Joggers Quotes

She asked me how I slept. Knowing she meant quality of sleep, I said I slept naked. It’s true. Ask any of the joggers who saw me sleepwalking.

Do you have a favorite constalation, Percy?' I was still kind of wondering about the little green snakes he'd shoved into his jogging shorts, but i said. 'Uh, I like Hercules.' 'Why?' 'Well... because he had rotten luck. Even worse than mine. It makes me feel better." The jogger chuckled. 'Not because he was strong and famouse and all that?' 'No.

You’re sure you didn’t leave? Didn’t try to explore Thunder Bay again, maybe go down to the park and, I don’t know, dismember some poor jogger?

The first time I see a jogger smiling, I'll consider it.

The jogger came upon them after the tragedy occurred and witnessed Raymond preparing to take off on his bike while Howard lay facedown on the ground with a metal spike through his head. When the cops arrived at the scene and questioned Raymond, he told them, “I don’t know … he like fell on it, or something. I was just riding my bike to the grocery store when I passed him on the trail. He was walking on the path while I was biking by. He saw me and said hello and then he fell face-first on a spike. I was like, ‘Dude, does that hurt?’ but he didn’t reply or move.” When the cops asked him why he was trying to flee the scene, he said, “I was going to get help on my bike. Maybe doctors could, like, unspike his head or something, like, I don’t know.

The jogger sighed. He pulled out his phone and my eyes got big, because it glowed with a bluish light. When he extended the antenna, two creatures began writhing around it-green snakes, no bigger than earthworms. The jogger didn't seem to notice. He checked his LCD display and cursed. "I've got to take this. Just a sec ..." Then into the phone: "Hello?" He listened. The mini-snakes writhed up and down the antenna right next to his ear. Yeah," the jogger said. "Listen-I know, but... I don't care if he is chained to a rock with vultures pecking at his liver, if he doesn't have a tracking number, we can't locate his package....A gift to humankind, great... You know how many of those we deliver-Oh, never mind. Listen, just refer him to Eris in customer service. I gotta go.

All of [the] activities here have a surreptitious end-of-the-world feel to them:... these joggers sleepwalking in the mist like shadow's who have escaped from Plato's cave

Nothing evokes the end of the world more than a man running straight ahead on a beach, swathed in the sounds of his walkman . . . Primitives, when in despair, would commit suicide by swimming out to sea until they could swim no longer. The jogger commits suicide by running up and down the beach. His eyes are wild, saliva drips from his mouth. Do not stop him.

Ove glares out of the window. The poser is jogging. Not that Ove is provoked by jogging. Not at all. Ove couldn’t give a damn about people jogging. What he can’t understand is why they have to make such a big thing of it. With those smug smiles on their faces, as if they were out there curing pulmonary emphysema. Either they walk fast or they run slowly, that’s what joggers do. It’s a forty-year-old man’s way of telling the world that he can’t do anything right. Is it really necessary to dress up as a fourteen-year-old Romanian gymnast in order to be able to do it? Or the Olympic tobogganing team? Just because one shuffles aimlessly around the block for three quarters of an hour?

I don't mind exercise but it's a private activity. Joggers should run in a wheel - like hamsters - because I don't want to look at them. And I really hate people who go on an airplane in jogging outfits. That's a major offense today, even bigger than Spandex bicycle pants. You see eighty-year-old women coming on the plane in jogging outfits for comfort. Well my comfort - my mental comfort - is completely ruined when I see them coming. You're on an airplane, not in your bedroom, so please! And I really hate walkathons: blocking traffic, people patting themselves on the back. The whole attitude offends me. They have this smug look on their faces as they hold you up in traffic so that they can give two cents to some charity.

What are you doing?" Angela complained. "Are you trying to make me jog? You know I think people who jog should be shot at midday." "Why at midday?" Kami asked absently. "There's no need to ever get up at dawn," Angela told her. "Not even to shoot joggers.

Standing in the nordic nook of the kitchen, I can gaze down at the flimsy-limbed joggers heading south towards the Park. It's nearly as bad as New York. Some of these gasping fatsos, these too-little-too-late artists, they look as though they're running up rising ground, climbing ground. My generation, we started all this. Before, everyone was presumably content to feel like death the whole time. Now they want to feel terrific for ever.

I’ve always thought of joggers as being sort of like Blind Michael and his crew: deserving of respect, but slightly psychotic. Who in their right minds would want to get out of bed and run around in their underwear before noon?

What if our bodies were transparent, like a washing machine window? How wondrous to watch ourselves. Joggers would job even harder, blood pumping away. Lovers would love more. God damn! Look at that old semen go! Diets would improve-- kiwi fruit and strawberries, borscht with sour cream.

At paces that might stun and dismay the religious jogger, the runners easily kept up all manner of chatter and horseplay. When they occasionally blew by a huffing fatty or an aging road runner, they automatically toned down the banter to avoid overwhelming, to preclude the appearance of show boating (not that they slowed in the slightest). They in fact respected these distant cousins of the spirit, who, among all people, had some modicum of insight into their own days and ways. But the runners resembled them only in the sense that a puma resembles a pussy cat. It is the difference between stretching lazily on the carpet and prowling the jungle for fresh red meat.

Like the librarians of Babel in Borges’s story, who are looking for the book that will provide them with the key to all the others, we oscillate between the illusion of perfection and the vertigo of the unattainable. In the name of completeness, we would like to believe that a unique order exists that would enable us to accede in knowledge all in one go; in the name of the unattainable, we would like to think that order and disorder are in fact the same word, denoting pure chance. It’s possible also that both are decoys, illusions intended to disguise the erosion of both books and systems. It is no bad thing in any case that between the two our bookshelves should serve from time to time as joggers of the memory, as cat-rests and as lumber-rooms.

The first sight of the Rapstone Valley is of something unexpectedly isolated and uninterruptedly rural; a solitary jogger is the only outward sign of urban pollution.

During those hours, I had zero social awareness, as I was asleep. All the joggers who waved at me while I was walking can vouch for that.

Only the joggers and the ambitious woke up before noon.

I'd always hated running. Born-again joggers described how they got addicted to the rapture of running, how they achieved a nirvana known as a runner's high. Right. I'd always firmly believed that--much like the high of auto-asphyxiation--the bliss came more from a lack of oxygen to the brain than any sort of endorphin rush.

Perhaps it is to fulfill this primal urge that runners and joggers get up every morning and pound the streets in cities all over the world. To feel the stirring of something primeval deep down in the pits of our bellies. To feel "a little bit wild." Running is not exactly fun. Running hurts. It takes effort. Ask any runner why he runs, and he will probably look at you with a wry smile and say, "I don't know." But something keeps us going. We may obsess about our PBs and mileage count, but these things alone are not enough to get us out running... What really drives us is something else, this need to feel human, to reach below the multitude of layers of roles and responsibilites that societ y has placed on us, down below the company name tags, and even the father, husband, and son, labels, to the pure, raw human being underneath. At such moments, our rational mind becomes redundant. We move from thought to feeling.

Angela had been the first of us. She’d been found on a park bench by some dawn jogger or dog walker, her throat slit, her sandals lined up next to her bare feet. And did you ever notice how these are the people who are always discovering the bodies, these people whose lives are so orderly that they can rise early enough to find a whole other human being dumped on the ground?

Mature readers consider reading an integral part of life. It is not something they do only to relax or to escape or if there is nothing good on television. It is something they plan for in each day, and if the day develops so that they have no time for it, they may become restless, rather like joggers who miss their run. Some - busy parents, for example - stay up late at night to read their daily quota after the house is quiet, acknowledging that having balance in their lives is more dependent on reading time than on sleep.

It’s so different from the woman we had lunch with in her casual T-shirt, joggers, and baseball cap. That was Eden—this is Madame Kink.

He looks like a cross between Clark Kent and some Marvel superhero but in gray joggers and a hoodie.

How come joggers always seem to be the ones to find bodies? Makes me glad I don’t exercise.

time as a relative experience, different for the jogger, the lover, the tortured, the leisured." N-W

Today it bordered more on the liked-quite-a-bit side of the scale. She stood on the beach at Lighthouse Point on Belle Island. The waves raced up the gentle slope of sand and lapped at her bare feet. This had to be her favorite spot, especially in the early morning hours when all she would pass was an occasional jogger or shell collector. The lighthouse was no

It seemed too as if many of the people were on display, behaving as if they expected to be looked at, as if they were on show: so many of them seemed to be wearing costumes, not just policemen and firemen and waiters and shop assistants, but people in their going-to-work costumes, their I'm-a-mother-pushing-a-pram costumes, babies and children in outfits that were like costumes; workers digging holes in their costume-bright orange vests; joggers in jogging costume; even the drinkers in the streets and parks, even the beggars, seemed to be wearing costumes, uniforms.

There's always been a love-hate thing between me and running. First off, if you don't get started at the ass crack of dawn, the Oklahoma summer sun will melt you into a puddle of good intentions. Plus, it hurts. I mean, have you ever seen a happy jogger? We scowl. We pant and grimace. In fact, if you ever see one of us smiling, you should assume we're a complete psychopath and run for your life.

Why can’t I be a Jogger? he thought. He didn’t know where the urge came from, but it was stronger than ever...just as strong as his urge to hang out with the girl who’d arrived yesterday. But he knew where that urge came from: his wiener.

We had had many joggers in prison. I found them smug. About the young man and his radio. I decided that he had bought the thing as a prosthetic devices, as an artificial enthusiasm for the planet. He paid as little attention to it as I paid to my false front tooth. I have since seen several young men like that in groups - with their radios tuned to different stations, with the radios engaged in a spirited conversation. The young men themselves, perhaps having been told nothing but "shut up" all their lives, had nothing to say.

Every morning a great wall of fog descends upon the city of San Francisco. It begins far out at sea. It forms over the Farallons, covering the sea lions on their rocks, and then it sweeps onto Ocean Beach, filling the long green bowl of Golden Gate Park. The fog obscures the early morning joggers and the lone practitioners of tai chi. It mists up the windows of the Glass Pavilion. It creeps over the entire city, over the monuments and movie theaters, over the Panhandle dope dens and the flophouses in the Tenderloin. The fog covers the pastel Victorian mansions in Pacific Heights and shrouds the rainbow-colored houses in the Haight. It walks up and down the twisting streets of Chinatown; it boards the cable cars, making their clanging bells sound like buoys; it climbs to the top of Coit Tower until you can’t see it anymore; it moves in on the Mission, where the mariachi players are still asleep; and it bothers the tourists. The fog of San Francisco, that cold, identity-cleansing mist that rolls over the city every day, explains better than anything else why that city is what it is.

a man named Plough Jogger spoke his mind: I have been greatly abused, have been obliged to do more than my part in the war; been loaded with class rates, town rates, province rates, Continental rates and all rates . . . been pulled and hauled by sheriffs, constables and collectors, and had my cattle sold for less than they were worth. . . . . . . The great men are going to get all we have and I think it is time for us to rise and put a stop to it, and have no more courts, nor sheriffs, nor collectors nor lawyers. . . . The chairman of that meeting

Bout time,” Rhys interrupted. “You know, they say however you look when you die is how your ghost will look forever.” His eyes roamed up and down my body, narrowing in disapproval at the sight of my plain grey joggers – that hung a little looser on my hips than they used to - and boring T-shirt. “Do you really want that to be your ghost outfit?” “Rhys!

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. William S. Burroughs

I wanted love the size of a fist. Something I could hold, something hot and knuckled and alive. What I wanted was my freckled cheeks printed on cheap paper, stapled at the ears, the flyers torn from telephone poles and the scales of palm trees, a sliver of my face left flapping in the wind. I wanted to be the diametric opposite of who I was; am. To get gone. I wanted limbs dangling from the lip of a trash compactor, found by a lone jogger who would cry at the sight of my ankles, my beaten blue knees with their warm fuzz of kiddie hair. Did I want to die? Not really, no. I wanted the beauty of the doomed. Missing girls are never forgotten, I thought, so long as they don’t show up dead. So long as they stay missing.

Giulia continued to fidget, but after a few minutes she calmed down and sat back on her beach chair. Psychosis waxes and wanes like the tides, and a passing jogger had triggered a fierce return of her disoriented, paranoid thinking. And then just as inexplicably, it faded away. The hospital hadn’t fixed anything. It had only stabilized her, and not even all the way.

The Jogger Killer is currently terrorizing women who are now too scared to go out running alone. And Rulandi Duval is a pit bull with a chip on her shoulder. She’s a woman in a position of power in a traditionally male environment, and she’s got something to prove. You and Tom also ooze privilege. You live in Story Cove. You own a boat. It’s moored at an exclusive marina. You belong to a country club.

If DNA databanks, which can now be used to search for a DNA match across samples statewide and even nationally, had been available in 1989, Reyes might have been connected almost automatically to the Central Park Jogger rape. But even without this type of system, the myriad holes in the detectives' theory of the case and the evidence linking Reyes to the rape in Central Park should have been enough for them to make that connection on their own. Yet none did.

On the way I passed a few other joggers, about an equal number of men and women. The energetic ones were zipping down the road, slicing through the air like they had robbers at their heels. Others, overweight, huffed and puffed, their eyes half closed, their shoulders slumped like this was the last thing in the world they wanted to be doing. They looked like maybe a week ago their doctors had told them they have diabetes and warned them they had to start exercising. I’m somewhere in the middle.

Millions of books written on every conceivable subject by all these great minds, and, and in the end, none of 'em knows anything more about the big questions of life than I do. Ss--I read Socrates. You know, n-nn--, this guy used to kn-knock off little Greek boys. What the hell's he got to teach me? And, and Nietzsche with his, with his Theory of Eternal Recurrence. He said that the life we live, we're gonna live over and over again the exact same way for eternity. Great. (MORE) MICKEY (V.O.) (CONT'D) That means I, uh, I'll have to sit through the Ice Capades again. Tch. It's not worth it. The movie next cuts to a sunny day in Central Park. A male jogger, seen through some tree branches, runs by. The camera moves past him, revealing a pondering Mickey walking by the reservoir. He continues to talk over the screen. MICKEY (V.O.) And, and Freud, another great pessimist. Jeez, I was in analysis for years. Nothing happened. My poor analyst got so frustrated. The guy finally put in a salad bar.

The poser is jogging. Not that Ove is provoked by jogging. Not at all. Ove couldn’t give a damn about people jogging. What he can’t understand is why they have to make such a big thing of it. With those smug smiles on their faces, as if they were out there curing pulmonary emphysema. Either they walk fast or they run slowly, that’s what joggers do. It’s a forty-year-old man’s way of telling the world that he can’t do anything right. Is it really necessary to dress up as a fourteen-year-old Romanian gymnast in order to be able to do it? Or the Olympic tobogganing team? Just because one shuffles aimlessly around the block for three quarters of an hour?

In 1989, five black teenagers—the “Central Park Five”—were arrested for the gang rape of a white woman jogger in New York City’s Central Park. Newspapers at the time were filled with breathless accounts of “wilding” black lawless teens rampaging and raping white women. At the time, Donald Trump took out full-page ads in several New York City newspapers, describing them as “crazed misfits” and calling for their execution. Subsequently, it emerged not only that the Central Park Five were innocent, but that they were known to be innocent to many of those involved in their prosecution. Years later, all five were completely exonerated and given a cash settlement by the City of New York.

The neon orange orb sat low in the sky, slowly breaking free of the horizon like the waking memory of a dream. The salty air smelled faintly of fish, and was thick with humidity and hung like a cloak over my body. The lavender sky at the horizon faded into cerulean above and behind me. The soft breeze whispered past my face, teasing my hair on its way to tickle the sawgrass that swayed in gratitude as if laughing like a child.
 I sat on the top plank of the boardwalk rail, the wood heavy with atmosphere and was damp and cool under my left palm. The surprising warmth of the winter air and the cool of the wood reminded me that yes, I am alive! Yes, I am grateful for this morning! And yes, I am glad to be here!
 The paper in my notebook as I wrote this began to feel sticky and moist within a few minutes. The ink from my pen seemed to grip the paper faster and firmer as if to say, I’m here, I’m happy, and I don’t want to lose this moment. Like my ink, I too wanted to cling to this morning.
 The sky started turning a peachy orange at the bottom and the ocean was sea foam green. The waves were breaking quietly, as if to give my thoughts amplitude so I could record and rejoice in the sea’s majesty. 
 The sand was gray and silky like a freshly pressed pair of slacks. The smooth beach seemed paved with sunlight. A jogger ran by, his knees probably grateful for the even stride the flat surface provided. 
 Chunks of sea foam lay strewn on the beach like remnants of Poseidon’s nightly bubble bath. A seagull circled low in the air, gliding in the sky with its streamlined body as the sun lit its white wings up like an angel’s halo.

DOES HARVARD MAKE YOU SMARTER? Swimmer’s Body Illusion As essayist and trader Nassim Taleb resolved to do something about the stubborn extra pounds he’d be carrying, he contemplated taking up various sports. However, joggers seemed scrawny and unhappy, and bodybuilders looked broad and stupid, and tennis players? Oh, so upper-middle class! Swimmers, though, appealed to him with their well-built, streamlined bodies. He decided to sign up at his local swimming pool and to train hard twice a week. A short while later, he realised that he had succumbed to an illusion. Professional swimmers don’t have perfect bodies because they train extensively. Rather, they are good swimmers because of their physiques. How their bodies are designed is a factor for selection and not the result of their activities. Similarly, female models advertise cosmetics and thus, many female consumers believe that these products make you beautiful. But it is not the cosmetics that make these women model-like. Quite simply, the models are born attractive and only for this reason are they candidates for cosmetics advertising. As with the swimmers’ bodies, beauty is a factor for selection and not the result. Whenever we confuse selection factors with results, we fall prey to what Taleb calls the swimmer’s body illusion. Without this illusion, half of advertising campaigns would not work

Black Studies guru Houston Baker has defended rap music in the same terms. “Rap is like a rich stock garnered from the sudden simmering of titanic B-boy/B-girl energies. Such energies were diffused over black cityscapes.” Baker also describes the same energy in “wilding,” and in the murderous mass rape of a white female jogger in Central Park in 1987, as the vital overthrow of the white man’s attempt to tame nature by constructing a park in the first place. Just as in The Genealogy of Morals Nietzsche’s blond beast emerges “from a disgusting procession of murder, arson, rape, and torture, exhilarated and undisturbed of soul, as if it were no more than a student’s prank,” so do young blacks joyfully bring the reality of terror to the white power structure (as Nietzsche wrote, “That lambs dislike great birds of prey does not seem strange”).56

was gray and rainy, so there weren’t many people around. A couple of joggers on the nearby path didn’t even look at us, as if they saw Mercedes limos four-wheeling across the park every day. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Watch and learn, kid,” Bes said. Being called “kid” by a guy shorter than

aspiring fashionista, a dedicated jogger, a world explorer, an enthusiastic foodie, and a grateful three-year

The shark continued swimming toward them, gliding through the water like a biological torpedo. Watson had read a Great White could hit twenty to thirty knots, which was far faster than their top speed. Right now, they were like two elderly joggers trying to outrun an Olympic sprinter. “We’re fine,” Watson muttered, more for his benefit than his partner’s. “It’s just a big fish, and this thing is reinforced. It’ll just bounce off a couple of times. We’re not tasty.” “Yeah.” Cayman snorted. “It’s probably thinking, ‘Just have to crack this egg for the

For the first time in longer than I care to remember, I wake up early. It’s not the kind of “early” I’ve started to convince myself is good enough—9:00AM instead of 12:00PM, like it’s some grand achievement to defeat the afternoon. It’s not like when I wake up at 5:00AM, anxious and confused, before falling back asleep until 1:00PM, wondering if I was ever awake to begin with. No, today I’m up by 7:00AM, and the ever-present fog in my mind is lessened. That is, until I realize I have no idea what to do with myself at this hour. I don’t know what kind of person is awake at 7:00AM, but it’s not me. The time brings to mind old ladies gardening, good church-going citizens, early morning joggers, and parents with small children. While I am none of those things, renouncing them completely is also a bit much. I am one step away from claiming to be raised and molded by the darkness, and even to myself that sounds both over dramatic and absurd.

Dog walkers and joggers always find the dead bodies. Best to avoid both activities. No one had ever discovered a stiff while watching football on their couch.

If you are out walking with your dog and you see anything he might take to be prey, it is important for you to stay calm and not become tense. If whenever you spot a deer or jogger, you startle or immediately pull the leash back, you will give your dog a signal that prey might be nearby.

As for Trump, I’d never met the man, although I’d become vaguely aware of him over the years—first as an attention-seeking real estate developer; later and more ominously as someone who’d thrust himself into the Central Park Five case, when, in response to the story about five Black and Latino teens who’d been imprisoned for (and were ultimately exonerated of) brutally raping a white jogger, he’d taken out full-page ads in four major newspapers demanding the return of the death penalty; and finally as a TV personality who marketed himself and his brand as the pinnacle of capitalist success and gaudy consumption.

They knew that it was psychologically easier to run a familiar course than a new one, so contrary to the advice in the magazines and jogger manuals, they seldom went exploring for changes of scenery.

She nearly swallowed her tongue as the jogger approached. It was Walter. Exquisite brown hair, kind-looking, oblong face, damp polo shirt. Walter.

Decidedly, joggers are the true Latter Day Saints and the protagonists of an easy-does-it Apocalypse. Nothing evokes the end of the world more than a man running straight ahead on a beach, swathed in the sounds of his Walkman, cocooned in the solitary sacrifice of his energy, indifferent even to catastrophes since he expects destruction to come only as the fruits of his own efforts, from exhausting the energy of a body that has in his own eyes become useless. Primitives would commit suicide by swimming out to sea until they could swim no longer. The jogger commits suicide by running up and down the beach. His eyes are wild, saliva drips from his mouth. Do not stop him. He will either hit you or simply carry on dancing around in front of you like a man possessed.

The absurdity of that sentence. I’ve seen what those navy-blue joggers do to his bounce-a-quarter-off-it ass, and now I see how they hug his long legs and the muscles of his thighs. His sweatshirt is a heather-gray crewneck with i my cats in bold font across the chest, perfectly pushed up to reveal his forearms. What’s worse, he’s oblivious. He has no clue how obscene this all is.

walking till she saw a jogger approaching and she’d start running, lengthen her strides and nod as they passed,

He had hundreds and hundreds of customer-correspondents, all along the spectrum of humanity, from high school track stars to octogenarian weekend joggers. Many, upon pulling yet another Johnson letter from their mailboxes, must have thought the same thing I did: “Where does this guy find the time?” Unlike me, however, most customers came to depend on Johnson’s letters. Most wrote him back. They’d tell him about their lives, their troubles, their injuries, and Johnson would lavishly console, sympathize, and advise. Especially about injuries. Few in the 1960s knew the first thing about running injuries, or sports injuries in general, so Johnson’s letters were often filled with information that was impossible to find anywhere else. I worried briefly about liability issues. I also worried that I’d one day get a letter saying Johnson had rented a bus and was driving them all to the doctor.

No, definitely not the very impressive bulge in the joggers or the fact that those loose, low riding grey sweatpants are made purely to tease women.

I hit the Monon trail. Steam poured from my nose and mouth as I grunted and slalomed speed-walkers and joggers. Civilians. Their heads turned as I picked up speed and began sprinting, like Rocky in downtown Philly. I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could, from a past that no longer defined me, toward a future undetermined. All I knew was that there would be pain and there would be purpose.

jogger runs through a city park, bouncing along a pavement swept clear of a light dusting of snow, listening to music on their earbuds. A couple walks the other way, pushing a stroller with a baby wrapped against the cold. An elderly man waddles along with stooped shoulders, carrying bags of groceries. And then he’s gone.

That’s not what has me staring though. No, definitely not the very impressive bulge in the joggers or the fact that those loose, low riding grey sweatpants are made purely to tease women. No, it’s the fact he’s shirtless.

Fucking joggers and their magical abilities. At least it’s more material for my spank bank.

Watching Apollo sleep. The peaceful rise and fall of his flank. His belly is full, he is warm and dry, he has had a four-mile walk today. As usual when he hunched in the street to do his business I guarded him from passing cars. And, in the park, when a texting jogger bore down on us, Apollo barked and blocked his path before he could run into me. I have played several rounds of tug-of-war with him today. I have talked to him, and sung to him, and read him some poetry. I have trimmed his nails and brushed every inch of his coat. Now, watching him sleep, I feel a surge of contentment. There follows another, deeper feeling, singular and mysterious, yet at the same time perfectly familiar. I don't know why it takes a full minute for me to name it. What are we, Apollo and I, if not two solitudes that protect and border and greet each other? It is good to have things settled. Miracle or no miracle, whatever happens, nothing is going to separate us.

For years I thought there was something romantic in having a pessimistic world view. That it was somehow better to be ‘real’ about life and admit that it’s meaningless. I’d seen where that attitude had brought me down to and it was far from romantic.

Dorcas wasn't a fast walker. It was difficult for me to keep behind her. I tried to let others, joggers, and bicyclists, come between us. I followed her past a field where girls were playing soccer, and into the woods bordering Catamount Creek. The smell of pine needles underfoot was sharp, pungent. I seemed to know that I would always associate that smell with this afternoon, and with Dorcas.

For being found guilty of a savage attack on a female jogger that only by the grace of God didn’t kill her, the defendants were each sentenced to five to ten years in prison, except Richardson, who got five to fifteen years. Former congressman Tom DeLay was sentenced to three years in prison for putting campaign money in the wrong account. All

Certains joggers setaient le savon, d'autres la sueur. Les uns dévisageaient les femmes, les autres les ignoraient. C'était un ballet d'habitués qui tournaient, transpiraient, souffraient et tournaient encore. Elle aimait faire partie de ce monde de derviches tourneurs. Sa tête se vidait peu à peu, elle se sentait flotter. Les problèmes se détachaient tels des morceaux de peau morte.

The urban spread became Vanderbilt University, a sedate greenness signaled they had arrived. Taylor had always relished the dichotomy that was Nashville; there was something so joyous in downtown’s diversity from block to block. Vandy was always a favorite destination. The hopes of the guileless college students, the ornate buildings teeming with knowledge. Before she could get reflective for her own lost years, Baldwin took a fast right into Centennial Park, narrowly missing the ubiquitous jogger panting down the sidewalk.

In the 1980s, worried professionals began to come together to compare notes and create visions of new ways of living that would offer a better quality of life.5 Although many of the professionals were architects, their focus was on people and human interactions, more than on buildings. They imagined neighborhoods where people would be out on the streets, walking to stores and school and work, running into each other, and stopping to chat. They envisioned streets that would be safe for joggers and bicyclists, and be visually interesting. They thought that communities should have a sense of place unique to their history and environs rather than a monotonous, prefabricated replicability.6 The architects also had some ideas about the kinds of features that would encourage the neighborliness and civic-mindedness to which they aspired. Homes, they thought, should be fronted by porches instead of garages. The houses should be close enough to the streets to invite conversations with passersby. Streets should be narrow enough to discourage drivers from speeding. In

Perhaps my distracted state had caused me to glance out the nearby window. I’m really not sure what drew my attention that way but the street lamp that stood in a prime position almost dead center in front of our house, cast a bright glow onto the road as well as the pavement surrounding it. And in the midst of that shining light was a lone figure, one that definitely seemed out of place. Of course it was not unusual to see people walking by during the early evening. Some of our neighbors walked their dogs at night, and there was also the occasional jogger who would pass by, taking the chance to fit in an evening run before dinner. However, something about the hesitant movement of the person on the street outside, caught my attention. And when I realized that he had paused to stand stock still and was looking directly towards our house, I was filled with sudden concern. Moving towards the edge of the window frame, I peered cautiously out, wondering who he was and what he was doing. In the spot where I stood, partly hidden by the curtain that hung at the side of the window, I was able to get a clear view. And when the boy’s face came into focus, I recognized him immediately. With a frightened gasp, I quickly grabbed hold of the thick curtain and pulled it roughly across, blocking any view of the street beyond. I could feel the beat of my racing pulse. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I didn’t dare risk another peek. And returning to my seat on the couch, I tried to ignore the uneasy sensation that had taken over.

He was tall, with curly light brown hair, and from the rear, at least, very nice looking Emily had come to a halt, watching the jogger, noticing how his muscles gleamed in the morning sun.

The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction. Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed. Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants. Win

The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.” “You mean they’re taking our picture right now?” “Probably,” Win said. “How’s my hair?” Win made an eh gesture with his hand. Myron

came to understand for the first time ever the importance of being healthy, and I don’t mean the universalizing and troubling concept of “diet conscious” our culture currently prefers, but the kind of healthy that encourages and cultivates a knowledge and awareness of your unique body and what it can be reasonably asked to do, and to never feel shame if your body does not operate by the same rules as someone else’s body. I’m talking about a healthy that is rooted in self-determination and individual autonomy, and is thus applicable to a spectrum of bodies, including professional athletes, cancer survivors, gym rats, the doctor-phobic, the poor, joggers, and folks with a limited supply of spoons, a healthy that excludes no one and that is specific and relative to the individual.

Yet I was reassured by the very vapidity of these doctors or joggers or bodybuilders, these vigor-experts—something to do with their unsmiling pursuit of the good life.

The price is high for not defining requirements or not doing it well. Poorly defined requirements result in requirements defects—errors in requirements caused by incorrect, incomplete, missing, or conflicting requirements. Defective requirements may result in: • Cost overruns, • Expensive rework, • Poor quality, • Late delivery, • Dissatisfied customers, and • Exhausted and demoralized team members.

Experience is not what happens to you; it's what you do with what happens to you. Aldous Huxley

All over the place, from the popular culture to the propaganda system, there is constant pressure to make people feel that they are helpless, that the only role they can have is to ratify decisions and to consume. Noam Chomsky

Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. Ernest Hemingway

What the jogger’s face shows is not boredom but contemplation, which Thomas Aquinas described as man’s highest activity save one—contemplation plus putting the fruits of that contemplation into action.

if there’s one dude that everyone on the Upper West Side will welcome with open arms, it’s the fucking jogger.

[1]  I do not want to sound as though I am in any way blaming Judy Nilan for what happened to her, but I want to say something here to any female reading this book. If you are a jogger/walker, I beg of you to take a different route each time you head out for a run, even if you change it up just a little bit. No matter where you live, no matter how safe you think you are, there could be a psychopath like Scott Deojay lurking in the shadows, watching you run/walk by his house or place of employment every single day, and as each day passes, he might become more and more obsessed with you to the point where he needs to act out on the twisted fantasies flowing through his mind. Don’t give him that satisfaction. Take a different route. And also, please check the sex offender’s registry in your area with a quick Google search and find out where the sex offenders in your neighborhood live. Believe me, no matter where you live, there are sex offenders near you. Again, I am in no way blaming Judy Nilan for what happened to her by saying this, but let us learn something from Judy’s brutal murder.

A blond hard-core jogger dressed in tight magenta shorts and a much-tested white sports bra jogged by his car. She looked inside and smiled at him. Myron smiled back. The bare midriff. You take the good with the bad. Across

Closing in on three hundred pounds, the woman with her in lockup looked like a Sumo wrestler squeezed into a bright, lime-green spandex outfit. She might have been a jogger, but her garish makeup suggested otherwise.

Even when we have access to the same data, we tend to notice different things. We are all moving along the same sidewalk, but the historian may notice the brickwork, the jogger the impact on her knees, and the fellow in the wheelchair the areas that are less accessible. We’re engulfed by information—far too much to take in—and so we select small samples to pay attention to and ignore the rest.

Fucking joggers and their magical abilities.

A jogger approached them and stopped, jogging in place. “Your dog should be on a leash,” he said in politely disapproving tones. “It’s the rules. There are lots of kids here and a big dog like that might scare someone.” “Werewolf,” said Anna blandly, just to see what he would do. He stopped jogging and looked, his jaw dropping. “Shit,” he said. “You’re kidding me.

My period began when I was eleven years old, three months after DeAnne thought it had. I woke up one morning to stickiness between my legs and the smell of raw meat in my bed. There was no one to tell. The news had preceded the occurrence. I practiced saying it anyway, "My periodblueberrymuffin starteduunsaltedbutter today oatmeal." This was a comforting sentence for me. I had just learned the trick of stringing together words to produce the tastes that I wanted. I was particularly fond of this thread: "walnut, elephant, candle, jogger." These words brought forth the following in this satisfying order: ham steak, sugar-cured and pan-fried; sweet potatoes baked with lots of butter; 7UP (though more of the lime than the lemon, like when it's icy cold); fresh strawberries, sweet and ripe.

My period began when I was eleven years old, three months after DeAnne thought it had. I woke up one morning to stickiness between my legs and the smell of raw meat in my bed. There was no one to tell. The news had preceded the occurrence. I practiced saying it anyway, "My periodblueberrymuffin startedunsaltedbutter todayoatmeal." This was a comforting sentence for me. I had just learned the trick of stringing together words to produce the tastes that I wanted. I was particularly fond of this thread: "walnut, elephant, candle, jogger." These words brought forth the following in this satisfying order: ham steak, sugar-cured and pan-fried; sweet potatoes baked with lots of butter; 7UP (though more of the lime than the lemon, like when it's icy cold); fresh strawberries, sweet and ripe.

An exhaustive analysis recently studied Google data on searches initiated in both the most and least prosperous counties in the country (ranked according to an index that includes income and education). The study revealed that the searches most correlated with prosperity include digital cameras, baby joggers, Skype, and foreign travel. By contrast, the searches most correlated with deprivation included health problems; weight loss; guns; video games; and the Antichrist, hell, and the Rapture.

For the next two hours, he would toy with her, giving her a chance to repent. Whether she did or not made no difference. He fingered the knife in his pocket. The blade was sharp and tonight she would feel it. Her time would run out an hour before sunrise. As with the others, he would weigh down her body with a cement block. Barely alive, she would struggle against death as they all had. The water would fill her lungs. The last thing she would see on this earth would be his eyes, the eyes of her murderer. How long would it take before her family, her friends reported her missing? A day, possibly two? Surely no longer. Then the search would begin. He would watch the news reports, recording them all on his DVR. In a week or two, some tourist or jogger would spot a floater in the Potomac. All evidence washed away, she would be just another woman executed by the D.C. Killer. He would add her disc to his collection. He whiled away the time thinking about his first kill. She had lounged in her bath, thinking she was alone. When he entered the bathroom, she smiled. The expression on his face made her smile falter. He came at her, grasping her by the shoulders. He pushed her down, holding her struggling body under. Her eyes wide with terror, she tried to plead with her murderer, to ask her husband “Why?” He sank her body in the Potomac, the first victim of the D.C. Killer. The door opened. Shannon Miller stood in the breach, surveying the parking lot. Nervous, she started to go back inside, then changed her mind. She peered toward him, her eyes straining to penetrate the mist and gloom. He was a shadow, invisible to her. Seeing no threat, she stepped out, locked the door and hurried across the deserted lot to her car, a red Toyota with more rust than red. The tap-tap of her high heels pulsated on the cracked asphalt. The beat of her shoes matched the throb of his heart. He could hear her heavy, fearful breathing. He smiled. The moon scurried behind the clouds as if hiding its face in horror. He was an avenger, a messenger of God. His mission was to rid the nation's capital of immoral women. Fearing him, prostitutes now walked the streets in pairs. Even in their terror, they still pursued their wicked trade. At times he saw them huddled in groups of three or four. They reminded him of children in a thunderstorm. Like a spirit, he crept in her direction. The only light was cast by the Miller Lite sign and a distant street lamp. The light in the parking lot had burned out weeks ago, throwing it into darkness. He stalked her as a lion does its prey. He moved slowly, silently, low to the ground, keeping the car between them. His dark running suit blended with the night. He was the Dark Angel, the Angel of Death. In another life, he had passed over Egypt, killing the firstborn of those condemned by God. Her eyes darted in every direction, still she didn't see him. He was invisible. Her hands shook as she tried to get the key in the door. The 11 o'clock news reported that another one had been found. If he stuck with his pattern, the D.C. Killer would strike again tonight. By morning a woman would be dead. She prayed it wouldn’t be her. She fumbled, dropping the key ring. She stooped to pick it up, her head turning in every direction, her ears alert to every sound. Now, without seeing him, she sensed him. She lowered her eyes, trying again, successfully this time. She turned the key. There was a click. She sighed, unaware that she had been holding her breath. The dome light flashed as she opened the door. He was on her in an instant. Their bodies slammed against the door. The light blinked out. He held her in an iron grip with one hand over her mouth and the blade poking into her

Running has a way of possessing your soul, infiltrating your psyche, and quietly becoming your central life force. The difference between a jogger and a runner is that a jogger still has control of his life. We runners have lost it.

The recommended average speed for joggers ranged from 15-minute miles to 7-minute miles.

Do this in remembrance of me: the solution, then, or so such pervasive fantasies suggested, was to partake of the symbolic body and blood of The Jogger, whose idealization was by this point complete, and was rendered, significantly, in details stressing her “difference”, or superior class. The Jogger was someone who wore, according to Newsday, “a light gold chain around her slender neck” as well as, according to the News, a “modest” gold ring and “a thin sheen” of lipstick. The Jogger was someone who would not, according to the Post, “even dignify her alleged attackers with a glance.

Autumnal Leaves & The One Who Greaves! Leaves, few green, and many pale leaves, Nature greaves, as Autumn their life steals, And casts them into the lap of gravity, As it leaps at them like a predator that is remorseless and beastly, One by one, all pale leaves with red veins lie striven on different surfaces, Of parks, gardens, pedestrians and that long promenade where summer still exists in traces, In those pine needles still hanging on the tree of life, Piercing deeper and deeper in the true spirit of life’s endless strife, And the aching branches sigh a little louder with every new piercing, But they sustain the pain in hope of adventing Spring, And the river that still flows merrily through the fringes of the town, Looks at the falling, pale leaves and aching pine trees, with an ever deepening frown., The cold cast iron benches on the promenade lie empty, Where just a few months ago lovers kissed in an absolute feeling of felicity, Now occupied occasionally by the regular joggers trying to understand why it rushes, this ever flowing river, Unaware and heedless towards the lovers’ loss and the naked branches with green leaves fewer, And nature, the true lover of us all, Yet thanks the seemingly melancholic season of fall! For to better preserve the heritage of beauty, Time and death too need to fulfil their duty’ For what exists in the form of beautiful memories, Resides in the sanctuary of immortality just like the sweet taste of last season’s red cherries!

Meditation periods in monasteries can be as long as fifty minutes or more, but this is appropriate only if it does not cause too much discomfort and if one is able to maintain concentration for that long. During intensive Zen retreats, called sesshin, practitioners sit for twelve hours or more per day. But don't let this scare you off, just as it should not scare off beginning joggers to know that some super-athletes run double marathons. Always start where you are. After all, where else could you start?

In my school, if your skirt is just one centimetre too short, they make you change into the stinkiest, skankiest pair of lime green joggers they can find in the lost property box, with stains that you really don’t want to know where they came from and the stench of a thousand backsides.