A hard head? Please. It and its wild ideas would be nothing without my hard heel bone, my unfaltering phalanges, my mighty metatarsals, the miraculous mechanics of the cuboid, navicular and cuneiform, always working, never breaking, never tiring, strongly supporting me through fifty-two marathons. Pounding, pounding, pavement and hill, my calcaneus withstood it all. Even my talus, scraped along the cobblestone in front of the Jardin de Luxembourg in Paris as I was ejected off the back of a motorcycle. I hobbled, but I still went to work the next day. Feet, you have been my most reliable ally. Merci.