the varsity game, not early for the junior varsity game. He’s early for the Freshman game. It’s the biggest one of the year against city rival Patrick Henry High School and he wants the best seat.

Seated next to 8-year-old Elijah Nichols (pictured at right) he’s in the front row, at half court, and with a perfect view. He wouldn’t have it any other way, be it for football, basketball, soccer, softball, baseball, track or any sport. That’s why he’s the number one fan.

“I think there are some graduates who attend specific sports, but not particularly every single sport. None of them in my opinion attend as many activities as Jeremy does,” says Roanoke city athletic director George Miller.

Dixon spends a few seconds adjusting his blue and yellow tattered Fleming wig, and then his focus is to the court. “Take your time, follow your shots,” he says as the young undefeated team easily beats Patrick Henry.

Dixon respects his self-made title. Sportsmanship, he says, is just as important as rooting for your team. He’s such a fan of athletics, that if Fleming isn’t playing, he’ll even walk to a Patrick Henry game, just to see some good action.

It’s been a good night for Dixon and the Colonels. All three teams have beaten Patrick Henry, but Dixon gives a shout out to the dejected P.H. bench too, “Good job ya’ll,” he says over their shoulders, “Nice game.” One player give a nod of thanks as Dixon removes his colorful wig.

Dixon stops to chat with Bernard Arrington and G.E. Williams, who say they’ve known him since he was a student in the late '90s. Dixon chides them about the Washington Redskins, and they leave each other with gentlemen’s bets on an upcoming NFL game.

“He’s a loveable guy. Everybody like him, he’s got a certain personality that everyone likes, and he definitely loves Fleming,” Arrington says.

“Once a Colonel, always a Colonel,” Dixon answers very matter of factly.

In three years, Darrell Wallace Jr. can get a driver's license.

In 10 minutes, the 13-year-old will race a blue, 375-horsepower Chevy Monte Carlo in the Late Model stock car division at speeds of up to 90 mph.

It's another Saturday night in Callaway at Franklin County Speedway. The weekly race series that runs from April through October brings racers from around Virginia and neighboring states. Though only a third of the age and experience of some of his competitors, Wallace, a Concord, N.C., native, is hoping to improve on his third- and fifth- place finishes from his past races at the 3/8-mile track.

Wallace climbs down from atop his race trailer where he has been nervously watching an earlier race, turning in circles so as to constantly keep his eyes on the leaders.

But now it's race time. Zip up suit, fill drink bottle with two orange Gatorades, ear phones in, helmet on, window net in place, fire up engine, green flag.

Early in the 75-lap-race, Wallace passes into third place, then slowly reels in the lead drivers. There is no caution flag this time, which is both a comfort to his dad, Darrell Wallace Sr., (right, in photo) and a disappointment. A caution would have allowed the younger Wallace to get in behind the two leaders to possibly steal the win, but a safe race is always a relief as the checkered flag waves.

His father has been proudly watching his son race since the junior ran go-karts at 9-years-old and has big hopes for moving to the big leagues of racing. Darrell Jr.'s third-place finish tonight is greeted by fans and fellow racers with awe.

"I think he can make it to NASCAR," remarks former track champion John Hall. "He handles the car very well."

Father and son hope so too as NASCAR tries to recruit more minority drivers like Darrell Jr., who is biracial.

Post race, Wallace climbs out of his car for a track-side interview over the loudspeakers. He's confident well beyond his 13 years, saying that with a caution, he would definitely have had second place, possibly the win.

"I think most of the drivers know that he has good equipment just like they do," says racing fan Joe Michael. "And they don't let the age thing bother them."

Wallace has another opinion.

“Usually they come up to congratulate me,” Wallace says. “And then they probably go back to the trailer and be like, ‘Dang, a 13-year-old just beat me.’”

Father and son Rick and Max Ruozzi of Harrisonburg are more than 30 years apart, but they're banking on a very competitive race in the Commonwealth Games summer biathlon.

"He's probably a slightly better runner than I am now, "Rick says of his teenage son. "But today it may come down to shooting to who's going to have the fastest time. He may beat me on the running, but I may come back on the shooting. It's going to be competitive today."

In the race, which was held on July 28 at the Roanoke Rifle and Revolver Club in Franklin County, athletes run three 1-mile runs with two sets of shooting targets between each run. Each runner has five rounds with which to hit the five targets. With each target missed, a 100-meter penalty lap is added to the distance. This is how Rick hopes to beat his son.

The racers start on intervals of one minute to avoid crowds at the shooting range. After the first run-and-shoot, father and son are close. Both walk into the shooting range to try to lower their heart rates. The echo of .22 rifles bounces across the narrow shooting valley. The "ping" of metal targets hit and groans from missed shots breaks the sound of heavy breathing.

After the second mile, Rick comes into the shooting gallery for his final set of five shots. This time, he's not allowed to lie down as he was on the first round. He locks his knees, steadies himself, and points the gun. It's waving all around and bouncing with his breathing.

"Pow." Miss

"Pow" Miss

"Pow." Hit

"Pow." Miss

"Pow." Miss

"Four laps," he tells the penalty judge as he shakes his head.

Max comes sprinting into the finish. It will be a few minutes before race organizer Pete Lampman has the final results. Max peers over Lampman's shoulder.

"Dad, I beat you!" Max exclaims. The penalty laps proved to be too much for his father. An extra 400m gave Max an overall 55-second advantage over Rick.

"I guess I need to work on my shooting some more," Rick laughs as the pair congratulate the other dozen entrants in the race.

No longer is the importance of gravitational force relevant only to jet fighter pilots, amusement park riders and physicists. Add race walkers to that group.

For several of the aging athletes in the Coventry Commonwealth Games race walk on Sunday at Roanoke College, gravitational force is why they hope to compete for the rest of their lives.

"Because you always have to have one foot on the ground, you’ll never hit with more than one-and-a-half Gs," says Bruce Booth, a Roanoke competitor and coach in the region. "A jogger will hit with three Gs on his knees."

The rules of race walking, Chesapeake racer Tom Gerhardt (pictured) says, are what helps prevent injuries. "I’ll probably last until, Lord willing, my 70s and 80s," he says. "It’s just a way of continuing in functional fitness for a lifetime instead of having to quit because of an injury."

What race walking is not, they say, is a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. Wearing a heart rate monitor and stopwatch, Gerhardt says he gets his heart rate up to about 90 percent of his max, or in his case about 180 beats per minute. For 25 laps around the track, his hips move side to side as he strides with consistent splits for over an hour.

Wearing a large sun hat and wrist sweat bands, Gerhardt picks up the pace over the final 400 meters. "All right, a little faster than last year," he says as he crosses the finish line for the victory. He earns a win in the 10K with a time of 1:05:07 and a 3K winning split of 18:33.

"Yeah!" he exclaims with a small pump of his fist.

The week of trash-talking was enough.  The teachers felt beaten down. 

“All we’ve heard this week is, ‘Ya’ll are too old,’ ‘You’ve got arthritis,’ ‘You’re too slow’, and “You’re going down,’ says instructional assistant Deborah Graham.

To help relieve stress among both students and teachers as SOL testing and the school year near their end, Breckinridge Middle School administrators held a faculty v. student basketball game one recent morning between classes.  For the next hour students and teachers relinquish their assigned roles and become fierce competitors.

Knowing that many of their students had substantial court experience, the teachers have come prepared.  Wearing red t-shirts silk-screened with nicknames like Terminator, Hammer or Macho, the faculty knows a few plays and even has an organized cheerleading squad.

One by one, Graham introduces the students, who draw a roar of applause from their classmates, and one by one, as she introduces her fellow faculty, the student section boos loud enough to nearly drown out her voice.

The students want to win, but the teachers know they have to win.

“We have to beat them,” says Ann Swank, a 7th grade science teacher.  “That way they know who’s the boss.”

Just after halftime, as student and teachers are substituting players, faculty team coach Sue Bias, a health and P.E. instructor, comes close to receiving a technical foul for arguing a call with the referees.  She’s warned and the game goes on.

“Take it away from ‘em, trip ‘em, whatever!” yells Swank as the end nears.

As they predicted before the start, the teachers win, 29-19 in the four-quarter game.  Several complain that they’ll be sore for a few days, and technology teacher William Birdlebough is nursing a bloody lip, after colliding with a student.

For that hour, and as they line up to shake hands after the game, they aren’t students and teachers, but peer competitors, both vying for the bragging rights for at least another year.

“This makes us human to the students,” Swank says.  “Normally we’re just those people up there in front of the room.”

And in an instant, it’s game over and back to class as principal Ashia Jones takes the mic to usher the students back to their normal roles.

Their mornings are filled with work.  Among them are a designer, an attorney, an entrepreneur, a nurse, a financial planner, a non-profit director, an editor and a Social Security office worker.

By 12:15 three days a week, the suits, ties and uniforms are replaced with old t-shirts and shorts.  For the next 45 minutes they are group cycling and it’s no leisurely ride around the park.

Riding stationary bikes, they go nowhere, though the large mural of a country road in front of them helps brighten up the dim windowless room at the downtown Roanoke YMCA where participant Mary Ann Helms (right) rides beside the wall.  The music is loud and instructor Melanie Slaughter (left) has to use a microphone to call out the work sets, but most of the noise comes from the participants who yell, scream and prod each other to work harder.

“Hey Mike, don’t you slack off back there. You gotta go boy,” Pete Lampman yells from the front row.  “Push it, push it, push it,” he chants to each pedal stroke with several others.

“This is a hardcore, rowdy bunch,” Slaughter says.

“Most of them are coming in from their lunch and this is their stress relief time where they just come in and let loose and whoop and holler and we have a great time.”

“It’s definitely a stress reliever, no question about it,” Lampman adds.

“But it’s also a chance each day to take care of yourself, and it makes me more productive later in the day.”

It’s 1:02 and Slaughter has lost track of time. “Time, time, time,” someone yells from the back. And in a moment everyone is gone to return to work leaving only a puddle of sweat and their stress on the floor below.

Gwen Fernandez is trying to affect a warrior-like grimace in the face of an onslaught, but can hardly keep from laughing. 

After all, she’s playing dodgeball.  

A few volleys from the opposing team has left her the only girl standing on team “Ballhooter” (named after a ski run at an area resort). Of the six balls in play, she only has two. The other four are clutched by opponents plotting her demise.

It’s only a few days before finals at Hollins, too. 

Tons of pressure.  

And everyone has her own way of coping. Some might turn to ice cream or late-night card games, some girls play dodgeball.

It’s an outlet for semi-controlled aggression and has only a few rules: Stay in bounds.  Don’t get hit. Pick up a ball.  Nail your opponent.

But no intentional head shots please.

“If it happens, it happens,” says Hollins University outdoor programs coordinator Jon Guy Owens who oversees the games. And it does, though officially no point is scored for a hit above the shoulders, this according to the rules set forth by the National Amateur Dodgeball Association. (That’s right: There is actually a governing body for the schoolyard game you played as a child.)

When the blast comes, Fernandez gives new meaning to the word dodge as she contorts herself in an effort to stay alive. No such luck. A ball finds her and it’s finished.

“Line ‘em up,” calls Owens and they start the game again, but after a few more rounds some of the girls gather up their belongings and head out.  Break’s over.  Back to the books.

Do you like to run?

Do you like to run a trail marathon?

Do you like to run a trail marathon in the winter?

Do you like to run two back-to-back trail marathons in the winter?

Do you like to run two back-to-back trail marathons in the winter at night?

Welcome to the Hellgate 100K.

On December 10, at 12:01 a.m., 80 ultra-marathon runners line up at the Hellgate Creek Horse Trailhead in Rockbridge County for the third annual 100 km-long trail running race.  It is 20 degrees and the start is filled with nervous energy.  The 53 runners that will complete the race will spend at least the next half of a day running and running and running.

With a line of headlamps lighting their way, Jay Finkle of Roanoke (right in photo) keeps his eyes on the icy trail.  Sixteen hours and forty-four minutes later he will cross the finish line at Camp Bethel in Botetourt County.

“I don’t know if crazy is the right word,” says fellow Roanoke ultra-marathoner Neal Jamison (not pictured) who has run the race all three years, finishing this year in 13:48 and in 6th place overall.

“A lot of people say, ‘Obsessive compulsive,’” Jamison adds.
December in the Virginia Appalachians can bring a variety of surface and weather conditions.  This year, many runners, including Jamison, are using sheet metal screws in the soles of their running shoes to add traction on the icy surface.

“I think that was the big difference between people who were successful this year and the people who weren’t,” says Jamison.  “I saw a lot of people falling, and when you fall on those icy roads it hurts.”

For mental sanity, Jamison says he breaks up the long hours into the sections between aid stations, where he gulps down warm soup, energy drinks, and some solid food if his stomach can take it.

“If you think about running 100 kilometers, that’s almost too much to think about,” laughs Jamison.  “You try not to think about the elements.  You try not to think about the distance.  If you’re lucky you’re running with someone who has similar interests and you just talk about anything and everything.”

“A lot of people call it an addiction,” Jamison says.  “There are a lot of people who run ultras who are recovering addicts to bad things like drugs and alcohol.  And now they’ve found a new addiction which is hopefully a much healthier one.”

Still interested?

For more information go to www.extremeultrarunning.com.

They have names like Duchess von Bruisin and Dallas Malice.

For two 20-minute periods, women from Roanoke and Richmond skate furiously around a tight oval at the Star City Skate Center throwing elbows and hip checks worthy of the NHL.

It’s a battle in miniskirts and ripped fishnets. The war paint is eyeliner, rouge and glitter. They strap on helmets, lace up roller skates and take to the floor for roller derby combat set to the sounds of Pantera and White Zombie.

The bout pits the Star City Roller Girls against the Richmond Derby Demons in Roanoke’s first competition. The Roller Girls have trained for nearly a year for this moment. Some new teams lose by hundreds of points their first time out, but Siobhan Haines, founder and president of the Roller Girls, hopes to score at least half as many points as the veteran Demons. Still, point after point goes to Richmond. By intermission the one-sided score leaves some wondering if they might have made a deal with the devil.

Twenty minutes later they roll back into combat.

“Do something! Quit skating behind her!” scream the Roller Girls as they try to urge their “Jammer” through the pack so she can score points. By bout’s end the score is 119-53, close to the hoped for total.

The grinding music fades and the wheeling gladiators return to lives outside the rink. Lady Vixen becomes Amber Campbell, a mom, and Tramplin’ Tweeter returns to life as Robin Fetchman, though she already yearns for the next bout in September. “It’s a great way to take out aggression. Go through a divorce and tell me you’ll not want to knock some people down.”

An hour earlier Salem high school’s football team had advanced to the state championship game. In a few hours Virginia Tech would take the field against Florida State in the ACC championship game.

In between the two stadium games, seven boys and a 20-year-old who all live at the Laurel Ridge Apartments in Roanoke play a championship game of their own in a sloped field off of Shenandoah Avenue Northwest. Quinton Leftwich, 10, makes a fast run straight towards the older and bigger Brian Napper, 13 (right) who delivers a quick tackle (in photo).

In their game there are no referees, but there are rules.

-- Brothers have to cover each other. “Brother to brother?” 10-year-old Quinton Leftwich playfully teases his 20-year-old brother from across the line of scrimmage. “Yeah,” his brother answers, “Brother to brother.”

-- All plays end in a tackle.

“When you get hit that’s how we get kids buff out here. We say, ‘you gotta eat it,’” explains Bryon Redding, 14, about the benefits of tackle football. But he says he and the other older kids temper themselves when tackling the smaller ones.

“We hit them gently,” he says.

-- And the most important rule: No crying. Though only half their size, 6-year-old Koron Pate runs the ball as far as he can until tackled hard by 15-year-old Antonio Waker. When the other boys crowd around Pate to check on him, tears well up in his eyes. “Eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it” they chant.

“That means you gotta take the hit,” Pate says.

The air in the room is thick, and burns in the nostrils.

“It’s the smell of battle,” says 8-year veteran Roanoke bodybuilder Jerome Hamm (not pictured). “Like you’re just slappin’ it on. Physique to physique combat. I call it the pit.”

In the backstage pump-up room at the Mt. Rogers Bodybuilding Show at Northside High School on November 19, a dozen competitors at a time layered with pungent-smelling tanning and posing potions manage in a final few pushups, a couple dozen arm curls, and a few poses in a small vanity mirror leaning against the wall. In just moments they will each get 60 seconds to impress the judges on stage.

Alan Harshaw (left) and Robert Williams (right) from Falls Church, Va., watch as Alfred Thompson from Burke, Va., shows off veins on his arms that protrude like roots on a well-worn hiking trail. Though perhaps envious of Thompson’s vascularity, Harshaw, 45, would be the big winner of the evening, taking home four heavy bronze trophies and the privilege to compete with the pros in his next show.

Hamm says the time they spend in the gym is the fun part of bodybuilding. “I look around the gym, and I see a lot of people who have the potential to be bodybuilders,” says Hamm, “But hardly any of them will be able to put up with the diet.”

“If I get down to like 3 to 5 percent body fat, and I eat an M&M, it’ll show up,” Hamm says with a chuckle.

“Bodybuilding is a lot harder than people think,” Hamm says. “Try flexing your legs as hard as you can, your arms as hard as you can, your abs as hard as you can, and your pecs as hard as you can all at the same time. Oh yeah, and on top of that, make it look easy.”

It’s just after 1 a.m. Wednesday.
The horse owners, competitors and fans have left the Salem Civic Center hours ago for their hotels or RVs.
Inside Tent E at the Salem Horse Show, the sounds of rain falling on the canvas roof and an occasional shuffle from a tired horse are music to Robin Brumfield’s ears.
Her work day is just beginning.
Tonight, a tall white horse named Phooey is her third customer. Tomorrow, Phoeey will be competing in the Hunter category, and his owners have requested Brumfield’s night-side service to braid his mane and tail.
"You better hold your head still," Brumfield playfully threatens Phooey as he stretches up and down.
The owners know that having a professional like Brumfield tie 35-40 of her specialty braids on Phooey’s mane can be the difference between first and second place when two horses have performed equally well.
"It sort of shows that you want your horse to be a winner," Brumfield said of the tradition that goes back to when horses’ manes were braided to keep them clean and free of burrs and other entanglements.
Brumfield travels across the country from one horse show to the next for most of the year, working quietly at night … often alone. Occasionally she returns to her Virginia Beach home for a 48-hour break in between weeks of road trips.
"The best thing about braiding is not having to say ‘Yes, sir’," she laughs. "I love being my own boss."
Brumfield’s hands move in a blur, and though she still makes it look easy, the years on the top of a step ladder bent over horses for 10 hours a night have taken a toll.
Arthritis causes pain in her neck, and often the summer heat can make her weary by dawn.
"This was one of those jobs I was going to do until I decided what I wanted to be when I grew up — and I’m still here," she said. "So that either means I haven’t grown up yet, or I still don’t know what I want to be."

CHARLOTTESVILLE
When University of Virginia women’s rowing head coach Kevin Sauer lists his team’s primary rivals for this weekend’s NCAA championships in Oak Ridge, Tenn., he says it’s impossible to narrow it down to only a few schools.
"Brown, California, USC, Yale, Harvard, Ohio State, Tennessee, Princeton," Sauer says counting them on fingers of both hands. "It’s really anyone’s race."
It’s May 9, and one of the last hard practices before a slow taper toward the national championship race. The women in two boats of eight rowers apiece will work hard for two minutes, rest for 30 seconds, repeat, and finish with a hard two-minute interval. It will be exhausting.
"Quicker, quicker," Sauer yells through a bullhorn from his motor boat behind the rowers as the boat cuts the flat water. "Rock-n-roll, both boats, let’s go. Everybody on it!"
Sauer knows that physical preparation gets you this far in earning national recognition. Winning the race in Oak Ridge will also rely on harnessing their mental strength. Not an easy task right now.
For one, it’s exam week. One rower hasn’t slept in a day and a half, and several others need to be home studying for tomorrow’s exams. Practice schedules have had to vary to work around the students’ tests, and it will be nearly 9 p.m. before the women will be home tonight.
At the end of the second intense set of six hard minutes, the women sit in their boat and wait for Sauer’s feedback. Aside from the frogs and crickets on the banks and an airplane overhead, only the sounds of heavy breathing fill the air as the boats slow to a stop.
Sauer is pleased with their work tonight, but sees that they’re fatigued. He reads off their two-minute split times and let’s them know that if rested he believes they can win the NCAA championship.
Tonight there is no cheering or vocal confidence coming from the tired rowers. Perhaps it’s tomorrow’s exams or 16 pairs of burning leg muscles keeping them from saying much.
"You have to believe that you’re good," Sauer says. "You can’t just go to the starting line with a coin flip and wonder if we’re going to do well."
On May 13, UVa won the South/Central Regional Championships to easily qualify for the NCAA race.
They enter nationals seeded No. 5 among 12 teams.

Kathy Caldwell had a nightmare.
Ghosts from her childhood shrieked that her son Tyler would be alone in his disability. As a child, she was known as “Fatty Kathy” to classmates who didn’t realize how deep those words could cut. Would those same sharp claws now shred his gentle spirit? Would the day come when he would know only cold and silence?
It never has.
Kathy watches from the stands at William Byrd High School as Tyler’s classmates and friends run beside him, encouraging the 17-year-old as he pounds down the last 100 meters of the 400 relay, the final event in the Special Olympics area eight spring games.
“Come on, Tyler!” they shout. “Come on! You’re almost there!” Arms pumping like the rods on a locomotive, he nears the end, then thrusts the baton into the air as he crosses the finish line.
“Alright, Tyler!” shouts senior Andrew Collins as the winded sprinter collapses into his arms. “You did it!” Tyler is covered by a wave of hugs and high-fives. He never misses a chance for a hug or a peck on the cheek from a pretty girl.
“You know,” says Kathy, “I don’t think he thinks he’s different than anyone else. Maybe he can’t run quite as fast as some, but he just keeps going.”
Arm in arm he is escorted to the winner’s podium for another ribbon. Then it’s back to classes.
Andrew, gathering his things before heading inside, enjoys the warm sun a few minutes more.
“Tyler’s changed my life,” he says.

Sheri Maimone checks on her two children, sitting eight rows up from the dirt floor. They’re set for the evening. Hot dogs, nachos, cheese dip, sodas. She’d like to stay and watch the rodeo at Salem Civic Center, but she’s already late for warm-ups.
Maimone, a self-described adrenaline junky, is a bull rider.
Tonight, the Rockville, Va., mom has drawn bull No. 311, an 1,800-pound banana-horned one with a reputation for violently throwing his riders on the second buck.
Maimone’s coach and husband, Al, a former bull rider, gets her equipment ready and calms his wife’s nerves.
"It’s one of them sports where if you say that you’re not a little worried or you’re not a little nervous, well you ain’t been on many bulls," Al said quietly. Al works quickly tying the rope around No. 311 while Sheri stretches and kneels down for a cigarette. Her hair, flowing behind her cowgirl hat during the flag presentation, is now pulled back in a ponytail. Sweat beads on her forehead.
"As soon as you get in, sit down just like at the practice pen, and get … out," Al said. "All business. Let I'm rip the gate out of your hand. As soon as that gate opens, stick them spurs and don’t stop reaching for the front.
"You have to ride this bull tonight, and he’s just a piece of trash. You can ride him, OK?"
As soon as she sits, the bull presses her right leg into the gate with his 1,800 pounds.
"He’s crushing my leg!" Sheri yelled from behind a mouth guard. Al and others react quickly and push with all their might to move the bull.
"All right, just have fun babe; you ready?" Al said with a smile. She gives the familiar rodeo nod; the gate swings open.
"Reach, reach, reach, reach, reach. Oh," Al yelled.
In just two seconds, No. 311 lives up to his violent reputation, tossing Sheri over his horns. He lowers his head to charge, but two clowns swoop her up and redirect the bull’s attention.
"Don’t ever think a bull is stupid," Sheri said. "I have learned the hard way that they do know who’s on them and they can pick you out of everybody in the arena and they will come get you."
"I was reaching," Sheri later told her husband.
"I’ll tell you what, you had the rankest one in the pen tonight," Al said in a consoling manner.
"Dammit," Sheri said, as she lowered her head.