Final Sprint Quotes

Constantly stopping to explain oneself may expand into a frustrating burden for the rare individual, so ceasing to do so is like finally dropping the weights and sprinting towards his goals. Those who insincerely misunderstand, who intentionally distort the motives of a pure-intentioned individual, then, no longer have the opportunity to block his path; instead, they are the ones left to stand on the sidelines shouting frustratedly in the wind of his trail.

And I say a final last prayer, this one in gratitude that there are people in the world who will protect kids with a fire that makes them sprint after cars, fight systems, curse with rage. It's enough to make you believe. Maybe not in symbols; maybe not in gods. But certainly in people.

[...] I think about the problem with running from your trouble . The problem is in the stopping. The whole time you think you're getting away from everything, the trouble is running like mad, too, trying to catch up with you. And it doesn't slow down when you do--it keeps on sprinting. So when trouble finally reaches you, it hits you hard (p107)

Immediately after the race, even as he sat gasping for air in the Husky Clipper while it drifted down the Langer See beyond the finish line, an expansive sense of calm had enveloped him. In the last desperate few hundred meters of the race, in the searing pain and bewildering noise of that final furious sprint, there had come a singular moment when Joe realized with startling clarity that there was nothing more he could do to win the race, beyond what he was already doing. Except for one thing. He could finally abandon all doubt, trust absolutely without reservation that he and the boy in front of him and the boys behind him would all do precisely what they needed to do at precisely the instant they needed to do it. He had known in that instant that there could be no hesitation, no shred of indecision. He had had no choice but to throw himself into each stroke as if he were throwing himself off of a cliff into a void, with unquestioned faith that the others would be there to save him

Every day of my life it feels as if I’m fighting my way up an escalator that only goes down. And no matter how fast or how hard I run to try to reach the top, I stay in the same place, sprinting, getting nowhere. But when I’m with her it doesn’t feel like I’m on that escalator. It feels as if I’m on a moving walkway, and I’m effortlessly just carried along. Like I can finally relax and take a breath and not feel the constant pressure to sprint in order to prevent hitting rock bottom.

But hey, I had the best times during each sprint,” I added. His laugh was soft and possibly a little disappointed. “That’s my girl. Running every morning?” “Every morning and I’ve been swimming more.” I stopped talking when I heard a voice in the background. All I heard was my dad mumbling, “It’s Sal… you wanna talk to her?... Okay… Sal, your mom says hi.” “Tell her I said hi back.” “My daughter says hi… no, she’s mine. The other one is yours… Ha! No!... Sal are you mine or your mom’s?” he asked me. “I’m the milkman’s.” “I knew it!” He finally laughed with a deep pleased sigh. I was smiling like a total fool. “I love you too, old man.

1. I told you that I was a roadway of potholes, not safe to cross. You said nothing, showed up in my driveway wearing roller-skates. 2. The first time I asked you on a date, after you hung up, I held the air between our phones against my ear and whispered, “You will fall in love with me. Then, just months later, you will fall out. I will pretend the entire time that I don’t know it’s coming.” 3. Once, I got naked and danced around your bedroom, awkward and safe. You did the same. We held each other without hesitation and flailed lovely. This was vulnerability foreplay. 4. The last eight times I told you I loved you, they sounded like apologies. 5. You recorded me a CD of you repeating, “You are beautiful.” I listened to it until I no longer thought in my own voice. 6. Into the half-empty phone line, I whispered, “We will wake up believing the worst in each other. We will spit shrapnel at each other’s hearts. The bruises will lodge somewhere we don’t know how to look for and I will still pretend I don’t know its coming.” 7. You photographed my eyebrow shapes and turned them into flashcards: mood on one side, correct response on the other. You studied them until you knew when to stay silent. 8. I bought you an entire bakery so that we could eat nothing but breakfast for a week. Breakfast, untainted by the day ahead, was when we still smiled at each other as if we meant it. 9. I whispered, “I will latch on like a deadbolt to a door and tell you it is only because I want to protect you. Really, I’m afraid that without you I mean nothing.” 10. I gave you a bouquet of plane tickets so I could practice the feeling of watching you leave. 11. I picked you up from the airport limping. In your absence, I’d forgotten how to walk. When I collapsed at your feet, you refused to look at me until I learned to stand up without your help. 12. Too scared to move, I stared while you set fire to your apartment – its walls decaying beyond repair, roaches invading the corpse of your bedroom. You tossed all the faulty appliances through the smoke out your window, screaming that you couldn’t handle choking on one more thing that wouldn’t just fix himself. 13. I whispered, “We will each weed through the last year and try to spot the moment we began breaking. We will repel sprint away from each other. Your voice will take months to drain out from my ears. You will throw away your notebook of tally marks from each time you wondered if I was worth the work. The invisible bruises will finally surface and I will still pretend that I didn’t know it was coming.” 14. The entire time, I was only pretending that I knew it was coming.

A final depressing point about inequality and violence. As we’ve seen, a rat being shocked activates a stress response. But a rat being shocked who can then bite the hell out of another rat has less of a stress response. Likewise with baboons—if you are low ranking, a reliable way to reduce glucocorticoid secretion is to displace aggression onto those even lower in the pecking order. It’s something similar here—despite the conservative nightmare of class warfare, of the poor rising up to slaughter the wealthy, when inequality fuels violence, it is mostly the poor preying on the poor. This point is made with a great metaphor for the consequences of societal inequality.41 The frequency of “air rage”—a passenger majorly, disruptively, dangerously losing it over something on a flight—has been increasing. Turns out there’s a substantial predictor of it: if the plane has a first-class section, there’s almost a fourfold increase in the odds of a coach passenger having air rage. Force coach passengers to walk through first class when boarding, and you more than double the chances further. Nothing like starting a flight by being reminded of where you fit into the class hierarchy. And completing the parallel with violent crime, when air rage is boosted in coach by reminders of inequality, the result is not a crazed coach passenger sprinting into first class to shout Marxist slogans. It’s the guy being awful to the old woman sitting next to him, or to the flight attendant.*

Instead of a last-gasp sprint, death can be a marathon.

We often assume that the world moves at our leisure. We delay when we should initiate. We jog when we should be running or, better yet, sprinting. And then we’re shocked—shocked!—when nothing big ever happens, when opportunities never show up, when new obstacles begin to pile up, or the enemies finally get their act together.

Nick grinned, swooping in for another kiss and then leaning back and scruffing his hair up. “Harriet Manners, I’m about to give you six stamps. Then I’m going to write something on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with your address on it.” “OK …” “Then I’m going to put the envelope on the floor and spin us as fast as I can. As soon as either of us manage to stick a stamp on it, I’m going to race to the postbox and post it unless you can catch me first. If you win, you can read it.” Nick was obviously faster than me, but he didn’t know where the nearest postbox was. “Deal,” I agreed, yawning and rubbing my eyes. “But why six stamps?” “Just wait and see.” A few seconds later, I understood. As we spun in circles with our hands stretched out, one of my stamps got stuck to the ground at least a metre away from the envelope. Another ended up on a daisy. A third somehow got stuck to the roundabout. One of Nick’s ended up on his nose. And every time we both missed, we laughed harder and harder and our kisses got dizzier and dizzier until the whole world was a giggling, kissing, spinning blur. Finally, when we both had one stamp left, I stopped giggling. I had to win this. So I swallowed, wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then I reached out my hand. “Too late!” Nick yelled as I opened my eyes again. “Got it, Manners!” And he jumped off the still-spinning roundabout with the envelope held high over his head. So I promptly leapt off too. Straight into a bush. Thanks to a destabilised vestibular system – which is the upper portion of the inner ear – the ground wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Nick, in the meantime, had ended up flat on his back on the grass next to me. With a small shout I leant down and kissed him hard on the lips. “HA!” I shouted, grabbing the envelope off him and trying to rip it open. “I don’t think so,” he grinned, jumping up and wrapping one arm round my waist while he retrieved it again. Then he started running in a zigzag towards the postbox. A few seconds later, I wobbled after him. And we stumbled wonkily down the road, giggling and pulling at each other’s T-shirts and hanging on to tree trunks and kissing as we each fought for the prize. Finally, he picked me up and, without any effort, popped me on top of a high wall. Like Humpty Dumpty. Or some kind of really unathletic cat. “Hey!” I shouted as he whipped the envelope out of my hands and started sprinting towards the postbox at the bottom of the road. “That’s not fair!” “Course it is,” he shouted back. “All’s fair in love and war.” And Nick kissed the envelope then put it in the postbox with a flourish. I had to wait three days. Three days of lingering by the front door. Three days of lifting up the doormat, just in case it had accidentally slipped under there. Finally, the letter arrived: crumpled and stained with grass. Ha. Told you I was faster. LBxx

Where is this place our baby bodies sprinted towards even when we were holding still for as long as possible? Flight gave birth to birth. Fragment genius comes down to this                    heaven of ass thwack, the miracle of taking it the miracle of sweet good girl best girl good girl finally made it               made it home We don’t always know where this place is. We stumble looking for the light switch, the exit sign.

Then the bandit turned tail and broke for the open. Greeley hit the sidewalk only seconds after him, big as he was and with a panic-stricken woman to detour around. A slice of hindmost heel was all he saw of the man. The store entrance adjoined a corner; that gave the fugitive a few added seconds of shelter, and as Greeley flashed around it in turn, again the breaks were the lawbreaker's. There was a school midway up the street toward the next avenue. It was a couple of minutes past three now, and a torrent of young humanity came pouring out of the building by every staircase and exit, flooding the street. In through them the sprinting man plunged, knocking over right and left the ones that didn't get out of his way quickly enough. If it had been hazardous to take a shot at him in the store, it would have been criminal out here. The kids parted, screaming in delighted excitement, as Greeley tore through them after the bandit with uptilted gun, but he couldn't just callously knock them flat like the man before him had. He sidestepped, got out of their way as often as they did his, and he began to fall behind the other, lose ground. The kids weren't just on that one street - they had dispersed over the entire vicinity by now, for a radius of a block or more in every direction, in frisky, milling, homeward-bound groups. Through them the quarry zigzagged, pulling slowly but surely away. He kept going in a straight line, because it was to his advantage to do so - the presence of these kids made for greater safety - but he was already far enough in the lead so that when he should finally decide to turn off - the answer was pretty obvious; a taxi or a doorway or a basement. Any of them would do. ("Detective William Brown")

When I finally made it across the dune, I found her gazing at the ocean and holding a weathered fence post as if it were the mast of a sailboat. 'That was quite a sprint you did on that soft sand,' I said, huffing and puffing. She smiled, but didn't respond. So I clarified, 'That sand is hard to get through.' She laughed. 'It's easier to get through the tough stuff if I give it a little muscle.' I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and said coyly, 'I think there's a life lesson there.' 'Nah,' she refuted. 'I've exercised my whole life. Lots of practice. It comes naturally now.' Like I said.

His booted feet pounded out an insane, frantic rhythm underneath him as he raced into the cavern across from Baba Yaga’s den at a dead sprint. Pieces of dragon dung flew off him and hit the ground behind him in miniature chunks. He didn’t dare look behind him to see if the dragon had risen from the ground yet, but the deafening hiss that assaulted his ears meant she’d woken up. Icy claws of fear squeezed his heart with every breath as he ran, relying on the night vision goggles, the glimpse he’d gotten of the map, and his own instincts to figure out where to go. Jack raced around one corner too sharply and slipped on a piece of dung, crashing hard on his right side. He gasped as it knocked the wind out of him and gritted his teeth, his mind screaming at him to get up and run, run, run. He pushed onto his knees, nursing what felt like bruised ribs and a sprained wrist, and then paled as an unmistakable sensation traveled up the arm he’d used to push himself up. Impact tremors. Boom. Boom. Boom, boom, boom. Baba Yaga was coming. Baba Yaga was hunting him. Jack forced himself up onto his feet again, stumbling backwards and fumbling for the tracker. He got it switched on to see an ominous blob approaching from the right. He’d gotten a good lead on her—maybe a few hundred yards—but he had no way of knowing if he’d eventually run into a dead end. He couldn’t hide down here forever. He needed to get topside to join the others so they could take her down. Jack blocked out the rising crescendo of Baba Yaga’s hissing and pictured the map again. A mile up to the right had a man-made exit that spilled back up to the forest. The only problem was that it was a long passage. If Baba Yaga followed, there was a good chance she could catch up and roast him like a marshmallow. He could try to lose her in the twists and turns of the cave system, but there was a good chance he’d get lost, and Baba Yaga’s superior senses meant it would only be a matter of time before she found him. It came back to the most basic survival tactics: run or hide. Jack switched off the tracker and stuck it in his pocket, his voice ragged and shaking, but solid. “You aren’t about to die in this forest, Jackson. Move your ass.” He barreled forward into the passageway to the right in the wake of Baba Yaga’s ominous, bubbling warning, barely suppressing a groan as a spike of pain lanced through his chest from his bruised ribs. The adrenaline would only hold for so long. He could make it about halfway there before it ran out. Cold sweat plastered the mask to his face and ran down into his eyes. The tunnel stretched onward forever before him. No sunlight in sight. Had he been wrong? Jack ripped off the hood and cold air slapped his face, making his eyes water. He held his hands out to make sure he wouldn’t bounce off one of the cavern walls and squinted up ahead as he turned the corner into the straightaway. There, faintly, he could see the pale glow of the exit. Gasping for air, he collapsed against one wall and tried to catch his breath before the final marathon. He had to have put some amount of distance between himself and the dragon by now. “Who knows?” Jack panted. “Maybe she got annoyed and turned around.” An earth-shattering roar rocked the very walls of the cavern. Jack paled. Boom, boom, boom, boom! Boom, boom, boom, boomboomboomboom— Mother of God. The dragon had broken into a run. Jack shoved himself away from the wall, lowered his head, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

Somewhere in the universe a star exploded or someone was born or they died or time passed while Regan stood there and missed him, while she mourned him, and then she thought with an equally quiet violence: Maybe I do not have to do it alone. By minute fifteen he was finally gone, turning abruptly and half-sprinting for the doors, and in his absence Regan emptied, watching all their alternate lives begin to wilt. She mourned them like her children, holding their lifeless corpses to her chest, and then she forgot them, slowly, each one vanishing without a trace, until she held nothing at all. Eventually she looked down at her empty hands and thought: Damn it. Damn it, I love him. Then, after the smoke cleared, she could see nothing else.

Ass up is our best position No one could have told us              we never would’ve believed that someday we would kneel in this place, worshipped We use each other’s raw bodies to remind ourselves how to pray.   Where is this place our baby bodies sprinted towards even when we were holding still for as long as possible? Flight gave birth to birth. Fragment genius comes down to this                    heaven of ass thwack, the miracle of taking it the miracle of sweet good girl best girl good girl finally made it               made it home We don’t always know where this place is. We stumble looking for the light switch, the exit sign. Can we really just relax? When does this get pulled away? Did we finally make it home? Queer grief is a blueprint. We got this shit wired tight.

Di pomeriggio dormo e quando non riesco a dormire, chiudo gli occhi e immagino di essere dinuovo nella casa abbandonata al 37 di Brooks Street con Alex sdraiato accanto a me. Cerco diattraversare la cortina; immagino di poter in qualche modo disfare i giorni che sono passati dalla nostrafuga, di poter riparare quello strappo nel tempo, di potermi riprendere Alex.Ma ogni volta che riapro gli occhi sono ancora qui, su un materasso per terra, e ho ancora fame. Alex è vivo. Soltanto un altro sforzo, solo uno sprint finale, e vedrai.Quando Hana e io facevamo parte della squadra di atletica leggera, c’inventavamo giochetti mentalicome questi per mantenere lo stimolo. La corsa è uno sport mentale, più di qualsiasi altra cosa. Seibravo solo quanto il tuo allenamento, e il tuo allenamento è buono solo quanto il tuo modo di pensare.Se fai tutti e dodici i chilometri senza camminare, prenderai dieci in storia. Questo è il genere di cosache dicevamo l’una all’altra. A volte funzionava, a volte no. A volte ci arrendevamo, ridendo,all’undicesimo chilometro, dicendo Ooops! Ecco che sfuma il nostro voto di storia.Il fatto era che non ci interessava poi tanto. Un mondo senza amore è anche un mondo senzaobiettivi.Alex è vivo. Spingi, spingi, spingi.....Non sono pazza. Lo so che non è vivo, non può esserlo. Non appena termino la corsa e torno nelseminterrato della chiesa, mi colpisce come un muro la stupidità di tutto questo, la sua inutilità. Alex èandato e nessun allenamento, o corsa, o sofferenza me lo riporterà mai.Lo so. Ma il fatto è questo: mentre corro, c’è sempre quella frazione di secondo in cui il dolore mi statraggendo e riesco a malapena a respirare e vedo soltanto colori e macchie e in quella frazione disecondo, proprio mentre il dolore è insopportabile e diventa troppo, e c’è un calor bianco che mi attraversa, vedo qualcosa alla mia sinistra, un guizzo di colore (capelli rossicci, che ardono, una coronadi foglie) e in quel momento so che se soltanto voltassi la testa lo vedrei lì, che ride e mi guarda, abraccia aperte.Non volto mai la testa per guardarlo, ovviamente. Ma un giorno lo farò. Un giorno lo farò e lui saràtornato, e tutto andrà a posto.E fino a quel momento: corro. Mi viene in mente, a quel punto, che anche le persone sono piene di tunnel: spazi bui e tortuosi ecaverne; impossibile conoscere tutti i posti dentro di loro. Impossibile anche soltanto immaginarli

Whatever the reason, Díaz knew it could wait. At the moment, he had only one task. Apprehend the shooter. As Díaz arrived at the site of the telltale flash, he found a slit in the fabric wall and plunged his hand through the opening, violently tearing the hole all the way down to the floor and clambering out of the dome into a maze of scaffolding. To his left, the agent caught a glimpse of a figure—a tall man dressed in a white military uniform—sprinting toward the emergency exit at the far side of the enormous space. An instant later, the fleeing figure crashed through the door and disappeared. Díaz gave pursuit, weaving through the electronics outside the dome and finally bursting through the door into a cement stairwell. He peered over the railing and saw the fugitive two floors below, spiraling downward

From this height, you have as much chance of hitting her as him,” Lanor objected. “I’m not going to throw it from here.” Aedan’s voice was shaking now. Both men looked at him, confused. “You said our chance might be small,” he said to Lanor, “but what about her? I promised not to abandon her, and I won’t.” He looked at the river. The canoe was approaching the mark. “No Aedan,” Lanor said, stepping forward and reaching out with a big hand. “You won’t make it. I won’t let you –” But Aedan was too quick for him. With a deep breath, he clenched his jaw, slipped around Lanor and sprinted at the edge. Moonlight made it more difficult to be completely sure-footed over the broken ground. A mistake now would rob him of the speed he needed to carry him over the rocks. Instinct dug its claws in and willed him to stop. He felt sick. He didn’t want to do this. But he drove himself on. Fear surged as the edge rushed forward. He placed his final step. His stomach twisted. Then he leapt.

Mrs. Harris’s coach should be here any minute. I trek toward the curb, but just as I reach it, the latch on my bag drops open again, and the contents spill into the snow. Cursing, I bend to retrieve my things, but a violent gale whips me backward into the slush, snatching petticoats, chemises, and knickers into the air. “No!” I cry, scrambling after my clothes and stuffing them one by one back into my bag, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one has caught a glimpse of my underthings dancing across the street. A man snores on a stoop nearby, but no one else is out. Relieved, I scuttle through the snow, jamming skirts and books and socks into the bag and gritting my teeth as the wind burns my ears. A clatter of hooves breaks through the howling tempest, and I catch sight of a cab headed my way. My stomach clenches as I snap my bag closed once more. That must be Mrs. Harris’s coach. I’m really going to do this. But as I make my way toward it, a white ghost of fabric darts in front of me. My eyes widen. I missed a pair of knickers. Panic jolting through my every limb, I sprint after it, but the wind is too quick. My underclothes gust right into the carriage door, twisting against its handle as the cab eases to a stop. I’m almost to it, fingers reaching, when the door snaps open and a boy about my age steps out. “Miss Whitlock?” he asks, his voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the wind. Trying not to draw attention to the undergarments knotted on the door just inches from his hand, I give him a stiff nod. “Yes, sir, that’s me.” “Let me get your things,” he says, stepping into the snow and reaching for my handbag. “Uh—it’s broken, so I’d—I’d better keep it,” I mumble, praying he can’t feel the heat of my blush from where he is. “Very well, then.” He turns back toward the coach and stops. Artist, no. My heart drops to my shoes. “Oh…” He reaches toward the fabric knotted tightly in the latch. “Is…this yours?” Death would be a mercy right about now. I swallow hard. “Um, yes.” He glances at me, and blood floods my neck. “I mean, no! I’ve never seen those before in my life!” He stares at me a long moment. “I…” I lurch past him and yank at the knickers. The fabric tears, and the sound of it is so loud I’m certain everyone in the world must have heard it. “Here, why don’t I—” He reaches out to help detangle the fabric from the door. “No, no, no, I’ve got it just fine,” I say, leaping in front of him and tugging on the knot with shaking hands. Why. Why, why, why, why, why? Finally succeeding at freeing the knickers, I make to shove them back into my bag, but another gust of wind rips them from my grasp. The boy and I both stare after them as they dart into the sky, spreading out like a kite so that every damn stitch is visible. He clears his throat. “Should we—ah—go after them?” “No,” I say faintly. “I—I think I’ll manage without…

Well, I saved you today, didn’t I? Just like I saved you before. You walked out of the Bastion free, without a scratch, and if any Cokyrian but me had caught you with that dagger, you might be drawn and quartered by now.” “You didn’t save me from that butcher,” I said irritably. “But you’re right. About today, I mean.” I could sense his satisfaction, which irritated me all the more. “So accept my thanks, but stay away from me. We’re not friends, you know.” I was nearing my neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to see me with him. He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “We’re not friends yet. But you’ve thought about it. And you just thanked me.” “Are you delusional?” “No. You just said thank you to the faceless Cokyrian soldier who arrested you.” “Don’t you ever stop?” I demanded, trying in vain to move around him. “I haven’t even started.” “What does that mean?” There was silence as Saadi glanced up and down the street. “I want to know where you got that dagger. Or at least what story you told.” “Why don’t you ask Commander Narian? The two of you seemed fairly close.” “Quit making jokes.” “I haven’t made a single one.” “Well?” “It was my father’s,” I said, clinging to the lie Queen Alera had provided, whether by mistake or not. “Oh.” This seemed to take Saadi aback. “And now, because of you, I don’t have it anymore.” I knew I was pressing my luck, but I wanted to make him feel bad. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, seeming sincere enough. Thinking I had maybe, finally, succeeded in getting him to leave me alone, I stepped around him. “Shaselle?” I stopped again, without the slightest idea why. “Your father--what was he like?” The question shocked me; I also wasn’t sure I could answer it without crying. But Saadi appeared so genuinely interested that I couldn’t disregard him. “You have no right to ask me that,” I answered out of principle. “But for your information, he was the strongest, bravest, kindest and best-humored man I ever knew. And none of it was because he took what was handed to him.” For the second time, I attempted a dramatic departure. “Shaselle?” “What now?” I incredulously exclaimed. “Do you have plans tomorrow?” “What?” “I have a day off duty. We could--” “No!” I shouted. “What is this? You expect me to spend a day with you, a Cokyrian--a Cokyrian I can’t stand?” “Yes,” he affirmed, despite my outburst. I laughed in disbelief. “I won’t. This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Enjoy your time off duty with your own kind.” Turning, I sprinted down the street, and though he called after me yet again, I ignored him. As I neared my house, I glanced behind once or twice to assure myself he wasn’t following. He was nowhere in sight. I reached the security of my home just in time for dinner, and just in time to cut off Mother’s growing displeasure--the first step in her progression to anger. I smiled at her, hurried to wash, and was a perfect lady throughout the meal. Afterward I retired to my room, picking a book from my shelf to occupy me until my eyes drooped. Instead of words on pages, however, I kept seeing Saadi’s face--his clear blue eyes, that irritating hair, those freckles across his nose that made me lose willpower. What if I had offended him earlier? He had only asked to spend time with me, and I had mocked him. But he was Cokyrian. It was ludicrous for him to be pursuing my company. It was dangerous for me to be in his. And that, I suddenly realized, was part of the reason I very much wanted to be with him. Saadi aggravated me, confused me, scared me, and yet I could no longer deny that he intrigued me in a way no one else ever had.

Flynn lived in a shiny glass apartment tower on the water in Melbourne. The building looked like hundreds of mirrors reflecting the bright blue sky. He lived at the top of the high-rise. Kope and I stepped off the elevator and looked down the hall at Flynn’s door. We’d been silent. Nodding to each other, we sent our hearing into the apartment. With a quiet gasp, I yanked my auditory sense back to normal. Flynn was busy with company at the moment. Very busy. Kope made a low sound and closed his eyes, shaking his head as if to clear away the sounds he’d heard. My face heated and I shifted from foot to foot, fighting back the nervous smile that always wanted to surface at inappropriate times. I found a small sitting area around the corner with glass walls overlooking the city. We sat, taking in the view. When my stupid urge to smile finally settled, I braved another look at Kope and pointed to myself, using my new, limited sign-language skills to tell him I’d listen. Given the new information about his inclination for lust, it was only fair. I quickly looked away, embarrassed by the crassness of the situation. I wasn’t going to listen the whole time. I’d just pop in for a quick check. Ten minutes passed. Still busy. Half an hour passed. Busy. Forty-five minutes passed. I shook my head to let Kope know they were still at it. He fidgeted and paced, out of his normal, calm comfort zone. An hour and ten minutes passed, and I took a turn at stretching my legs. I was getting hungry. I thought we’d be through with our talk by this time. We could interrupt Flynn, but I didn’t want him to freak out in front of somebody. We needed his guest to leave so we could talk alone. At the hour and a half mark, Kope checked his watch and looked at me. I sent my hearing into the room. Oh, they weren’t in the bedroom anymore. Finally! I wiggled my hearing around until it hit the sound of running water. A shower. This was a good sign. But wait . . . nope. I shook my head, eyes wide. Was this normal? Kope did something uncharacteristic then. He grinned, giving a little huff through his nose. This elicited a small giggle from me and I pressed both hands over my mouth. It was too late, though. At this point, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I could feel the crazy, unfortunate amusement rising. I jumped up and ran as spritely as I could to the stairwell with Kope on my heels. We sprinted down several flights before I fell back against the wall, laughter bubbling out. It went on and on, only getting worse when Kope joined in with his deep chuckling, a joyful rumble.

Standing, balanced precariously on the narrow top of a drainpipe, you had to give a good leap up to grab hold of the narrow ledge, and then swing your whole body up and over. It took some guts, and a cool head for heights. Get it wrong and the fall was a long one, onto concrete. In an attempt to make it harder, the school security officers had put barbed wire all around the lip of the roof to ensure such climbs were “impossible.” (This was probably installed after Ran Fiennes’s escapades onto the dome all those years earlier.) But in actual fact the barbed wire served to help me as a climber. It gave me something else to hold on to. Once on the roof, then came the crux of the climb. Locating the base of the lightning conductor was the easy bit, the tough bit was then committing to it. It held my weight; and it was a great sense of achievement clambering into the lead-lined small bell tower, silhouetted under the moonlight, and carving the initials BG alongside the RF of Ran Fiennes. Small moments like that gave me an identity. I wasn’t just yet another schoolboy, I was fully alive, fully me, using my skills to the max. And in those moments I realized I simply loved adventure. I guess I was discovering that what I was good at was a little off-the-wall, but at the same time recognizing a feeling in the pit of my stomach that said: Way to go, Bear, way to go. My accomplice never made it past the barbed wire, but waited patiently for me at the bottom. He said it had been a thoroughly sickening experience to watch, which in my mind made it even more fun. On the return journey, we safely crossed one college house garden and had silently traversed half of the next one. We were squatting behind a bush in the middle of this housemaster’s lawn, waiting to do the final leg across. The tutor’s light was on, with him burning the midnight oil marking papers probably, when he decided it was time to let his dog out for a pee. The dog smelled us instantly, went bananas, and the tutor started running toward the commotion. Decision time. “Run,” I whispered, and we broke cover together and legged it toward the far side of the garden. Unfortunately, the tutor in question also happened to be the school cross-country instructor, so he was no slouch. He gave chase at once, sprinting after us across the fifty-meter dash. A ten-foot wall was the final obstacle and both of us, powered by adrenaline, leapt up it in one bound. The tutor was a runner but not a climber, and we narrowly avoided his grip and sprinted off into the night. Up a final drainpipe, back into my open bedroom window, and it was mission accomplished. I couldn’t stop smiling all through the next day.

Another general would have let them go and been glad of it. But he saw that if they secured that high ground they might regroup and come at us again, this time with their archers positioned to advantage. So he called us to ranks with a curdling cry. I glimpsed his face through the crowd of men. It was bloodied, dirt-streaked, avid. Then he turned, fist to the sky, and sprinted. He set the pace for the fleetest of his runners, youths who could give him a decade. Even uphill, he seemed to fly over the loose stones that slid out from underfoot and left me skidding and swearing. I fell behind, and lost sight of him. Others—younger men, better fighters—overtook me, swarming to him, compelled by his courage. When I finally glimpsed him again, he was above me on a long, slender ridge, in the thick of fierce fighting. Trying to narrow the distance between us, I lost my footing entirely on the uncertain ground. I slipped. Metal, leather and flesh scraped against rough limestone that bit like snaggleteeth. I could not control my fall until I planted my foot into something that gave softly under my weight. The man had been attempting to crawl away, dragging himself with his remaining hand while a slime of blood pulsed from the stump of his sword arm. My boot, mashing his neck flat into stone, had put an end to that. When I lifted my foot, the man gave a wet gargle, and was still. I scraped the mess off my boot onto the nearest rock and went on. When I reached the ridge, the king was making an end of another fighter. He was up close, eye to eye. His sword had entered just above the man’s groin. He drew it upward, in a long, slow, arcing slash. As he pulled the blade back—slick, dripping—long tubes of bowel came tumbling after. I could see the dying man’s eyes, wide with horror, his hands gripping for his guts, trying to push them back into the gaping hole in his belly. The king’s own eyes were blank—all the warmth swallowed by the black stain of widening pupils. David reached out an arm and pushed the man hard in the chest. He fell backward off the narrow ledge and rolled down the slope, his entrails unfurling after him like a glossy ribband. I was engaged myself then, by a bullnecked spearman who required all my flagging strength. He was bigger than me, but clumsy, and I used his size against him, so that as I feinted one way, he lunged with his spear, overbalanced and fell right onto the dagger that I held close and short at my side. I felt the metal grating against the bone of his rib, and then I mustered enough force to thrust the tip sharply upward, the blade’s full length inside him, in the direction of his heart. I felt the warm wetness of his insides closing about my fist. It was intimate as a rape.

I've been sprinting towards the side of a cliff for a long time ready to jump but now that I'm finally on the edge of it, staring right at you; I couldn't be more terrified.

As I walk across the lobby, I hear a scream coming from below, coming from the Pit. It’s not a good-natured Dauntless shout, or the shriek of someone who is scared but delighted, or anything but the particular tone, the particular pitch of terror. Small rocks scatter behind us as I run down to the bottom of the Pit, my breathing fast and heavy, but even. Three tall, dark-clothed people stand near the railing below. They are crowded around a fourth, smaller target, and even though I can’t see much about them, I know a fight when I see one. Or, I would call it a fight, if it wasn’t three against one. One of the attackers wheels around, sees me, and sprints in the other direction. When I get closer I see one of the remaining attackers holding the target up, over the chasm, and I shout, “Hey!” I see her hair, blond, and I can hardly see anything else. I collide with one of the attackers--Drew, I can tell by the color of his hair, orange-red--and slam him into the chasm barrier. I hit him once, twice, three times in the face, and he collapses to the ground, and then I’m kicking him and I can’t think, can’t think at all. “Four.” Her voice is quiet, ragged, and it’s the only thing that could possibly reach me in this place. She’s hanging from the railing, dangling over the chasm like a piece of bait from a fishing hook. The other one, the last attacker, is gone. I run toward her, grabbing her under her shoulders, and pull her over the edge of the railing. I hold her against me. She pressed her face to my shoulder, twisting her fingers into my shirt. Drew is on the ground, collapsed. I hear him groan as I carry her away--not to the infirmary, where the others who went after her would think to look for her, but to my apartment, in its lonely, removed corridor. I shove my way through the apartment door and lay her down on my bed. I run my fingers over her nose and cheekbones to check for breaks, then I feel for her pulse, and lean in close to listen to her breathing. Everything seems normal, steady. Even the bump on the back of her head, though swollen and scraped, doesn’t seem serious. She isn’t badly injured, but she could have been. My hands shake when I pull away from her. She isn’t badly injured, but Drew might be. I don’t even know how many times I hit him before she finally said my name and woke me up. The rest of my body starts to shake, too, and I make sure there’s a pillow supporting her head, then leave the apartment to go back to the railing next to the Pit.

There I sat as my dad and the salesperson walked down the aisle. My dad seemed to take some particular interest in the video game that I had just been playing. Maybe interest is too weak of a word, because my dad became engrossed with the demo. I spent the next forty-five minutes crouched behind the boxes across the aisle, waiting for my dad to get bored and to move along. He never moved. Actually, it was pretty impressive how well he did on the game. In that time, he beat three levels and unlocked a few hidden treasures that I never even heard of. I’m starting to wonder if the reason why he’s always telling me to get off the video games is so he can play himself. The salesman urged him a few times to see other set-ups and even try other games, but my dad had none of it. He was like a man possessed on that controller. The whole time, my back was growing sorer from crouching under the shelf and my butt was starting to go numb. Finally, as it came closer to the time he had to leave to pick me up, he graciously thanked the salesman for his time. When they walked away, I burst out from behind the boxes ready to sprint. I needed to beat my dad outside, but the first stride I took sent me collapsing to the ground. Both legs were fully asleep! I shook them like crazy to get the blood flowing back into them. A man walked by with a frightened look on his face, shielding his young son from the sight of me. By the time I got my feet to stop tingling, it was too late. I ran to the front of the store just in time to see my dad get into his car. At that point, I should have cut my losses and admitted to the charade. At least this way, I would have had a ride back. But that’s not how it happened. At that moment, I was sure I could sprint back to the library faster than he could drive there. Three traffic lights stood in between Good Buys and the library. I was counting on a little help from the big Guy upstairs to make those lights red for as long as possible.

The next morning, Steve took his boat out and saw what had happened. The big male had triggered the trap and was snared in the mesh--sort of. Even though the rectangular-shaped net was the biggest he had, the croc’s tail and back leg stuck out. But the black ghost had finally been caught. At Steve’s approach, the animal thrashed wildly, smashing apart mangrove trees on either side of the trap. Steve tried to top-jaw-rope the croc, but it was fighting too violently. Normally Chilli acted as a distraction, giving Steve the chance to secure the croc. But the dog wanted no part of this. She cowered on the floor of the dinghy, unwilling to face this monstrously large croc. Steve was truly on his own. He finally secured a top-jaw rope and tied the other end to a tree. With a massive “death roll”--a defensive maneuver in which the reptile spins its enormous body--the big croc smashed the tree flat and snapped it off. Steve tried again; the croc thrashed, growling and roaring in protest at the trapper in khaki, lunging again and again to tear Steve apart. Finally, the giant croc death-rolled so violently that he came off the bank and landed in the boat, which immediately sank. Chilli had jumped out and was swimming for shore as Steve worked against time. With the croc underwater, Steve lashed the croc, trap and all, in the dinghy. But moving the waterlogged boat and a ton of crocodile was simply too much. Steve sprinted several miles in the tropical heat to reach a cane farm, where he hoped to get help. The cane farmers were a bit hesitant to lend a hand, so Steve promised them a case of beer, and a deal was made. With a sturdy fishing boat secured to each side of Steve’s dinghy, they managed to tow it downriver where they could winch croc and boat onto dry land to get him into a crate. By this time, a crowd of spectators had gathered. When Steve told me the story of the capture, I got the sense that he felt sorry he had to catch the crocodile at all. “It seemed wrong to remove the king of the river,” Steve said. “That croc had lasted in his territory for decades. Here I was taking him out of it. The local people just seemed relieved, and a couple even joked about how many boots he’d make.” Steve was very clever to include the local people and soon won them over to see just how special this crocodile really was. Just as he was dragged into his crate, the old croc attempted a final act of defiance, a death roll that forced Steve to pin him again. “I whispered to him to calm him down,” Steve said. “What did you say to him?” I asked. “Please don’t die.” The black crocodile didn’t die. Steve brought him back to Beerwah, named him Acco, and gave him a beautiful big pond that Bob had prepared, with plenty of places to hide. We were in the Crocodile Environmental Park at the zoo when Steve first told me the story of Acco’s capture. I just had to revisit him after hearing his story. There he was, the black ghost himself, magnificently sunning on the bank of his billabong.

medir esa sensación y compararla con tu desempeño. Otros indicadores ven atrás; la felicidad es una medida que mira al futuro. Mejora cada día y mídelo. Al final de cada sprint, el equipo debe tomar una pequeña mejora, o kaizen, que lo haga más feliz. Y esto debería ser lo más importante por cumplir en el sprint siguiente. El sigilo es veneno. Nada se debe mantener en secreto. Todos deben saberlo todo, y esto incluye sueldos e información financiera. La confusión sólo sirve a la gente que vela por su interés propio. Haz visible el trabajo. Ten un pizarrón que muestre todo el trabajo pendiente, lo que está en proceso y lo que ya se terminó. Todos deben verlo y actualizarlo cada día. La felicidad es autonomía, maestría y propósito. Todos queremos controlar nuestro destino, mejorar en lo que hacemos y perseguir un propósito que nos trascienda. Rompe la burbuja de la felicidad. No seas tan feliz como para dormirte en tus laureles. Asegúrate de medir la felicidad de acuerdo con el desempeño; si hay divergencias, preparate para actuar. La complacencia es enemiga del éxito.

With his gun aimed, Huey pulled the trigger. The noise of the rifle seemed to echo throughout my brain. Time seemed to have slowed. I cried out in absolute horror as I watched Isaac, in mid-sprint, collapse onto the ground. No! NO!!!

Under stress, the SNS dominates, causing us to hold in our breath. A deep exhale activates the PNS, restoring calm. That’s why yogic breathing is so relaxing.45 Stress also makes our heart race by contracting it. The PNS lifts the SNS off the heart so it can relax and pump blood. However, the SNS grows heavier as the stressor intensifies. At some point, the SNS becomes too heavy for the PNS to lift, and the PNS taps out. For example, during an all-out sprint, this is the point of volitional exhaustion when you feel like your heart is about to explode. Regular exercise strengthens the PNS, and it gains with every workout.46 Eventually, the PNS can lift heavier and heavier SNS loads. Now, you’re physically stronger and can push your body faster and harder than ever before.47 You’re also mentally stronger and less reactive to everyday stressors.48 More active. Less moody. Less inflamed. Less depressed. Finally, you are at the root of the problem.

I could run forever. He was so much larger than me—I had to take two strides for every one of his—but somehow, our pace became one as the lights across the lake flashed by. This is what he’d wanted. To run side by side. Just the two of us. Free. Jaxson nodded to the far promontory ahead. Almost there. The point. The finish line. Desire sparked in my mind. I realized I could win, no matter how big he was, no matter how fast. I was strong. I gloried in the knowledge. Memories of old races and past victories flooded into my mind. The final sprint. The burning in my muscles. The intoxicating call of the finish line. The tape breaking on my chest. Once, a decade ago, those moments of victory had been everything to me in a bleak and lonely world.

Every day of my life it feels as if I'm fighting my way up an escalator that only goes down. And no matter how fast or how had I run to try to reach the top, I stay in the same place, sprinting, getting nowhere. But when I'm with her it doesn't feel like I'm on that escalator. It feels as if I'm on a moving walkway, and I'm effortlessly just carried along. Like I can finally relax and take a breath and not feel the constant pressure to sprint in order to prevent hitting rock bottom.

She wanted She wanted to win all battles, She wanted to possess all that delights and startles, And when she was supposed to fight her fight, She for some reason surrendered before fate’s might, She wanted to fall in love and be his forever, She wanted to ride the sprinting moments of joy that end never, And when she found him, she failed to express herself, She for some reason drew comparison between herself and himself, She wanted to travel far and wide, She wanted to reach there where there was no place to hide, And when it was time for her to rise above all and be exalted, She for some reason felt less vigorous and least excited, She wanted to feel his kiss, she wanted to make him hers, She wanted to be with him in life’s every season with no restrictions and no moral spars, And when it was time for her to hold him with her heart, She extended just her hands, and stretched her mind’s thoughts, with the missing love soaked part, She wanted to live in a world where she existed just with him, She felt this feeling deeply and it at all was not just a whim, And when he opened his world to her and asked her to tread into it, She felt her heart had turned into a bandit, She wanted her feelings to bloom like the summer’s brilliance, She wanted to swim in his love and fragrance, And when he presented her his heart and laid it at her feet, She felt what I call “the unfortunate lover’s defeat,” She wanted everything, if not everyone, she aspired for a lot, She wanted to find herself a role in life’s every story and a part in it's every plot, And when the universe granted her this wish, she hesitated to be split into so many versions, Because to love everything one needs endless reasons, So, she finally wanted to be just with him and find in him all her joy begetting reasons, She wanted in him to find her life’s all seasons, And when finally the moment arrived, he stood before her eyes, And since then a part of her every moment into his always open eyes dives, Now she wants nothing no more, she just wants to be like the sky, Where she can travel as far as imagination can take her, and feel his love before they die, And when she became the sky and rose really high, The man leapt with joy and touched the sky, and both felt the joy’s loudest sigh!

And then my father saw it. First the green eyes. Then the massive head, a white patch on the forehead, and white fur framing the face. Then he saw the teeth. Horrific, sharp teeth. Finally, he saw the monster in its entirety. The tiger. But instead of speeding towards them on all fours, it was sprinting on two legs like a human being.

India is not a tiger, and change will always be slower than in East Asia. India is an elephant which has stirred from its slumber and has finally begun to move ahead with a degree of determination. However, unlike a sprinting tiger that runs out of steam, the elephant has stamina.

Hayder didn’t bother checking the time when he left the condo. He banged on the closest door and waited with arms crossed, foot tapping. It opened a moment later on a tousled-hair Luna, who scowled. “What do you want?” “A lifetime supply of porterhouse steaks in my freezer.” Like duh. What feline wouldn’t? “Smartass.” “Thank you. I knew those IQ tests I took in college were wrong. But enough of my mental greatness, I need a favor.” “I am not lending you my eighties greatest hits CDs again to use for skeet practice,” she grumbled. “That’s not a favor. That’s just making the world a better place. No, I need you to watch Arabella’s place while I talk to the boss about her situation.” Obviously the rumor mill had been busy because Luna didn’t question what he meant. “You really think those wolves would be stupid enough to try something here?” Luna slapped her forehead. “Duh. Of course they are. Must be something in their processed dog food that inhibits their brain processes.” “One, while I agree that pack is mentally defective, you might want to refrain from calling them dogs or bitches or any other nasty names in the near future.” “Why? Aren’t you the one who coined the phrase ‘ass-licking, eau de toilette fleabags’?” Ah yes, one of his brighter inspirations after a few too many shots of tequila. “Yeah. But that was in the past. If I’m going to be mated to a wolf—” “Whoa there, big guy. Back up. Mated? As in”— Luna hummed the wedding march—“ dum-dum-dum-dum.” Hayder fought not to wince. Knowing he’d found the one and admitting it in such final terms were two different things. “Yes, mated. To Arabella.” “The girl who is allergic to you?” Luna needed the wall to hold her up as she laughed. And laughed. Then cried as she laughed. Irritated, Hayder tapped a foot and frowned. It just made her laugh all the harder. “It isn’t that funny.” “Says you.” Luna snorted, wiping a hand across her eyes to swipe the tears. “Oh, wait until the girls hear this.” “Could we hold off on that? It might help if I got Arabella to agree first.” Which, given her past and state of mind, wasn’t a sure thing. “You’re killing me here, Hayder. This is big news. Real big.” “I’ll let you borrow my treadmill.” Damned thing was nothing more than a clothes rack in his room. Indoor running just couldn’t beat the fresh adrenaline of an outdoor sprint. “Really big news,” she emphasized. He sighed. “Fine. You can borrow my car. But don’t you dare leave any fast food wrappers in it like last time.” “Who, me?” The innocent bat of her lashes didn’t fool him one bit.

Jo!” I heard a voice call. I straightened just in time to see Alex dash up the front walk. “I thought you had practice,” I said. “Cancelled,” Alex said shortly. He made the front porch and pushed back the hood of the sweatshirt he had on beneath his letterman’s jacket. His breathing was quick, as if he’d run all the way from school. “I tried to catch you guys but you’d already gone.” “Elaine’s at her house,” I said. Alex gave an exasperated laugh and moved to put his hands on my shoulders, a thing that pretty much made me forget all about my dad’s car in the drive. Apparently Alex had decided that the waiting period was over. “I didn’t sprint ten blocks to see Elaine,” he said. “I came to see you. There’s something I want to ask you, Jo.” “No, you can’t borrow my math homework,” I said. “Shut up, you idiot,” Alex said, giving me a shake. “I want you to go with me to the prom.” I opened my mouth, then closed it again. An action which no doubt made me look exactly like a fish out of water. “That wasn’t a question,” I finally said. Alex rolled his eyes. “Do you want to know why I like you?” he asked. “It took me a while, but I figured it out. It’s because you’re so impossible.” A laugh bubbled up and out before I could stop it. “Impossible,” I repeated. “What about annoying?” “That too,” Alex nodded. “You’re impossible and annoying and unpredictable. Will you please go with me to the prom?” “Aren’t you worried about what will happen if I say yes?” I asked. “Uh-uh,” Alex shook his head. “I’m only worried that you’ll say no.” “I’m not going to do that,” I answered steadily. “Thank you, Alex. I’d love to go with you to the prom.” For a moment, he simply stood, his hands on my shoulders. “You’d better hold still,” he warned. “Why’s that?” “Because I’m going to kiss you now.” Words failed me. Which turned out to be a very good thing as, for the next few minutes, I needed my lips for something else anyhow. The kiss ended and Alex eased back. There was an expression on his face I’d never seen before. Sort of startled and blank all at once, as if he’d just discovered something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t quite put a name to. “Well,” he said. “Bet you say that to all the girls,” I replied. “I’m that obvious, huh?” “Actually, no.” “Now who’s being nice?” Alex said. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Okay,” I said. He turned, and I watched him sprint off down the walk. It was only then that I realized I was still clutching my sopping wet shoes. Very smooth, Jo. No wonder the guy can’t resist you, I thought.

[Racers] always try to keep something in reserve for a final sprint…so far as our bodily health allows, we should aim to be found running the last lap of our Christian life, as we would say, flat out. The final sprint, so I urge, should be a sprint indeed (pp. 21-22).

Your final task on Monday is to choose a target for your sprint. Who is the most important customer, and what’s the critical moment of that customer’s experience? The rest of the sprint will flow from this decision.

In the house, my phone rang, and I sprinted for the back door. “Are you there?” he said. “Are you there, are you all right?” “Eric,” I said, my breath coming out in a great ripping sigh. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re all right! You are, aren’t you?” “What have you done?” “Amelia found a way to break the bond.” There was a long silence. Before, I would have known if Eric was anxious, furious, or thoughtful. Now, I couldn’t imagine. Finally, he spoke. “Sookie, the marriage gives you some protection, but the bond is what is important.” “What?” “You heard me. I am so angry with you.” He really meant it. “Come here,” I said. “No. If I see Amelia, I’ll break her neck.” He meant that, too. “She’s always wanted you to get rid of me.” “But . . .” I began, not knowing how to end the sentence. “I’ll see you when I’ve got control of myself,” he said. And he hung up.

Hearing a time-delayed full-throated sing-along ricocheting from the farthest rafters of a football stadium is an out-of-body sensation, one that becomes oddly addictive over time, echoing in a chorus of sublime connectivity. The open air, hitting you in gusts that give your hair a perfect Beyoncé blowout while you inhale the aroma of sweat and beer that sometimes rises from the crowd in a foglike condensation. The roar of fireworks above your head as you take your final bow and sprint to the room-temperature pepperoni pizza waiting in your dressing room. Believe me, it is all that it’s cracked up to be and more. I never fully embraced stadium rock until I experienced it from the lip of the stage, and to this day I have never taken a single moment of it for granted. It is an otherworldly experience, one that can be described in just two words: fucking awesome.

The 100-metre sprint superstar Usain Bolt has, on many occasions, taken naps in the hours before breaking the world record, and before Olympic finals in which he won gold. Our own studies support his wisdom: daytime naps that contain sufficient numbers of sleep spindles also offer significant motor skill memory improvement, together with a restoring benefit on perceived energy levels and reduced muscle fatigue.

How do you make anyone actually want to do any of this stuff? How do you flip the internal switch that changes us all back into the Natural Born Runners we once were? Not just in history, but in our own lifetimes. Remember? Back when you were a kid and you had to be yelled at to slow down? Every game you played, you played at top speed, sprinting like crazy as you kicked cans, freed all, and attacked jungle outposts in your neighbors’ backyards. Half the fun of doing anything was doing it at record pace, making it probably the last time in your life you’d ever be hassled for going too fast. That was the real secret of the Tarahumara: they’d never forgotten what it felt like to love running. They remembered that running was mankind’s first fine art, our original act of inspired creation. Way before we were scratching pictures on caves or beating rhythms on hollow trees, we were perfecting the art of combining our breath and mind and muscles into fluid self-propulsion over wild terrain. And when our ancestors finally did make their first cave paintings, what were the first designs? A downward slash, lightning bolts through the bottom and middle—behold, the Running Man.

As they entered the final five hundred meters, though, it was Cal that brought the fans in the grandstands to their feet. The boys from Berkeley executed a tremendous surge, suddenly blowing past both Navy and Penn, seizing the lead and winning by a quarter of a boat length. It was an impressive show, and it reinforced the long-standing belief—shared by many of the coaches and writers present that day—that despite Washington’s wins in the long races at Poughkeepsie and in Seattle, California remained the superior sprinting crew. It was hard to argue otherwise. California had won its heat in 6:07.8; Washington had taken 10 full seconds longer, 6:17.8, to cover the same distance. “An almost insurmountable handicap for the Huskies,” declared the New York Sun’s Malcolm Roy.

Over the course of a fifteen-minute conversation, they shook hands and agreed to finalize the legislation that Manchin had sketched. They vowed to treat the last stage of negotiation as the closest-held secret in Washington. They weren’t going to keep the White House in the loop, since that is a building where secrets go to die. To finish by the August recess, they would need to sprint.

Runaways are the foundation for what air scent dogs do – it’s a chain of behavior we start with puppies from day one. In short, the handler holds the dog while another person runs away and hides a short distance away. The dog is released with a “go find” command, locates the subject, returns to the handler, and does a trained final response (TFR) such as a bark, jump, or tug to communicate that he has found a subject. “Show me!” shouts the handler, who then sprints after the dog, who has already whirled and is now dashing madly back to the lost person. Upon arrival, the dog’s favorite toy magically appears, a big party ensues, and the handler and training subject yip and yell to excite and reward the K9.

I knew exactly what was going on, but I unfortunately didn't have a firearm. (Adam have most likely offered someone 6000 Euros, to end this all, then and there. Tomas. 10%) Only a mini baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger. And Martina’s weapon of choice: a broom. The witches’ vehicle. Before I could tell him to go to Hell, a neighbor exited the building and let the stranger claiming to be from the gas company inside. Now the stranger dressed in black was running up the 94 stairs. I could hear his footsteps approaching. I didn't have time to react, grab the biggest knife from the kitchen, and stand by my entrance door. He was already upstairs, right outside my apartment door. He began knocking loudly and aggressively, whether with his metal ring or a lighter. I looked through the peephole, but he had covered it with a black folder, which I soon realized was an iPad. Covering his face. Covering my eyes. The same speech repeated played through the iPad, ensuring that I wouldn't recognize his voice and open the door. „I am from the gas company, looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi.” He kept playing in a prerecorded voice on the iPad outside my door, "Open up", "It's the gas company", and "We are looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi." I was trying to pay attention and make sense of it all, trying to figure out who it could be. But the Catalan girl couldn't keep quiet and yelled at the person in Spanish with her strong Catalan accent, after a minute or two: "Who are you and what do you want? Go away before I call the police!" Suddenly, the stranger began sprinting down the 94 stairs upon realizing that I wasn't alone. In case the reason for his visit wasn't clear enough. He was running so fast that he nearly stumbled, clearly determined to prevent me from catching up with him. I swung open my door and peered down the stairwell, straining my eyes to discern his identity, but the darkness obscured any details in the vertical tunnel below. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, I hurried to my loggia to catch a glimpse of him. He was tall and thin, with long legs, and his strides were hurried and distinct, unlike anyone else. Deep inside, I knew it was Mario Larese. Mister Twister. I recognized his movements, but it wasn't until 2023 that I had concrete confirmation. An evidence orgy. Mario had been sent to either spy on me or seek revenge for my closure of the club, with him being responsible for triggering the landslide, the avalanche. The mafia had dispatched Mario to finish what he/they had started. With Adam and the rest of them. Mario. Adam. Nico. Ferran. „The Beatles.” „Plus Yoko.” The Nazi junkies had sent him to deliver the final blow, the fatal shot, the kill. It was Mario who was accountable - the thief, the liar, the "Romanian gypsy." To deliver „The Final Solution”, to sever ties. And keep that 60,000 as well of course. Shortly after the stranger (Mario) had left our address Martina called me on the phone.

He left his wife and child and sprinted to the Glass Hut, the discarded receipt from earlier in the afternoon flapping in his hands as he ran. When he reached the entrance, he slowed, adjusted his demeanor, and slipped unnoticed into the store. He walked down the first aisle, his eyes searching the shelves filled with glass knickknacks. Finally, he came to a row of statues, two fish, green and orange, leaping out of the cold-blue sea. On the itemized receipt, he’d read: Green and Orange Fish Statue: $14.99. Statue in hand, he walked to the register and placed the item on the counter. “Oh, wonderful choice,” the woman said. “Actually,” Caleb interjected, “I’m returning this. My wife bought it earlier, along with several other items, and we realized that this particular piece didn’t fit with the décor of the intended recipient. We’d like a refund.” He produced the receipt and pointed to the price of the statue. “It is a lovely piece, though,” he added, his open palm waiting for the money.

And I say a final last prayer, this one in gratitude that there are people in the world who will protect kids with a fire that makes them sprint after cars, fight systems, curse with rage. It’s enough to make you believe. Maybe not in symbols; maybe not in gods. But certainly in people.

there, guiding her through it, drawing everything skilfully from the inside, out. After what felt like a short time, Naomi found herself approaching the dramatic climax of the ending. Speed of attack, Naomi. Conscious she’d made only one tiny mistake in the whole piece, she knew this part would be the real test. Without holding back and playing safe, she unleashed all her energy into the final bars – a cascading sprint of broken chords which ended with four triumphant crashing chords. She was trembling when her hands moved away from the keys. On weak limbs, Naomi stood and turned to face Nathan’s applause. She took hold of the edge of the piano and bowed. She’d had a whole lesson in Professional Skills, about bowing. Nathan laughed and clapped harder, mouthing wow, shaking his head. Eventually, his hands stilled. ‘Whoa. That was amazing. How do you remember all those notes?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You have to know.’ Naomi allowed a smile. ‘It’s like driving a

John proved more trap-wise, though, and it took two months longer to catch him. He was smart enough to drag trap-baited carcasses away, thereby avoiding the stinging metal dug around them. Carley finally rented another Bell JetRanger helicopter and, after a fifteen-minute pursuit, the chopper flushed John into a tidal marsh. As the helicopter chased, John took off running over the beach at low tide. Carley snapped a picture from the chopper as the wolf sprinted at full hilt, his back legs stretching forward of his forelegs, then pushing off. The sun’s glare on the half inch or so of water gave the appearance that John raced over the ocean’s surface. “The wolf that ran on water,” Carley later chuckled over the photo.

Not even when she had to spend seventeen minutes and twenty-nine seconds—yes, she counted—standing at the top of the stairs outside her bedroom while Sandor, Tarina, and Flori performed the most ridiculously exhaustive security sweep in the history of the universe. They checked places no enemy could possibly be hiding, like inside her desk drawers and behind her bookshelves and on top of her bed’s fancy canopy. They also inspected every single one of the thousands of flowers woven into her carpet for any trace of a footprint. And when they finally finished, they lowered the shades over her walls of windows and made her promise to stay away from the glass, which felt both unnecessary and unsettling. But none of it mattered. She was home. She could train. Even better—she could shower. As soon as Sandor gave her the all clear, she nearly sprinted to her bathroom, wrestled her way out of her sling, and prepared to set a new world record for longest, hottest, steamiest shower.

The film stopped and Colin Jackson was asked for his opinion. After Colin refuted the nonsense with a scientific study – which he was actually a part of – that found that both black and white athletes have the ‘fast twitch’ muscle that is apparently the ‘key’ to sprinting, the commentator’s response was: ‘But are we at the point now where if you are a very talented athlete at fourteen/fifteen/sixteen, and you are white, you are almost institutionally programmed to think that you won’t be able to compete at the highest level in the sprint?’ This is a very revealing question from a white public figure, because when black people assert that representation is important, that having role models you can relate to and who look like you is helpful, they are often accused of making excuses, playing the race card or wanting special treatment. Yet here, before the 200 metres final, was a public service broadcaster asserting that, actually, it does matter, and that seeing black people win, in a competition that no white people have ever been barred by law from entering, or in any way discriminated from participating in, could still discourage white teenagers from bothering to even try. Wow.

Think of it like you are on an isolated island for so long and you woke up one day and saw an empty boat is leaving the island by the force of the wind. It is pushed away so fast by the wind. It is your only and last chance ever to leave this island. You know there are no more chances because you have been so long already on the island. You definitely will sprint toward it. You will use your full potentials swimming to catch it. Even if you do not know how to swim, you still will go for it if you want to leave this island. You will never think of a plan B. Your mind may tell you, "You either catch the boat or die". Finally, when you catch the boat you say to yourself "How did I do this! I never exhausted this amount of energy before! I never imagined this power comes out of me! In addition to many following wondrous questions, you ask yourself after. The answer to all these questions is simple. You focused ALL of what you HAVE on ONE goal. ONLY one GOAl. Only plan, A

The film stopped and Colin Jackson was asked for his opinion. After Colin refuted the nonsense with a scientific study – which he was actually a part of – that found that both black and white athletes have the ‘fast twitch’ muscle that is apparently the ‘key’ to sprinting, the commentator’s response was: ‘But are we at the point now where if you are a very talented athlete at fourteen/fifteen/sixteen, and you are white, you are almost institutionally programmed to think that you won’t be able to compete at the highest level in the sprint?’ This is a very revealing question from a white public figure, because when black people assert that representation is important, that having role models you can relate to and who look like you is helpful, they are often accused of making excuses, playing the race card or wanting special treatment. Yet here, before the 200 metres final, was a public service broadcaster asserting that, actually, it does matter, and that seeing black people win, in a competition that no white people have ever been barred by law from entering, or in any way discriminated from participating in, could still discourage white teenagers from bothering to even try. Wow.

Mark and Shane, the team leads, were very conscious of not burning everyone out because of their experience on StarCraft. They had both been associate producers on the project and vowed to avoid pushing Team 2 as hard as the StarCraft devs were pushed. StarCraft’s dev cycle was nightmarish in that the goal posts were always moving. Whenever they crossed the finish line, Allen Adham found room for improvement, saying the game wasn’t polished enough, and asked everyone if they could hunker down for a few weeks longer. Whenever the next deadline was reached, another issue would arise and it was extended again, prolonging the crunch of late hours. The light at the end of the StarCraft tunnel always turned out to be a mirage. Each “final” sprint collided directly into another. And then another. Fans camped out in Blizzard’s parking lot and counted the cars, reporting on websites how many people were working at night. StarCraft’s drop-dead due dates were missed again and again until it was over a year later. Shane reminisced how people slept in sleeping bags on the floor. Showers and meals were skipped. To this day, few people who served on the StarCraft team play the game. Both Shane and Mark agreed that people weren’t as productive when exhausted and it just wasn’t worth it. Allen Adham’s nerves had been so worn out he left the company he founded until Blizzard convinced him to help out on WoW years later. In the wake of StarCraft’s quality-of-life costs, Shane and Mark vowed they’d never push a team like that, and their solution was to start the late nights early.

Si al final del sprint algo quedó a medias, estarás peor que si no hubieras hecho nada. Has gastado recursos, tiempo y esfuerzo sin llevar nada a un estado susceptible de entrega.

So they would attack a church, too. Mann squeezed off a few final shots at the whites across Greenwood Avenue and followed the boy down the back stairs, then out the door for the half-mile sprint to Black Tulsa’s Alamo.

A design sprint attempts to compress this work, from the initial debates all the way to receiving market feedback on the resulting decisions, into one highly efficient workweek. On the first day, you figure out the problem you’re trying to solve. On the second day, you sketch out competing solutions. On the third day, you make the tough decision about which solution you want to explore, transforming it into a hypothesis that can be tested. On the fourth day, you throw together a rough prototype that allows you to test the hypothesis, and on the fifth and final day, you put real clients in front of the prototype and learn from their feedback.

And I say a final last prayer, this one in gratitude that there are people in the world who will protect kids with a fire that makes them sprint after cars, fight systems, curse with rage. It's enough to make you believe. Maybe not in symbols, maybe not in gods. But certainly in people.

Monday’s structured discussions create a path for the sprint week. In the morning, you’ll start at the end and agree to a long-term goal. Next, you’ll make a map of the challenge. In the afternoon, you’ll ask the experts at your company to share what they know. Finally, you’ll pick a target: an ambitious but manageable piece of the problem that you can solve in one week.

El problema que encuentro más a menudo es que la gente tiende a usar la parada diaria para rendir un informe personal –“Hice esto... Haré aquello...”, y luego el que sigue–, cuando lo óptimo es que sea un team back como los del futbol americano. Un receptor abierto podría decir: “Tengo problemas con tal jugador de la línea defensiva”, a lo que un bloqueador ofensivo repondría: “Yo me haré cargo. Abriré esa línea”. O bien, el mariscal de campo podría decir: “Nuestra ofensiva está topando con pared; sorprendámoslos con un pase a la izquierda”. La idea es que el equipo hable brevemente sobre cómo aproximarse a la victoria, es decir, al final del sprint. La pasividad no es mera pereza; también afecta el rendimiento del resto del equipo. Una vez detectada, se le debe eliminar de inmediato.

RESUMEN El tiempo es finito. Trátalo como tal: divide tu trabajo en lo que puedes hacer en un periodo corto, fijo y regular de entre una y cuatro semanas. Y si te contagias de la fiebre de Scrum, llámalo sprint. Muestra o muerte. Al final de cada sprint, ten algo terminado y que pueda usarse (para volar, manejar o lo que sea). Tira tus tarjetas de presentación. Los epítetos de roles son indicadores de estatus especializado. Que te conozcan por lo que haces, no por tu profesión.

A very real, very final burnout was steadily approaching. The wall of black swelled, one final hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness. That was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice were of no use here, but there were other ways. Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-stones.

Both muscular and neural activation are similar between heavy and light loads when both are taken to or near failure. As mentioned before, the final repetition performed just before failure, regardless of the number of reps in a set, has a similar impact on the nervous system as a 1RM (one-rep max) load. The only difference is that heavy loads provide a greater stimulus to joints and tendons compared to lighter loads.

This is the final stage of plyometrics, featuring the most intense exercises. To introduce this phase into your training, two key requirements must be met. First, the physical maturity of the athlete is crucial. These exercises are not recommended for athletes under the ages of 17 or 18, especially depth jumps. Second, the athlete should have a good level of relative strength. The minimum requirement is a back squat of around 1.4-1.5x bodyweight for a 1RM (repetition maximum). Taller athletes can begin these exercises if they are closer to 1.4x bodyweight, while shorter athletes should be closer to 1.5x bodyweight.