trThere are certain circumstances that may lead to one applying for an innocent spouse tax relief. In case one has a cheating spouse, or perhaps their spouse has lost their job, they have to inform the IRS immediately to diffuse any back tax issue. To qualify for innocent tax spouse relief, there are some tips that can help one qualify. They include; meeting all the IRS deadlines- in case an individual is not aware of how their spouse is manipulating books as a result of their hidden financial activity, they may qualify as it will be considered that either your spouse had a different business that they ran independently, you did not share an account and therefore its details. Or, you did not benefit from the money that was as a result of the account manipulation.

Secondly, an applicant for innocent spouse tax relief has to show proof to the IRS that they meet certain conditions. A good tax relief company can help. These include having filed for joint tax return that is an understatement of tax, the tax understatement has to be due to erroneous items of the spouse, there has to be proof that during the time for signing of the joint return, you were not aware of the understatement of tax on your spouse’s part and finally, assure the IRS that it is unfair to be held responsible for your partner’s circumstances. Thirdly, after filing for innocent spouse relief, it is imperative to fill in the questionnaire correctly and with the right information.

Do You Have A Source Of Income?

You could be entitled to a tax relief if you leave profitable work to take care of your kids. Get in touch with a tax attorney to be advised before clearing your desk at work. You could go back to school part-time if your kids are school going to enhance your skills to be relevant in the market place when you go back to work. You could be entitled to a further tax break if you are a single parent with more than one kid. You can get in touch with IRS personnel for any tax related questions.

A disability can make it impossible for one to work full time. Tax relief may be granted by IRS if one can prove disability. An elderly person could also be entitled to a tax break if they have back taxes. An extension for filing taxes can be sorted until a way of making a living is established. Visit your local IRS office to find out if you are eligible for their hardship program if have been struggling to make ends meet. They could revoke interests and late penalties if you have a convincing reason why you have not been able to settle your taxes.

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Everywhere people go, they often pay whatever price asked for when they want a service. And I mean whether this service is a simple one or a complicated one. People would say that in the 21st century, service is equivalent to price. This may be true for some but to others, this does not apply. For instance, giving a helping hand to someone who is in need should not require a payback for the good act. A simple thank you will suffice. But for data recovery services in 2012, there will always be a price. To give an example: data files corrupted inside the computer or in a USB device. If a person is always on the go and does not have enough time to retrieve it at home, he will definitely stop the car at a clean room laboratory and prepare himself for the cheap data recovery prices.

Data files nowadays are too important; particularly in a world where people cannot live without computers in their everyday living. Computers are so vital that once the computers have been sabotaged by a virus, business productivity often ceases. Almost every gadget people use is run by computers.

In the past, files were placed inside a filing cabinet. Secretaries or office workers put much time into filing and paper organization. But times have changed; filing cabinets are rarely used nowadays. This has changed to a better, faster, and easier way of filing data – using digital data and computers. It is indeed true that these computers alleviate the hardships and boredom of office workers. The only thing that they have to do is to encode data, name the files, and save it in the computer. Presto! The files are already put in a small storage device where you can retrieve it in just a click of the mouse. However, all inventions have limitations. Most often, these limitations may hamper the work of an office worker particularly if the work pertains to retrievals of vital data. Once this happens, most companies will pay for affordable data recovery prices. Clean room hard drive recovery laboratories ask for payments for their service once the data has been retrieved; whereas, if the disk is scratched or damaged the service may not be able to help.

Paying for data recovery prices is sometimes expensive; for instance, a computer forensic service can be pricey. This service is completed by computer engineers with very strong hard disk drive knowledge. The computer engineers will check the suspected computer system and analyze it. Furthermore, to some companies, paying for data recovery prices is already part of their budget; that is why they don’t have any worries about the payment if ever a certain data is lost.

Hard Drive Recovery Associates is among the top rated data recovery companies in Orange County. Their services are particularly accessible by Irvine citizens (their clean room is in Irvine, CA), as well as those from close by communities like Anaheim, Long Beach and Los Angeles. The secret to HDRA is qualified and experienced hard drive repair technicians that offer the services. Advanced tools are also used in the entire process. Affordable data recovery prices are straight forward and you get the best prices with the best services.

Due to that, they are proud of the high success recovery rate they have – one of the best hard drive recovery rates in the industry. Some of the benefits from the company other than the affordable data recovery prices, are that they also give free estimates, no matter how complex the data recovery service. A drive’s physical and logical problem or damage also determines the price. Most experts will tell you this just by a look or by a simple test of the drive.

Another important thing is that they are mobile and can visit your offices for the services needed. It is advisable to have the experts do the work at the office to avoid the damages of carrying the drives long distances. Visits are typically not included in the estimate price, but that remains the specialists’ or the company’s’ expense.

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My feet are getting dumber, no doubt about it. For the past year or so, they’ve spent far too much time shuffling about on city sidewalks, carpeted floors and smooth lawns. Any major ascents they’ve made have been on elevators and escalators. Under such conditions feet become soft, smug and complacent, and they soon lose any sense of self-reliance. They dumb down.

If you hunt and fish, you need smart feet. You need feet that can look out for themselves … and you, too. You can’t constantly be worrying about what they’re up to. You’re out to bag fish or game, not to babysit a couple of spoiled feet.

Let’s say you’re rushing up the side of a mountain in hopes of getting a shot at an elk before it disappears over a ridge. You can’t be telling your feet, “Watch out for that loose rock, Lefty! Sharp stick ahead, Righty! Hole! Deep hole!”

After all, your feet are a lot closer to the terrain than you are. They should be able to exercise some initiative and make judgments on their own. Nobody wants a dumb bird dog that has to be told every move to make. The same goes for feet.

It makes me a little sad that my feet have started to dumb down. There was a time when I’d put the IQ of my feet up against just about anybody ‘s. They could walk logs, ford streams, leap from rock to rock, follow a game trail, do all the usual stuff without any great supervision from me. But soft living has dumbed them down.

Feet can get dumb before you know it. I have a friend who’s a great hunter and fisherman, but for a while he spent far too much time in New York City. He came out to hunt chukar with me one fall, after his feet had been penned up all year in wing tips. We had no more than started hunting when one of his feet, the left’, not knowing any better, stepped on a rock about the size and shape of a basketball. The rock was right at the top of a slope that slanted sharply down into a creek bottom far below. It started to roll. When the right foot saw that its partner was up on the round rock, it started hopping along after it, trying to get up on the rock, too, so as not to be left behind, and finally did so.

As the rock picked up momentum, neither of those feet had the slightest idea what to do, and my friend had to take charge of them. What he did was to make those feet move really fast so that he might stay upright on the rock and not, fall off and break a whole lot of bones, which was the only other option.

From watching him, one might easily have supposed that he had spent a lifetime practicing the art of rock-rolling, or maybe had even performed in a circus, but he admitted later that this was his first effort, and he hoped his last, and that his success at it was not so much a product of talent as incentive. Mere incentive, however, wasn’t enough. The crash was spectacular. He suffered several compound fractures of his body, injuries so serious in fact that he was scarcely able to hunt another 10 days before going in for repairs. That, of course, is an extreme example of dumb feet, but it, gives you some idea of the mischief of which they are capable.

Perhaps the best intelligence test for feet is skittering, a concept with which all stream fishermen are familiar. For the enlightenment of all others, however, here is how skittering works:

You are fishing a stream. You are wearing hip waders. You have glimpsed signs of serious fish rising on the far side of the stream, just a few feet beyond your casting range. You ease farther out into the current but still can’t quite reach the rising fish. You ease out farther. At this point, the force of the current and the buoyancy of the water combine to cause your feet to start skittering along on the slick boulders of the stream bed. You cannot lift either foot without being swept away. Your cast is still short of the rising fish. At this point smart feet go into a controlled skitter. They skitter you out the necessary distance for you to drop your fly on top of the fish, one of which instantly sucks it in and begins doing aerial acrobatics. Your full attention is now locked on the fish and its antics, and your feet are left to their own devices. They now have to make rapid and complex calculations as to how much freeboard is left in your waders, the force of the current, the increasing buoyancy of the water, the distance to the rapids that will suck you into oblivion, your anxiety level, heart rate, blood pressure, the tension on your line and the appropriate route of retreat. They make subtle adjustments to compensate for all of these factors and slowly begin skittering you back toward shallower water, where you can then net your fish. Skittering demands smart feet.

Although all stream fishermen are familiar with skittering, their spouses may not be, and perhaps it is best to keep them ignorant of that subject. When I first explained the concept of skittering to my wife, she instantly went out and bought me an inflatable fishing vest. She said she had no faith in a person whose feet are smarter than he is. Spouses are an odd lot.

At the moment, I would not trust my feet to skitter properly–they are just too dumb. But they were not always so.

I started educating my feet as soon as I was old enough to run wild over the countryside around our little farm. In those days, it seemed as if the whole earth were carpeted with rusty nails, and stepping on nails and running them into bare feet was a common occurrence among my associates and me. I could have built a small house with all the nails I ran into my feet, which at that early stage of my life were still dumb as the stones they stubbed their toes on.

A rusty nail bites into your foot with a sharp pain, which then fades into a dull, throbbing ache, followed by blood poisoning and possible death. My mother found this degree of torment suffered by her young son to be insufficient. As soon as she detected that I’d run a rusty nail into my foot, she would haul me into the house and add to the torture. She kept a bottle of concentrated liquid fire in the medicine cabinet. I do not recall all the details, but I suppose she first donned an asbestos suit and gloves and then, grasping the bottle of liquid fire with tongs, doused the wound thoroughly. I would then be allowed to ricochet freely about the house and awaken any person who happened to be napping within three miles of our farm. A few such treatments taught my feet to detect a rusty nail at 300 yards. Their education had begun.

Slivers were another important element in the education of my feet. When I was about eight, I ran a huge slab of a sliver into my left foot. From then on, my only mode, of locomotion was the “right-sided hop.” The sliver festered away there for a week or more. My mother came at me repeatedly with a needle, tweezers and her bottle of liquid fire, but she was less strong and less fleet by then, and I could escape-her grasp by means of high-speed hopping.

One Sunday, we went to a loggers picnic. Mom mentioned to one of the loggers that I had a huge sliver in My foot and that I refused to let her operate on it. The logger took out his jack-knife, held a lighted match to the blade and announced to the assembled Picnickers, “I can take out that sliver in nothing flat.”

“Nothing flat” wasn’t quick enough. My first hop toward escape covered a good 10 yards, but it was executed from a dead stop and is hardly worth mentioning, compared with what I accomplished in the next few moments. Observing my flight, a kangaroo would have been embarrassed by its own feeble efforts at hopping. Eventually, some loutish offspring of the loggers ran me down and gleefully hauled me back to the operating table, which by then had been cleared of picnic residue. A crowd soon gathered around the table to observe the operation, there being little entertainment in people’s lives back then. As I recall, the removal of the splinter was relatively painless, obviously a great disappointment to the audience. But then Mom appeared in her asbestos suit with the bottle of liquid fire. She took a couple of bows. The audience broke into applause.

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The herd of elk was perfectly positioned for a stalk. I’d been hiking for an hour in the dark and was delighted when I spotted the animals about where I expected them to be when shooting light arrived. By making a half-mile circle, I’d be within 80 yards for the shot, and the wind was in my favor. It couldn’t have been better.

Suddenly an all-terrain vehicle roared in front of me, its two occupants heading in the general direction of the elk. The driver crossed a Forest Service fence where a gate was down and sped toward the herd. Moments later, the panicked animals bolted and then milled about in confusion even as one of the hunters jumped off the ATV and shot an elk.

I was livid and had to mentally restrain myself from confronting the hunters and having it out with them. The fact that they’d beaten me to the elk wasn’t the issue; it was the way they’d done it, as well as the fact that they had driven in an area that was closed to vehicles.

There were two violations here: a legal one that involved Forest Service regulations and another not governed by law but by personal ethics. Driving into the middle of a herd of elk on an ATV may not in itself be a legal violation (depending on the state), but it is a moral one. To the hunters on the ATV, their strategy worked. In their minds, they had done nothing wrong and probably wouldn’t lose a bit of sleep over their actions. To other hunters who have a different perspective on fair chase, everything was wrong with the ATV scenario.

Clean Competition

Consider another elk hunt that happened two weeks before the ATV incident in another state. I’d spotted a nice six-point bull about 600 yards away just as it was fight enough to see. I planned to sneak up a draw and get within 200 yards. I was thinking about meat on the table as I eased toward the animal, but I was suddenly brought to attention by a shot that rang out just ahead of me.

Presently I came upon a hunter tying his tag to the elk I’d planned on owning. The man was overjoyed and asked if I’d take a photo of him and his bull with his camera. Frankly, I shared some of the guy’s happiness, and left with a smile. The hunter had earned his elk fair and square. He admitted he was surprised to see me when I walked up, and never knew I was making a stalk. He’d simply beaten me to the animal. This was, in my mind, “clean” competition.

Anything Goes?

Competition is a fact of life among hunters. The so-called “quality” hunt we hear so much about is almost always characterized by solitude, which in turn translates to few hunters. On public land with good access, you can forget about solitude. Everyone has a tag, and there are only so many legal animals available. Anything goes, within reason, provided it’s not outside the scope of the law. But the “anything goes” attitude becomes an ethical judgment call much of the time.

Perhaps the most competitive hunt on this continent occurs just outside Yellowstone Park’s north boundary near Gardiner, Mont. When heavy snow blankets the park during Montana’s general fiveweek elk season, thousands of animals migrate out of the park, entering the Gallatin National Forest. There, hundreds of hunters wait for the elk to enter public land where hunting is legal. As the old joke goes among hunters here, you don’t need a rifle, just an elk tag and a pair of good running shoes. Ethics be damned.

Fortunately, many of those hunters indeed abide by high moral standards, but there are always some who see ethics as something for the other guy.

Defining a Code of Ethics

Just what are ethics? Can we really define the term? I think not, since ethics are really what people perceive to be the right thing. Perceptions are just that–unwritten laws. In the case of hunting, ethics are standards by which you are judged by others.

One of the oldest ethical arguments involves the ownership of a big-game animal when it’s shot by two hunters. Who gets to tag it–the person who hit it first or the one who made the killing shot? Years of controversy seem to point to the person making the final shot, but is this fair in all cases?

Here’s a good example. A couple of years ago, while hunting whitetails, I heard a shot just over a ridge and saw a buck charging toward me. I shouldered my rifle, picked up the fleeing deer in the scope and put him down. By the time I got to the animal, another hunter rushed over and excitedly asked if he’d hit it. Quick inspection revealed he had. Both of our bullets hit the buck in the lungs. To me it was no contest: It belonged to the other hunter. But what if the other person had hit the deer in a nonvital area? Then we would have had a debatable issue, one that occurs every autumn in the deer woods. It’s my opinion that the hunter whose bullet strikes the deer in the vitals should lay claim to the animal, and not necessarily the one who shot first–or last.

That raises another interesting problem. Much of the time it’s unclear whose bullet did what. Then, too, there’s a question about whether a wound was indeed in a vital area. A couple of my good hunting pals are medical doctors. I’ve seen them disagree with each other over the consequences of a particular bullet wound. If two doctors can’t agree, how can laymen? So it becomes an arguable situation, and one that often leads to unpleasant behavior. There have been more than a few fistfights; over this. What’s worse, some hunters have won the challenge by making threatening gestures with a firearm.

Defining Fair Play

Big-game hunting isn’t the only activity in which ethics are involved. More than 30 years ago, while in college, my pals and I frequently trudged a mile through mucky marshlands, toting heavy bags of decoys to our favorite duck hunting spot. As broke as we were, we managed to pool our money to buy 10 dozen decoys. Back in those days, decoys were heavy, bulky and literally a pain to carry. Our efforts paid off, but our success wasn’t unnoticed by a pair of hunters who always managed to set up a cattail blind about 150 yards from our decoy spread. They had no decoys but were astute enough to ambush the ducks we worked into range. While this wasn’t a flagrant breach of ethics, those hunters knew exactly what they were doing.

What this boils down to is a sense of fair play. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Competitive Humor

Sometimes competition among hunters can take a humorous turn. Recently I hunted a truly giant bull elk on a public forest. He was every bit of 400 points B&C, but there was a slight problem. Several other hunters also knew of his existence, and you can imagine the intense competition on that bit of landscape.

To thwart competitors, a party of bright guys set up phony camps in a few valleys below the ridge where the big bull hung out. They put up tents and even parked vehicles to make it appear that the valleys were already occupied by hunters. I was unaware of the ruse until I met some of the hunters. They picked me up during a lightning storm, and while waiting for the storm to pass they admitted their sly game. Though I don’t condone such shenanigans, I was impressed with their innovative thinking.

Living the Golden Rule

As long as other hunters share the woods with us, competition will always be a factor. It would be nice if we all took competition in stride and reacted with good sense, but too often that’s not the case. Unlike an athletic event, where you follow the rules or get penalized, hunting ethics aren’t judged by referees. For whatever reasons, society is quickly changing. We’re becoming far less tolerant of each other, whether we’re in the woods or driving down the highway.

As I see it, hunters have something to prove, not only to other hunters, but to the rest of the world. It’s simply the notion that we’re okay people, rather than second-class citizens who are constantly criticized by the press and non-hunters. For that reason alone, we need to be on our best behavior in the woods. Not only will we be better off for it, but we’ll feel good about ourselves. After all, hunting is a close fraternity. Let’s keep it that way.

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Here’s how the drama unfolded. Lynn Bjorklund, 40, and her brother, Eric, 45, were beginning the second day of a backpacking trip in the 11,500-foot mountains of the rugged Pecos Wilderness area northeast of Santa Fe. Both were still sleeping in their tents when they heard a plane pass close overhead. Too close.

“It didn’t sound very good,” says Lynn, a reclamation specialist for the Bureau of Land Management, “and a moment later, we heard it hit the ground twice, followed by a huge explosion. I peeked out of my tent and saw the plane totally on fire just a couple hundred yards away. I couldn’t imagine that anyone could have survived the crash.”

And Bjorklund would know. An experienced search-and-rescue worker, she had recovered bodies before. That’s exactly what she thought she would be doing this time.

After pulling on boots and grabbing a first-aid kit, she and Eric ran down to the crash site. There they found, much to their amazement, that both the pilot and the passenger were still alive. Before the plane exploded, the pilot had pulled out the passenger, who was now on his hands and knees, burying his face in the wet grass to relieve the burn pains. The pilot himself was attempting to beat out the flames on one ankle, but his fuel-soaked shoe and sock kept reigniting.

Lynn and Eric moved the crash victims away from the burning plane, whose flames were still more than 20 feet high. They then began questioning them.

“Did you have time to radio for help?” Lynn asked Scott Sterritt, the pilot No. The plane had gone down too fast

“Do you think your planes emergency locator transmitter is working?”

No. The fire and explosion would have destroyed it

That left only one solution: Someone would have to go for help. As fast as possible. “I told them I was a long-distance runner,” says Lynn, while Eric almost broke out laughing at the understatement. He also knew that, through the years, she had continued running about an hour a day in the hills around her Ely, Nev., home. “I said I could probably run out of the wilderness in 2 or 3 hours and get help,” Lynn remembers.

“So I changed into my running shoes and started out Luckily, I used to work for the U.S. Forest Service, and as part of my job, I had mapped and written trail descriptions for this particular area. That gave me a pretty good feel for the terrain. It has a lot of rocky mountain ridges, and if s easy to get lost but I managed to stay on the trail.”

Accompanied by her dog, Toulouse, Bjorklund ran toward civilization, constantly checking her topographic Naps and compass. Along the way she met several hikers, t none had a cell phone. She detoured to an old Forest Service cabin, now used mostly for storage, hoping to find a two-way radio there. No such luck.

She pressed on until, roughly 48 to 20 miles from the crash site, she reached the Jack Creek Campground, where her car was parked. From there, she drove to a nearby cabin, which had a telephone, and called the New Mexico State Police to explain where she was and what had happened.

While a helicopter from the New Mexico Emergency Response Team scrambled to pick up Bjorklund, she spread out her maps and calculated the exact latitude and longitude of the crash site. Less than an hour later, the helicopter picked her up and, with her directions, flew str-aight to the site.

Eric Bjorklund had spent the intervening hours assisting the crash victims–”He had a harder job than I did,” Lynn says modestly–tending to their bums, keeping them hydrated, keeping them warm. He had just finished fixing them a cup of tea when the trio heard the much-hoped-for sound of helicopter blades.

“They tossed the tea over their shoulders and started yelling, `All right! Help is here!’” says Eric.

Five hours after their plane crashed, Sterritt and his passenger, Robert Coleman, were airlifted to the University of New Mexico Hospital in Albuquerque, where they received skin grafts and other bum treatments for two weeks, before being released. Meanwhile, Eric and Lynn Bjorklund continued their backpacking trip for another three days, then went to visit Sterritt and Coleman in the hospital.

“It doesn’t appear that they’re going to suffer any permanent injuries,” Lynn said several days later, “so I have a good feeling that I was able to help somebody out I don’t think I did anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done. A faster runner might have gotten them out faster. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

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Terry Bennet Vares remembers the day she nearly died in 1982 as clear and cold–nothing out of the ordinary for January.

The plane was 8,000 feet above the North Carolina countryside. Inside were Vares and other members of the Golden Knights, the Army’s elite skydiving team. As the plane slowed and turned, Vares checked her equipment a final time and dove out of the rear door of the plane.

Ms. Vares.

To Vares and other competitors, skydiving is not a stunt, but a sport, and like other serious athletes, they work hard at their craft. Vares had taken over 2,000 jumps, and a national and world championship were in the back of her mind.

Once out of the plane, Vares began practicing the precise turns and rolls which, in competition, are evaluated by judges on the ground looking through high-powered scopes. The style part of skydiving was Vares’ strongest suit. The other part–accuracy–consists of trying to land on a target no bigger than a matchbox.

When her altimeter indicated 2,000 feet, Vares pulled the “D” ring to open her chute. She immediately felt the main parachute working out of its canvas container. However, when she looked over her shoulder, she saw her parachute form into a long roll instead of the balloon shape she would need to drift safely to the ground.

Vares knew the drill; this had happened to her four times on earlier jumps. She pulled on the main parachute’s release handle and then looked over her shoulder.

She panicked.

The parachute did not cut away. If she deployed her reserve, which was mounted piggy-back to her main parachute, the two would surely become entangled. She looked for the release handle to give it another tug, but it had slipped out of reach. The ground was rushing up to meet her at 120 feet per second.

“My God,” she remembers saying, “I don’t want to die. Not this way.” Vares desperately pulled the reserve parachute “D” ring. Predictably, it wrapped around the main parachute and Vares continued to fall at a fatal rate.

When her teammates got to her, they expected to see a gruesome sight of crushed bones. Instead, they saw her chest expanding and contracting. Then her lips moved. She was trying to tell them not to cut her parachute because it was brand new!

Vares survived by two strokes of luck. While deploying, her reserve parachute fluttered for a moment, like a paper bag filling with air and collapsing, slowing her fall to 70 mph. Then she landed in a plowed field after a heavy rainstorm, only 100 feet from a concrete runway.

Though Vares bounced, she amazingly suffered only a dislocated elbow, a broken ankle, and a broken bone in her forearm. None of the injuries were serious enough to keep her from jumping again. But would she?

“No question,” says Vares, who left the Army a year ago and lives with her husband, an Army sergeant, and her two children in West Germany. “My goal was always to win the world championships. I knew I could never live with myself if I let the accident distract me from that goal.”

Vares was out of the hospital in two weeks. As soon as the casts came off, she started swimming and bike riding. Just 92 days after her near-fatal fall, she was back in a plane in full gear.

“Just as I was getting ready to jump, flashbacks of the ground rushing up to meet me started,” she recalls. “But I knew I would have to go through with it. And once I got out of the plane, the old feeling of peace and freedom took over.”

Vares was never able to escape the flashbacks. Still, she kept her mind focused on her goals. In 1983, just a year after the accident, she tied for the national championship. Three years later, in Ankara, Turkey, Vares stood on the brink of her ultimate dream.

Competing against 100 other women from 20 countries for the world championship, she outclassed the field with her aerial acrobatics, but needed a good final accuracy jump to ensure victory. It was a bulls-eye. Her heel landed squarely on the target. “There was an immediate feeling of relief,” Vares recalls. “I had sacrificed so much–getting over the accident and spending time away from my son–and I had finally accomplished what I had set out to do.”

Vares is retired, at least temporarily, from competition. But flashbacks of her fall have been replaced by the memories of her glory in Ankara. “There has been no letdown,” she says. “I still catch myself saying, ‘My God, I’m a world champion.”

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