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John Rosmus

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NEWS
August 6, 1995 | BARBIE LUDOVISE, SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
The tumbleweeds, they don't ask questions. The sand dunes are not impressed. A man jogs alone down a molten-hot highway. The desert doesn't ask why. The desert couldn't care less. Back home, the questions come rat-a-tat-tat. Run from Death Valley to the top of Mt. Whitney? Are you serious? Are you some kind of nut? But as John Rosmus starts his long trek across the Death Valley floor, the only questions are his own. Will he make it to the 14,495-foot summit of Mt. Whitney?
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NEWS
August 6, 1995 | BARBIE LUDOVISE, SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
The tumbleweeds, they don't ask questions. The sand dunes are not impressed. A man jogs alone down a molten-hot highway. The desert doesn't ask why. The desert couldn't care less. Back home, the questions come rat-a-tat-tat. Run from Death Valley to the top of Mt. Whitney? Are you serious? Are you some kind of nut? But as John Rosmus starts his long trek across the Death Valley floor, the only questions are his own. Will he make it to the 14,495-foot summit of Mt. Whitney?
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SPORTS
July 12, 1990 | BARBIE LUDOVISE
A year ago, if there was a major road race to be run, William Musyoki was there, running with impressive intensity. Despite friends' warnings that too much racing might lead to burnout, Musyoki continued to follow the call of the miles, inspired by constant improvement and lure from race directors. It wasn't until he finished first in last July's Bastille Day 8K, with a time far from what he had hoped, that Musyoki admitted a change was needed in his race schedule.
SPORTS
July 5, 1990 | BARBIE LUDOVISE
With ice cubes in their hats, pajamas on their legs, and yards of electrical tape wrapped around their feet, John Rosmus and David Warady will take off today for a run across one of the nation's hottest hot spots: Death Valley National Monument. Yes, Death Valley. California's furnace-hot, vacation spot. A one-time world temperature record of 134 degrees was recorded there. Last Sunday, it was 125.
NEWS
October 7, 1990 | PATRICK MOTT
"A nother glass of Orvieto, sweetheart?" you ask as you prop yourself on the velvet cushions and reach for the ice bucket. The gondolier is averting his eyes, but Candice Bergen, looking un-Murphy Brownish, isn't. She smiles as you float beneath the Bridge of Sighs, and soft mandolin music drifts by on the Venetian summer air . . . So why are your legs starting to feel like Jell-O? And where did that burning feeling in your throat come from? Why is that stinging sweat rolling in your eyes?
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