"What was the secret, they
wanted to know; in a thousand different ways they wanted to know The
Secret. And not one of them was prepared, truly prepared to believe that
it had not so much to do with chemicals and zippy mental tricks as with
that most unprofound and sometimes heart-rending process of removing,
molecule by molecule, the very tough rubber that comprised the bottoms
of his training shoes. The Trial of Miles, Miles of Trials. How could
they be expected to understand that?"
"It is simply that we can
all be good boys and wear our letter sweaters around and get our little
degrees and find some nice girl to settle, you know, down with...Or we
can blaze! Become legends in our own time, strike fear in the heart of
mediocre talent everywhere! We can scald dogs, put records out of reach!
Make the stands gasp as we blow into an unearthly kick from three
hundred yards out! We can become God's own messengers delivering the
dreaded scrolls! We can race dark Satan himself till he wheezes fiery
cinders down the back straightaway....They'll speak our names in hushed
tones, 'those guys are animals' they'll say! We can lay it on the line,
bust a gut, show them a clean pair of heels. We can sprint the turn on a
spring breeze and feel the winter leave our feet! We can, by God, let
our demons loose and just wail on!"
"So then what do you do? Go
back to your little cave and keep driving yourself until you are the
one they talk about, the one they are afraid...Is that important to you?
Or maybe you'd be content to just go crazy trying? Then no one could
say you compromised, could they? If something inside of you just
snapped?"
"Cassidy early on understood that a true runner ran even when he didn't
feel like it, and raced when he was supposed to, without excuses and
with nothing held back. He ran to win, would die in the process if
necessary, and was unimpressed by those who disavowed such a base
motivation. You are not allowed to renounce that you have never possessed, he
thought."
feel like it, and raced when he was supposed to, without excuses and
with nothing held back. He ran to win, would die in the process if
necessary, and was unimpressed by those who disavowed such a base
motivation. You are not allowed to renounce that you have never possessed, he
thought."
"Running to him was real,
the way he did it the realist thing he knew. It was all joy and woe,
hard as diamond; it made him weary beyond comprehension. But it also
made him free."
"We are speaking of human
endeavor and delusional systems. Everyone likes to think they have their
own little corner, it can be anything; needlepoint, lawn bowling,
whatever. Some guy may gratify himself by thinking he's the best
goddamned fruit and vegetable manager the A&P every had, which is
fine. It gives people a sense of worth in a crowded world where everyone
feels like part of the scenery. But then mostly they are spared of any
harrowing glimpses into their own mediocrity, Pillsbury Bake-Off
notwithstanding, we'll never reall know who makes the best artichoke
souffle in the world, will we? Thing is, we are sometimes painfully and
constantly aware of how we stack up. Lots of people can't take that kind
of pressure, the ego withers in the face of evidence."
“Training was a rite of purification; from it came speed, strength.
Racing was a rite of death; from it came knowledge. Such rites demand,
if they are to be meaningful at all, a certain amount of time spent
precisely on the Red Line, where you can lean over the manicured putting
green at the edge of the precipice and see exactly nothing.”
“A runner is a miser, spending the pennies of his energy with great
stinginess, constantly wanting to know how much he has spent and how
much longer he will be expected to pay. He wants to be broke at
precisely the moment he no longer needs his coin.”
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