It wasn’t just Valentine’s Day.

It was my anniversary at the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. My 33rd consecutive year.

Yes, I started here as a paperboy when I was 10. OK, bad joke and I have a birthday in three weeks that would easily dispute that claim.

It seems like yesterday I walked in to John Robert Starr’s office and he said I had a choice to make.

I could go to the Capitol and write politics or I could be the sports columnist.

If I went to the Capitol I’d get a raise (if memory serves it was $10 per week, which was a lot more money in 1979 than now) and if I went to sports I’d get no raise.

I chose sports and have never regretted it.

I work for great people and with great people.

Many readers who travel out of state write to tell me how superior our product is to what they read in other cities, and for that to happen, it takes a lot of teamwork.

For 33 years I’ve been blessed to be a part of a great team.

As for Valentine’s Day, Rachel and I celebrated in St. Vincent’s, and while we would have preferred to be home, the main thing was we were together.

In a few weeks there will be one of the most grueling and unique events in the country, the Pike’s Peak Marathon.

It is like a forced march from Manitou Springs Colo., up Pike’s Peak Mountain to an elevation of 14,110 feet.

The marathon is on Sunday, but on Saturday they have the ascent race that is approximately 14 miles, but you get to ride a bus down the mountain.

Twice I did the ascent race, and it was about as much fun as skipping rope with a high ankle sprain.

The first time was 1990 and I had been free of cigarettes for six months. I trained for six weeks, and the longest run I had was less than five miles.

Probably the best thing that happened to me was going out early and running into Jim “Marquis de Sade’ Johnson, who was more well known in the ad agency business but very respected by the running community.

Jim insisted on driving me to the top of Pike’s Peak two days before the event, and up there we had some sort of special doughnut _ yeast doesn’t rise at the elevation _ some hot chocolate, and then spent an hour getting accustomed to the thin air.

To be honest, I didn’t originally think it helped, but as you’ll find out in the next blog, it was a huge move.

It was almost six years ago when Jermain Taylor won his first middleweight championship title.

He had to have one judge in the 12th round for the victory and that’s exactly what he got.

I’ll never forget that night.

What I’ll also never forget was going to a media-only workout of Bernard Hopkins.

I was standing by the ring watching him get taped and then start to do crunches and he was talking nonstop.

For some reason he suddenly zeroed in on me and I was wondering why until I realized at the bottom of the logo on my hat it said North Little Rock Arkansas.

He was still doing crunches when he started talking about the suckers who were betting against him.

He got up and was almost ranting about how dumb anyone would be to not bet on him, that it was better to win with short odds than lose to long ones.

Slowly he started approaching me, and he was talking louder and louder and staring at me.

I had already backed up against the ring and had no where to go. When he was within six feet I was wondering who would write my obituary and if they be kind.

Who was going to tell my daughter I was beat to death by the middleweight champion of the world, or that I died of fear?

In what seemed like was a heartbeat he’s inches from my face and now he’s got his left hand raised and jabbing it in the direction of my forehead.

“You should not bet against,’ me he said and jabbed again.

Did I mention I was terrified?

So I did the only thing I knew to do, I reached up with my right hand and grabbed his left hand.

If I was going down he was going to have to do it with one hand.

Only someone yelled, “That’s enough, Bernard.”

And he stopped, walked up the steps and hopped in the ring and started shadow boxing.

I was leaving when someone from his camp snarled, “Don’t touch the champ’s hands again.”

To which I replied (over my shoulder as I almost raced out of there), “Keep him out of my face.”

I didn’t go to any more Hopkins workouts.

Reading and then watching the video of Chad Ochocinco, wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals, attempt to ride a bull brought back a very strong memory.

It was the early 1980s and the late John Robert Starr was the managing editor/columnist of the Arkansas Democrat (long before the newspaper war ended) and he was very brave — with my blood.

He’s the one who sent me to run the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.

One day he walks up to my desk, drops a flyer on it and says, see what you need to do to get entered.

It was a flyer for The World Toughest Rodeo that was coming to Little Rock.

Honestly, I was hoping he meant in the cow chip throwing contest, but no, he wanted me to ride a real, live bull.

No stunt. The real thing.

Just so happened Paul Denton was handling the public relations so getting involved was easy.

For the few weeks leading up to the rodeo I trained on a mechanical bull, which is a little like saying you trained to tame tigers by collecting butterflies.

Everyone told me I had the right build and that I was doing great.

I don’t think any of them had actually ridden a bull.

The night finally got there and of course Starr and his wife, Norma, were on the front row.

The cowboy who was helping me warned me to stay out of the “well,’ which is what he called the area on the inside of the arc if a bull starts to buck in a circle.

Seems not even rodeo clowns will go in there.

Seconds before Old Dracula and I were called I was asked if I wanted to get out of it without looking like a coward.

Apparently there is a way to hold onto the gate and fall before the crowd can see you and they think you were bucked off.

I said no.

For some reason I believed I could ride the bull for eight seconds. I had learned how to hustle my feet to keep me on top, I had learned to row with the motion and not against it, but I didn’t know anything about being cinched up.

That’s when they put the reins in your hand and wrap them tight, only the cowboy told me it was best if they did it across my fingers instead of the palm of my hand. He said real cowboys do it that way.

Later I learned that was not true.

They called my name, the gate swung open and the bull bucked once, then twice and then your trusty scribe went flying high and to the right, away from the bull.

As soon as I hit the ground I scrambled to the fence and climbed over like Satan was trying get my neck size.

It wasn’t until I was safe that I realized I had landed in a pile of horse manure, but I didn’t care, I was safe and promptly announced my retirement from bull riding.

Ochocinco retired too, but for the record he rode half as long as I did, but was probably half as scared.

Last Saturday morning, St. James Methodist Church on Pleasant Valley Drive was packed.

Long before the doors closed on the main auditorium the balcony was getting full.

That was not a surprise — Melinda Gilbert Walls was that liked and respected.

When she ran for judge I went to vote early and there she was on an unseasonably hot October afternoon holding a sign and shaking hands.

We hugged and she winced.

She was so determined, and serious, about being a judge, after years of owning her own successful family practice, she was out there with two kidney stones that were screaming for attention.

My daughter lived in Memphis at the time and she drove home to vote for Melinda.

God must have needed a good, honest judge because he called her home last week and St. James was packed to send her off with a show of respect and affection.

She was special.

A terrific mom and wife — she used to claim Carroll was a saint for putting up with her, but never when he was around — she seriously cared about people, especially young ones who needed direction.

We first met at an art auction/fund-raiser and Melinda, Carroll and I walked around studying the art and I asked her what she thought about a piece.

Carroll immediately chuckled, that’s how well he knew his wife.

“I think it might be the most perfect pooper art I’ve ever seen,’ she said straight-faced then started laughing and added, “It will look great in your bathroom.’

She and Carroll actually guided me to a couple of pieces.

I moved in February and have been slow to hang paintings or pictures, but Saturday afternoon I dug out the pieces she picked out for me.

I’ll hang them soon and every time I look at them I’ll think of Melinda and remember she campaigned on a hot October afternoon with two kidney stones.