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That was where I had my first real Josh Billings RunAground moment. An Ironman competitor and I were the only ones at Mah-Kee-Nac approaching 6 a.m., and we stood in silence for a stretch, watching the fog rise with the sun off a calm-as-glass Stockbridge Bowl. It was just a fleeting moment, amidst a day of controlled chaos that didn't end until after Mac Jones and the Patriots had milked out the clock on a win over the Jets and my seven-month-old son and I drove around south Berkshire County collecting equipment in the twilight.