The “Happy Dollar” basket makes the rounds at the weekly Rotary Club meeting. Members say why they’re happy as they place their dollar in the basket.

During the winter months, we heard a weekly progress report of Rotarian Phil Mancini’s diet challenge with some work colleagues. He was doing well for a while and lots of Happy Dollars landed in that basket. Fellow Rotarians were happy for him. When he lost the challenge, we felt his disappointment. Rotary is a club known for good fellowship and service. The money raised is put to good use in the community.

Last week, Rotarian Frank Wright’s Happy Dollar was that he was looking forward to the Beach to Beacon. His good training meant that he could run the race in a time better than his age. I quietly prayed that my months of physical therapy, rehabilitation and training would mean a painless finish, and that Tylenol wouldn’t become a staple in my post-race diet this year.

President Jim Weaver got down to business – running the concession stand Thursday night at the summer concert series. My Happy Dollar assured club members that I’d bring a calculator to speed up ordering at the window. It would be a big week, with an anticipated 1,000 people. The stand was loaded with inventory. We were good to go.

Thursday evening was blazing hot. I arrived at the concession stand 10 minutes late. I jumped into the thick of it. A line of people had already formed. With their $20 bills, our supply of dollar bills in the change box dwindled. Word had gotten around: The free concerts are great and the food is cheap. As I looked out at a 50-foot line of people waiting to order, I began to sweat and panic.

Rusty in my math and not familiar with the calculator I found hanging around the house, I asked people if they had smaller bills to make change. All the while, large orders came in – three cheeseburgers, two fries, one nacho, two hot dog Frisbee specials, fried dough, hold the cinnamon. Trying to add this up, I forgot what was ordered, and inquired, “What did you say again?” I was totally overwhelmed. I couldn’t get the calculator to keep a running total. I had no choice but to add it in my head, a very a scary thought. Cursing the 75 cent price point, I vowed next year’s pricing structure will be different. Half dollar and dollar increments I can handle, but the 75 cent increment has got to go!

As the sweat poured off me, the next customer stepped up. “Breathe,” she said, concerned that I would hyperventilate. She returned later to see how I was holding up. I assured her that I won’t be quitting my day job. A profession in the short-order food business is not my thing. Though I had intended to eat, I had lost my appetite and there wasn’t time anyway. People returned to the window to order dessert – fried dough, Sea Dog Biscuits, Popsicles and ice cream bars. Phil Mancini was slaving in the fried dough area. Sweat was pouring off him. Attendance exceeded expectation and we ran out of nearly everything, including quarters.

Scanning the crowd waiting, I asked, “Anyone have any quarters to sell?” Nobody did. A bleach bucket filled with quarters appeared. Rotarian John Murphy came to the rescue with a supply of quarters from coin-operated laundry machines of buildings he manages.

With my stomach tied up in knots and no food left to buy even if I wanted to, I opted for a cold beverage instead. My pants fell lower on my hips and I swore that I had sweat off 10 pounds. I told Phil to heck with the diet, work short order and you’ll lose all the weight you want. I began to ponder: Why sweat the miles of the Beach to Beacon? Like the short-order business, I really have no business being in a race like that. But my registration was in, so no backing out now.

Saturday, I took my spot by the 10-minute mile mark at the starting line, and sized up the competition. Two women standing behind me promised each other that this was the last time they’d put themselves through this. “We say this every year, yet every year we return,” they said. The gun fires and we’re off. Navigating the field, I pass people, and search for someone who matches my pace.

A voice from behind announces he’s found his running buddy. He inches up beside me and we become instant friends. It’s Joe’s first time running of the Beach to Beacon and he is soaking up the new experience running from side to side catching every water shower offered. His enthusiasm carries me. Into mile 4, Joe’s calf began to hurt. I hung back with him for a bit, vowing that setting records isn’t my goal. I tell him, I may throw in a kick at the end, but I’ll be sure to find him at the finish. I finished the race topping last year’s time a few seconds under an hour. I was happy. I found Joe and we give each other a sweat- filled embrace.

So, sweating buckets paid off. Record sales at the concession stand and a faster time running the Beach to Beacon is worth a couple Happy Dollars in the basket this week. The glutten for punishment that I am, there’s no doubt I’ll run the Beach to Beacon again next year, and I’ll be back working the concession stand this Thursday night and yes, I’ll be having Tylenol with my water this week.