From where I live on the coast of California's Monterey Peninsula，there is no easy way to go anywhere. We have roads with views that will take your breath away，but few fast lanes. To go north to San Francisco，you take the Old Coast Highway，and then go ahead to 101，a multilane freeway，which，depending on weather and traffic，will eventually get you where you're going or drive you crazy. But the part I feared most was a narrow two­lane stretch of a road that connected the two. In the south，where I grew up，such roads are called cow trails.

　　Roads are like people; they have personalities- coloured by how we see and feel about the mat particular times. My husband taught me this about roads. Randy was an athlete，body and soul. As a high school basketball coach，he loved and worked out with his teams. He was a marathoner who could run miles and not be tired. In 25 years of teaching he rarely had a sick day. And then he had cancer.

　　So we began another race down another road: a four­year­long marathon to Stanford University Medical Centre for surgeries，radiation，chemo and more than a few emergencies. And to get to the hospital we had to travel those impossible roads- 91miles，two hours. I hated every minute and inch. I especially hated that traffic­ crowded two­lane bottle neck. Then they started construction. Randy never complained. But as he grew weaker，I tried to avoid that cow trail to shorten our drive. I spent hours with maps but found that there was no getting around it. I had no choice but to drive it. Once，when we were running late for an appointment，I muttered，"I hate this stupid road."

　　"Four miles，"he said.

　　I looked over. His eyes were closed.

　　"What did you say？"I asked.

　　"This part of the road，"he said in his calm voice."It's only four miles long. That's easy. You can do anything for four miles."

　　I checked the odometer(里程表)．He was right. Four miles exactly. I could have sworn it was 20. Suddenly the drive got easier. Four miles was doable and comprehensible. It was the distance we walked in the evening from our house to the beach and back. It was half the length of a mountain trail he loved to hike in Yosemite，with a baby on his back. Four short trips to our local park to play catch with our kids. A part of the 26 miles he once ran in the Big Sur International Marathon. Four miles was nothing- certainly not a space or time worth wasting in anger when he had only months to live. So I stopped complaining. I started really looking. And the reappeared green acres of fields that shined in the sun. Strawberries and roses stood at the roadside. And there was an old white horse watching cars running down the open road.

Those things had always been there，but I had never noticed. Randy taught me how to see them. Now when the road is long and hard，I break it into pieces in my soul. I divide it into four­ mile stretches. You can endure anything for four miles- even find beauty and acceptance along