There was no let-up. The tempo was always moderate but steady. If a new guy decided to pick up the pace, that’s where it stayed, whether he finished with the group or not. You showed off at your peril.
In mind’s special processes, a ten-mile run takes far longer than the 60 minutes reported by a grandfather clock. Such time, in fact, hardly exists at all in the real world; it is all out on the trail somewhere, and you only go back to it when you are out there.
Running to him was real; the way he did it the realest thing he knew. It was all joy and woe, hard as a diamond; it made him weary behond comprehension. But it also made him free.
If the furnace is hot enough, anything will burn, even Big Macs.
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.
No one promised you there would be universal justice.
He ran his hand up and down his left achilles tendon. Very tender; better pay attention to it and back off if it gets any worse. Maybe ice it. The old Injury Evasion Fandango. Did it ever end?
Hey listen, I already have a complete list of silver linings. It’s the goddamn cloud that’s killin me.
The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials.