Marathon Finisher Quotes

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, but crossing the finish line is an act of faith. Faith is what kepes us going when nothing else will. Faith is the emotion that will give you victory over your past, the demons in your soul, & all of those voices that tell you what you can & cannot do & can & cannot be.

…sense of futility that comes from doing anything merely to prove to yourself that you can do it: having a child, climbing a mountain, making some sexual conquest, committing suicide. The marathon is a form of demonstrative suicide, suicide as advertising: it is running to show you are capable of getting every last drop of energy out of yourself, to prove it… to prove what? That you are capable of finishing. Graffiti carry the same message. They simply say: I’m so-and-so and I exist! They are free publicity for existence. Do we continually have to prove to ourselves that we exist? A strange sign of weakness, harbinger of a new fanaticism for a faceless performance, endlessly self-evident.

When you sign up to run a marathon, you don’t want a taxi to take you to the finish line.

In running, it doesn't matter whether you come in first, in the middle of the pack, or last. You can say, 'I have finished.' There is a lot of satisfaction in that.

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!” What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

He imagined the scene at the gates of heaven to be not unlike that at the finish line of a long and grueling marathon: everyone high-fiving, hugging, collapsing, elated that it’s over, yes, it’s finally over, pouring cups of water over one another’s heads and saying, Holy shit, dude, that was fucking brutal. I am never doing that again.

A short story is a sprint, a novel is a marathon. Sprinters have seconds to get from here to there and then they are finished. Marathoners have to carefully pace themselves so that they don't run out of energy (or in the case of the novelist-- ideas) because they have so far to run. To mix the metaphor, writing a short story is like having a short intense affair, whereas writing a novel is like a long rich marriage.

Sandwiched between their “once upon a time” and “happily ever after,” they all had to experience great adversity. Why must all experience sadness and tragedy? Why could we not simply live in bliss and peace, each day filled with wonder, joy, and love? The scriptures tell us there must be opposition in all things, for without it we could not discern the sweet from the bitter. 2 Would the marathon runner feel the triumph of finishing the race had she not felt the pain of the hours of pushing against her limits? Would the pianist feel the joy of mastering an intricate sonata without the painstaking hours of practice?

I don’t mind a chase, baby. Whether it’s a sprint or a marathon makes no difference to me. I’ll reach the finish line eventually. I don’t know what you’re running from, but I don’t give up easy. I’ll be seeing you soon.

You wouldn’t train for a marathon & then give up a mile before the finish line. Same goes with your life & dreams.

a runner can never see the finish line in the middle of a marathon,

As your training integrates Mind, Body and Spirit, enjoy the process. Your journey to the marathon finish will last a few hours. Your journey to the start will influence a lifetime.

Not just starting marathons but actually finishing them...(no matter how long it takes) will always lead to making a better you.

There's a reason why you never see large-chested women finishing marathons first. They've been beaten to death by their breasts around Mile 5. It ain't pretty.

In the marathon of life, there is no finish line.

To be gentle is to understand that life is a journey deserving constant attentiveness. Therefore it is gentleness that allows us to finish a marathon, not putting pressure on ourselves to immediately think about the next one. Gentleness is “just doing it” in such a way that we can do it again and again.

But most of all I was inspired by the stirring examples of all the other runners. In some pictures they would seem like tiny dots in a mosaic, but each had a separate narrative starting a few months or a lifetime earlier and finishing that day in the New York City Marathon, the race with 37,000 stories.

Sure it will. That's part of it, Abby. It's a cutthroat business where the weak are eaten and the strong get rich. It's a marathon. He who endures wins the gold." "And dies at the finish line.

Good God.” He felt like he’d just finished running the Boston Marathon. How did she do it? How the hell did she do all that every day, and probably a lot more? But just the dinner, the squabbles, the mess, the sheer volume of stuff that needed to be remembered, done, handled with three kids. It was mentally and physically exhausting. Fun, he admitted, but exhausting. And she’d have to get up in the morning, get them up, dressed, fed. Then go to work. After work, she’d replay—basically—what he’d just done. And with all that, she still had to maintain the house and run a business. Did women have superpowers? Regardless, he was sending his mother flowers in the morning.

The label of "marathoner" has, from the beginning, been awarded to those who went the distance under their own power, whether they ran, walked, crawled or tiptoed. When you cross that finish line, you've entered an elite group. About one-tenth of one percent of the population has done it. Don't let anyone take that great achievement away from you.

Intelligence...[is] not marathon rac[e]: there is no fixed criteria for success, no start or finish lines -- and running sideways or backwards, might secure victory.

When push comes to shove, I’m going to figure out some doors need to be pulled to be opened. I like to walk into places like a duck that's just finished running a marathon.

If it's a nod from society you're looking for, run a marathon. But if it's a life-changing experience of personal strength and perseverance that you want, finish an ultra.

Simply that “run to win” isn’t about finishing first, but about getting the best out of yourself.

...love is a marathon for those who are willing to commit to the finish line.

Life is not a sprint but a marathon. It’s long and hard. There is no reward for the quitters who quit halfway. You must reach the finish line to achieve something.

It's a bit like running a marathon, isn't it? It's only when you reach the finish line that you have time to collapse.

And then there's the perverse joy of subtly working in references to marathon training in daily life, say at the post office or while waiting outside my first-graders' classrooms at the end of the school day.

ll we want is to succumb to a single kiss that will contain us like a marathon with no finish line, and if so, that we land like newspapers before sunrise, halcyon mornings arrived like blue martinis. I am learning the steps to a foreign song: her mind was torpedo, and her body was storm, a kind of Wow. All we want is a metropolis of Sundays, an empire of hand-holding and park benches? She says, "Leave it all up to me.

Activities will include, pretending to help in the kitchen, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and saying you're so full you're gonna throw up and then waiting ten minutes and getting more pie. Once the sun has been down for a couple of hours the Christmas season is technically upon us, so it's time for the first Harry Potter marathon of the year. Starting with film number three, because obviously, and ending with film five when the filthy casuals are allowed to go home. The hardcores can sleep at my place and in the morning we'll finish six, seven, and seven but where stuff happens. Pumpkin pie for breakfast.

While you, and only you, can move your legs from start to finish, no one runs a marathon alone.

The only way to find out if I was physically or mentally capable of finishing a marathon was to try and run a marathon.

Amen.

Finish: Even if you run a slower than expected time, you succeed in any marathon when you finish.

Anyone can star a marathon. Only the strongest will finish it, even after they fall.

Friendship is often the special catalyst required for us to reach our aims. Whether you’re trying to finish college or run a marathon, having a friend beside you, pursuing the same objective, eases and quickens the journey. One study provides a particularly touching metaphor for the concept while proving its strength: Researchers had subjects wear backpacks while standing at the bottom of a hill. They then estimated the hill’s steepness. Some were next to friends, and others stood alone. Being with friends made subjects perceive the hill as less steep; being with long-term friends decreased their estimate of the hill’s steepness even more.

Imagine that a career is like a marathon—a long, grueling, and ultimately rewarding endeavor. Now imagine a marathon where both men and women arrive at the starting line equally fit and trained. The gun goes off. The men and women run side by side. The male marathoners are routinely cheered on: “Lookin’ strong! On your way!” But the female runners hear a different message. “You know you don’t have to do this!” the crowd shouts. Or “Good start—but you probably won’t want to finish.” The farther the marathoners run, the louder the cries grow for the men: “Keep going! You’ve got this!” But the women hear more and more doubts about their efforts. External voices, and often their own internal voice, repeatedly question their decision to keep running. The voices can even grow hostile. As the women struggle to endure the rigors of the race, spectators shout, “Why are you running when your children need you at home?

I'm the only person I know who has slept through a fire drill. Apparently, I pulled the alarm. Yeah, I sleepwalk. Sometimes I sleep run. I was asleep when I ran the Boston Marathon. I was so tired when I finished that I slept for another sixteen hours.

...when the Gods finished creating woman, they stood back and looked at what they'd done. They had given her a body strong enough to run a marathon, a mind fast enough to do six things at once, a heart big enough to love even while it was breaking, hands that could paint a masterpiece or feed a family or write a symphony. And they were afraid, because they saw that what they made was stronger than they were. They knew they had to create a secret weapon, one thing they could use to destroy her. So they gave her children.

On the other side of that line was freedom—the kind of freedom that can never be taken away from you. It was freedom from our self-imposed limitations. Although through our training we have grown to believe that running 52 consecutive miles was possible, none of us really believed in our heart of hearts that it was probable. As individuals, each of us struggled with their own fear and self-doubt. But the moment we cross that finish line, we have given ourselves the gift of freedom from our fears, our self-doubt, and our self-imposed limitations.

Mr. Kadam bowed and said, “Miss Kelsey, I will leave you to your dining companion. Enjoy your dinner.” Then he walked out of the restaurant. “Mr. Kadam, wait. I don’t understand.” Dining companion? What is he talking about? Maybe he’s confused. Just then, a deep, all-too-familiar voice behind me said, “Hello, Kells.” I froze, and my heart dropped into my stomach, stirring up about a billion butterflies. A few seconds passed. Or was it a few minutes? I couldn’t tell. I heard a sigh of frustration. “Are you still not talking to me? Turn around, please.” A warm hand slid under my elbow and gently turned me around. I raised my eyes and gasped softly. He was breathtaking! So handsome, I wanted to cry. “Ren.” He smiled. “Who else?” He was dressed in an elegant black suit and he’d had his hair cut. Glossy black hair was swept back away from his face in tousled layers that tapered to a slight curl at the nape of his neck. The white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. It set off his golden-bronze skin and his brilliant white smile, making him positively lethal to any woman who might cross his path. I groaned inwardly. He’s like…like James Bond, Antonio Banderas, and Brad Pitt all rolled into one. I decided the safest thing to do would be to look at his shoes. Shoes were boring, right? Not attractive at all. Ah. Much better. His shoes were nice, of course-polished and black, just like I would expect. I smiled wryly when I realized that this was the first time I’d ever seen Ren in shoes. He cupped my chin and made me look at his face. The jerk. Then it was his turn to appraise me. He looked me up and down. And not a quick look. He took it all in slowly. The kind of slow that made a girl’s face feel hot. I got mad at myself for blushing and glared at him. Nervous and impatient, I asked, “Are you finished?” “Almost.” He was now staring at my strappy shoes. “Well, hurry up!” His eyes drifted leisurely back up to my face and he smiled at me appreciatively, “Kelsey, when a man spends time with a beautiful woman, he needs to pace himself.” I quirked an eyebrow at him and laughed. “Yeah, I’m a regular marathon alright.” He kissed my fingers. “Exactly. A wise man never sprints…in a marathon.” “I was being sarcastic, Ren.” He ignored me and tucked my hand under his arm then led me over to a beautifully lit table. Pulling the chair out for me, he invited me to sit. I stood there wondering if I could sprint for the nearest exit. Stupid strappy shoes, I’d never make it. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to let you escape again. You can either take a seat and have dinner with me like a normal date,” he grinned at his word choice, “or,” he paused thoughtfully then threatened, “you can sit on my lap while I force-feed you.” I hissed, “You wouldn’t dare. You’re too much of a gentleman to force me to do anything. It’s an empty bluff, Mr. Asks-For-Permission.” “Even a gentleman has his limits. One way or another, we’re going to have a civil conversation. I’m hoping I get to feed you from my lap, but it’s your choice.” He straightened up again and waited. I unceremoniously plunked down in my chair and scooted in noisily to the table. He laughed softly and took the chair across from me. I felt guilty because of the dress and readjusted my skirt so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

I still sometimes feel like I’m not really in the runners club. I’ll see someone wearing a marathon shirt and, even though I have also finished a marathon, a tiny voice inside will say, Yeah, but you only did one. And you walked at times. And it took you longer than Oprah to finish, so let’s not get carried away.

The week before the marathon, sleep well. If normally you “get by” with five hours but require seven, make sure you get seven every night. The sleep you get the week leading up to the marathon is more important than the night before. The night before, you probably won’t sleep well due to anxiety, excitement and anticipation.

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time...the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war

Usually when I approach the end of a marathon, all I want to do is get it over with, and finish the race as soon as possible. That’s all I can think of. But as I drew near the end of this ultramarathon, I wasn’t really thinking about this. The end of the race is just a temporary marker without much significance. It’s the same with our lives. Just because there’s an end doesn’t mean existence has meaning. An end point is simply set up as a temporary marker, or perhaps as an indirect metaphor for the fleeting nature of existence. It’s very philosophical—not that at this point I’m thinking how philosophical it is. I just vaguely experience this idea, not with words, but as a physical sensation.

Conversely, the more we widen the definition of a feature or trait (say, intelligence, or temperament), the less likely that the trait will correlate with single genes—and, by extension, with races, tribes, or subpopulations. Intelligence and temperament are not marathon races: there are no fixed criteria for success, no start or finish lines—and running sideways or backward, might secure victory.

And how was my time? Truth be told, not so great. At least, not as good as I’d been secretly hoping for. If possible, I was hoping to be able to wind up this book with a powerful statement like, “Thanks to all the hard training I did, I was able to post a great time at the New York City Marathon. When I finished I was really moved,” and casually stroll off into the sunset with the theme song from Rocky blaring in the background.

Opportunity to suspend disbelief is often why we watch movies. The stories and images touch us and shift perspectives in ways we may not allow in our daily lives. As readily as you check your “this isn’t real” attitude at the ticket counter – when transformers are defending earth against aliens and 21st century vampires frolic by daylight – on the big screen of your heart and mind train for, run and celebrate finishing your first marathon.

A chilled pea soup of insane simplicity, garnished with creme fraiche and celery leaves. Roasted beet salad with poached pears and goat cheese. Rack of lamb wrapped in crispy prosciutto, served over a celery root and horseradish puree, with sautéed spicy black kale. A thin-as-paper apple galette with fig glaze. Everything turned out brilliantly, including Patrick, who roused himself as I was pulling the lamb from the oven to rest before carving. He disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes and came out shiny; green pallor and under-eye bags gone like magic. Pink with health and vitality, polished and ridiculously handsome, he looked as if he could run a marathon, and I was gobsmacked. He came up behind me just as I was finishing his port sauce for the lamb with a sprinkle of honey vinegar and a bit of butter, the only changes I made to any of his recipes, finding the sauce without them a bit one-dimensional and in need of edge smoothing.

Exhausted, many of the blind had sat down on the ground, others, weaker still, simply collapsed into a heap, some had fainted, it is possible that the cool night air will restore consciousness, but we can be certain that when it is time to break camp, some of these unfortunates will not get up, they have resisted until now, they are like that marathon runner who dropped dead three metres from the finish line, when all is said and done, what is clear is that all lives end before their time.

It’s like finding Jesus.” “It’s like finding out the things you believed in as a child are actually real.” “It’s like eating the mushrooms in Super Mario.” “It’s like recovering from dysentery.” “It’s like Christmas morning.” “It’s like all eight nights of Hanukkah.” “It’s like having an orgasm.” “It’s like having multiple orgasms.” “It’s like watching a great movie.” “Reading a great book.” “Playing a great game.” “It’s like finishing debugging on your own game.” “It’s the taste of youth itself.” “It’s feeling well after a long sickness.” “It’s running a marathon.” “I’ll probably never have to do a single other thing in my life, because I tasted this peach.

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

RUNNING THE RACE The marathon is one of the most strenuous athletic events in sport. The Boston Marathon attracts the best runners in the world. The winner is automatically placed among the great athletes of our time. In the spring of 1980, Rosie Ruiz was the first woman to cross the finish line. She had the laurel wreath placed on her head in a blaze of lights and cheering. She was completely unknown in the world of running. An incredible feat! Her first race a victory in the prestigious Boston Marathon! Then someone noticed her legs—loose flesh, cellulite. Questions were asked. No one had seen her along the 26.2-mile course. The truth came out: she had jumped into the race during the last mile. There was immediate and widespread interest in Rosie. Why would she do that when it was certain that she would be found out? Athletic performance cannot be faked. But she never admitted her fraud. She repeatedly said that she would run another marathon to validate her ability. Somehow she never did. People interviewed her, searching for a clue to her personality. One interviewer concluded that she really believed that she had run the complete Boston Marathon and won. She was analyzed as a sociopath. She lied convincingly and naturally with no sense of conscience, no sense of reality in terms of right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable behavior. She appeared bright, normal and intelligent. But there was no moral sense to give coherence to her social actions. In reading about Rosie I thought of all the people I know who want to get in on the finish but who cleverly arrange not to run the race. They appear in church on Sunday wreathed in smiles, entering into the celebration, but there is no personal life that leads up to it or out from it. Occasionally they engage in spectacular acts of love and compassion in public. We are impressed, but surprised, for they were never known to do that before.

Imagine that a career is like a marathon—a long, grueling, and ultimately rewarding endeavor. Now imagine a marathon where both men and women arrive at the starting line equally fit and trained. The gun goes off. The men and women run side by side. The male marathoners are routinely cheered on: “Lookin’ strong! On your way!” But the female runners hear a different message. “You know you don’t have to do this!” the crowd shouts. Or “Good start—but you probably won’t want to finish.” The farther the marathoners run, the louder the cries grow for the men: “Keep going! You’ve got this!” But the women hear more and more doubts about their efforts. External voices, and often their own internal voice, repeatedly question their decision to keep running. The voices can even grow hostile. As the women struggle to endure the rigors of the race, spectators shout, “Why are you running when your children need you at home?” Back in 1997, Debi Hemmeter was a rising

The seven people murdered by Chechen immigrants Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev, who planted a bomb at the finish line of the Boston Marathon in 2013. In addition to the three people killed in the blast, including an eight-year-old boy, dozens of Americans suffered severe injuries in the marathon bombing and are still learning to live with prosthetics and other artificial devices to replace lost legs, feet, eyes, and hearing—all thanks to an immigration policy that allows other countries to dump their losers on us. Days after setting off the bomb, the duo murdered a young MIT police officer during their attempted escape, and two years earlier Tamerlan and another Muslim immigrant slit the throats of three Jewish men on the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attack—which I believe was also the work of immigrants. CNN headline after the attack: “Boston Bombing Shouldn’t Derail Immigration Reform.”32 Leaving aside the wanton slaughter, Dzhokhar and Tamerlan were tremendous assets to America. They were on welfare and getting mostly Fs in school. Good work, U.S. immigration service!

At this point in your Total Money Makeover, you are debt-free except for the house, and you have three to six months of expenses ($10,000+/–) saved for emergencies. At this point in your Total Money Makeover, you are putting 15 percent of your income into retirement savings and you are investing for your kid’s college education with firm goals in sight on both. You are now one of the top 5 to 10 percent of Americans because you have some wealth, have a plan, and are under control. At this point in your Total Money Makeover, you are in grave danger! You are in danger of settling for “Good Enough.” You are at the eighteen-mile mark of a marathon, and now that it is time to reach for the really big gold ring, the final two Baby Steps could seem out of your reach. Let me assure you that many have been at this point. Some have stopped and regretted it; others have stayed gazelle-intense long enough to finish the race. The latter have looked and seen just one major hurdle left, after which they can walk with pride among the ultra-fit who call themselves financial marathoners. They can count themselves among the elite who have finished The Total Money Makeover.

The Illusion of Choice” — A lot of times we feel as if we have choices to make about where we want to go and WHAT IT TAKES to get there. — The REALITY is that what it takes to succeed is not REALLY a choice. — WE GET tired of talking about it. — I get tired of talking about it. — I know we all do—but we are going to talk about it until we RESOLVE it. — ANYONE who runs a marathon will tell you that miles twenty to twenty-six are the hardest. — AND ANYONE who quits running at mile twenty-two will tell you that they immediately felt better—and IT’S TRUE. But days later when they read about the people who finished ahead of them—who kept running—they will have instant regret. — MY point is that THE ONLY CHOICE YOU HAD was to come to this school. — ONCE you chose that, you said, “I’M GOING TO BE ELITE.” — If that’s true, then the FORMULA is the FORMULA. — YEARS from now when they look back at this ALABAMA team, all that WILL BE LEFT is WHAT WE DID. — NOT what WE COULD HAVE DONE, if only this or this happened. — IF we are ELITE—IF we are a team who BELIEVES BIG—then WE DON’T have a “choice” about how we finish this SPRING. — NONE. — THIS game rewards people who DO IT RIGHT. — THIS game has demands—YOU DO them and succeed or YOU DON’T do them and you struggle. THERE is no middle area. — MY point is we don’t “have a choice” about how we are going to do things if we are going to STAY TRUE to the goals WE ALL made to start this year.

To dig into Sabbath is to shape your life, the people, the calendar, the disciplines, around the idea that obeying God is a marathon, not a sprint, and this marathon has scheduled rest stops that will guarantee you finish in one piece.

Financing is not the finish line for success. It means you are ready to start the marathon with the backing of fiscal endurance. Failure is still an option if you do not spend wisely, allocate correctly and continue to budget effectively.

Life is like a marathon. People run. Some are lucky enough to have support. Some are even luckier, they already crossed the finish line when they were born. Running, however, has its own fun

...consistently making choices aligned with your true heart's desire will lead you to your rightful destiny in the end. Life is a marathon, my love, not a sprint. Trust yourself. You'll get to the finish line eventually. We all do. And when you get there, if you've been true to yourself, you'll be able to look yourself in the mirror with pride and a sense of accomplishment--and, most importantly, no regrets.

As I prepare for my marathon qualifier, I continue to run on Wednesdays with the regular group. We continue to navigate a path near Shorter’s house. His name still comes up frequently, as it has since I arrived in town. We’ll be running along the foothills or perhaps finishing up a workout back atop Mapleton Hill. Someone will say they saw Shorter at the liquor store and he was as warm and friendly as can be. Someone else will say he saw Shorter somewhere else, perhaps at McGuckin Hardware, and Frank couldn’t have been more of a jerk. Before I met with him, I’d come to see him the way many in Boulder see him: mysterious and difficult, a seemingly selfish man on a mockable crusade to win a gold medal to match the gold medal he already has. I’d grown certain that he was a miserable soul locked away in his house, the lonely long-distance runner stewing in demons of his own design.

When we chase a positive outcome, on the other hand, the closer we get, the more motivated we are, and the harder we work. To see this phenomenon in action, go stand at the finish line of a marathon. You’ll see runners who have been limping for the past seven miles suddenly find their stride again when they see the finish line.

Over the years, I have watched so many people try to run this racial justice marathon like it is a sprint. They come off the starting line at full tilt, ready to “dismantle,” “interrogate,” and “divest of” (or whatever buzzwords and jargon seem to resonate with them the most) any and everything that has even a hint of white supremacy. The problem is that a lot of things in this world are tied to or corrupted by white supremacy. People will collapse from exhaustion before ever reaching the finish line, and the finish line is much farther away than it appears. When folks come off the line sprinting, one of three things usually happens: they retreat into silence, burn out, or become jaded.

Life is like a marathon and obstacles are simply roadblocks in the way of the finish line.

You can finish the marathon. Graveses aren’t quitters.

Whether you're climbing mountains or just trying to survive Monday, keep your eyes on the prize. Life's a marathon, not a sprint, and the finish line is reserved for those who refuse to quit. So, lace up your shoes, take a deep breath, & keep pushing forward. Every step, no matter how small, gets you closer to your dreams. Quitting is easy, but where's the fun in that? Stick with it because that's where the magic happens. Stay focused, stay determined, & let success chase you down!

She felt like she had started running a full marathon feeling completely prepared and ready, only to be told just before the finish line that the race had been cancelled, and in fact, there never even was a finish line

life is a marathon it is not about who finishes first but that we will all finish eventually.

To finish a marathon in less than 4 hours, you should ideally be a runner for a couple of years, have completed a half marathon, or be extremely determined and competitive.

Isn’t Gresham on the route to get to Colton and the Association’s farm is just down the road from there?” Lt. Vincent rubbed his hand over his face. “Yes, figured you would think of that. But it’s not enough.” “Not for a warrant, but it’s an indicator.” They stared at each other. “My captain just assigned two three-man detective teams to the murder.” “You must have more. What about descriptions of the men? Didn’t the people in the bank give you anything on them?” “Not much. One army sergeant said that four of them were young, moved quickly. The fifth one seemed older, a little heavier, maybe overweight. Only one man spoke, the old guy. The rest of them just waved guns and pointed to put the tellers and the customers down on the floor. “Oh, the first robbery was just before opening. They grabbed an employee who had just unlocked the front door, pushed her inside, all five rushed in and they locked the door behind them. So no customers to deal with. “The second robbery was just before closing time. Again they locked the front door then put everyone on the floor. Two of the men vaulted over the counter so quickly that the workers didn’t have time to press the alarm buttons. So there was no rush to finish the job.” “With military precision?” Matt asked. “Sounds like it. They left both banks by rear doors that are always locked so nobody saw them make their getaway except one guy in the alley who was painting the rear of his store. He was the one who got the plate on the Lincoln.” “You knew the dead guard?” “Yes. He had retired from the PD before I came, but that was my bank and I always talked to him when I went in there. A nice guy. Good cop. Damned sorry that he’s gone.” “What about this lady cop?” “She’s off at four. I’ll ask her if she can have a cup of coffee with us here about four fifteen. Her name is Tracy Landower. She’s barely big enough to be a cop. She stretches to make five-four, and must weigh about a hundred and ten. She’s strong as an anvil tester. Strong hands and arms, good shoulders and legs like a Marine drill sergeant. She runs marathons for fun.” “I won’t try to out run her.” “Good. She has short dark hair, a cute little pixie face, and eyes that can stare you right into the pavement.” “Sounds like a good cop. I’m anxious to meet her.”   CHAPTER FOUR   Anthony J. Carlton was an only child of parents who were comfortably fixed for money and lived in a modest sized town near Portland called Hillsboro. His father was a lawyer who had several clients on retainer, who took on some of the toughest defense cases in the county, and some in Portland. He was a no nonsense type of dad who had little time for his son who had a good school and a car of his own when he turned sixteen.

Jogging is the process of running at a slower pace. The speed should be less than 6 MPH to qualify. When jogging as a group as part of a marathon, the goal is to go through several miles and to cross the finish line at the end. These slower speeds allow you to focus more on your movements and to maintain better coordination.

She’s going to show up at the Mexican border once she finishes the marathon to her car,” Fletch says. I nod. “Sounds like it, yes.” “And she’s confident the border guards will simply stand there with open arms, all, ‘Oh, apocalypse in the USA? So sorry. Come on in, friendly Northern Neighbor! You’re totally welcome to all our resources! Here, have a chimichanga, señorita! You must be tired after your long trek.

Now that I know I’m an Upholder, an Abstainer, a Marathoner, a Finisher, and a Lark, and have spent a lot of time thinking about what is, and isn’t, important to me, I’m much better able to shape my habits.

No doubt a brain and some shoes are essential for marathon success, although if it comes down to a choice, pick the shoes. More people finish marathons with no brains than with no shoes.” – Don Kardong

I am a marathoner. I love to run and I do it four times a week. I am in great shape and I look and feel like it. I never get tired when I run and I never quit before I finish my runs. I always feel strong when I run and I feel terrific after I get finished. I love the feeling of accomplishment and the anticipation of my next run. I am a marathoner.

Dirk the Jerk had a new computer game called Minecraft. He was bragging about how he was a master of Minecraft. I didn’t really understand what he was saying, but I think it was something about: - fighting the big, black Underwear Men (Seriously?) - defeating ghosts in the Netherlands - being super close to conquering the Slender Dragon (I wonder, how tough could a skinny dragon really be?)   After a while, I just wanted him to shut up! He went on and on and on until I just snapped!   “Yeah? Well, I finished the game on the fourth of July, loser!” I yelled.  I swear the word LOSER echoed throughout the school.   Loser! Loser! Loser!   Eyes bulged and mouths hung open all around us. Tension filled the hallway. Nobody talked to Dirk the Jerk that way. NOBODY. Unfortunately, that didn’t shut him up. He smirked, and challenged me to a Minecraft survival marathon on a popular server this weekend. Of course, I immediately accepted.

Life is marathon, not a sprint. It is a race we are all guaranteed to finish, so run wisely.

Racing can give me a focus. It can give a direction to and motivation for my daily run. There is, of course, a time for everything. And racing will only ever be a part of my running. But sometimes I need what it is a race can give me – something to absorb my effort, my attention – moments where I am forced to step outside what is comfortable, time after time after time. I’m forced to focus on what I am feeling, on what I am enduring in the here and now, whether that is keeping warm in the cold, keeping cool in the heat, eating, drinking and looking after myself. Despite my physical effort, sometimes during a race I experience the moment where I am resting in stillness; I’ve stopped doing and I’m focused instead on being. And that is when I feel free. But of course the race itself is the smallest part of the story. It is the journey that is important; the everyday, the day in, day out. Start and finish lines are just steps on that journey. The prize is not a position, or a time; instead the getting to know myself, the work and the training must be its own reward.

Help me,” the girl pleaded softly. Sam knelt beside her. He recoiled in shock. “Bette?” The left side of Bouncing Bette’s face was covered in blood. There was a gash above her temple. She was panting, gasping, like she had collapsed after a marathon and was trying with her last ounce of energy to crawl across the finish line. “Bette, what happened?” “They’re trying to get me,” Bette cried, and clutched at Sam’s arm. The three dark figures advanced to the edge of the circle of light. One was clearly Orc. No one else was that big. Edilio and Quinn moved into the garage doorway. Sam disengaged from Bette and took up a position beside Edilio. “You want me to beat on you guys, I will!” Orc yelled. “What’s going on here?” Sam demanded. He narrowed his eyes and recognized the other two boys, a kid named Karl, a seventh grader from school, and Chaz, one of the Coates eighth graders. All three were armed with aluminum bats. “This isn’t your business,” Chaz said. “We’re dealing with something here.” “Dealing with what? Orc, did you hit Bette?” “She was breaking the rules,” Orc said. “You hit a girl, man?” Edilio said, outraged. “Shut up, wetback,” Orc said. “Where’s Howard?” Sam asked, just to stall while he tried to figure out what to do. He’d lost one fight to Orc already. Orc took the question as an insult. “I don’t need Howard to handle you, Sam.” Orc marched right up to Sam, stopped a foot away, and put his bat on his shoulder like he was ready to swing for a home run. Like a batter ready for the next fastball. Only this was closer to T-ball: Sam’s head was impossible to miss. “Move, Sam,” Orc ordered. “Okay, I’m not doing this again,” Quinn said. “Let him have her, Sam.” “Ain’t no ‘let me,’” Orc said. “I do what I want.” Sam noticed movement behind Orc. There were people coming down the street, twenty or more kids. Orc noticed it too, and glanced behind him. “They aren’t going to save you,” Orc said, and swung the bat hard. Sam ducked. The bat whooshed past his head, and Orc rotated halfway around, carried forward by the momentum. Sam was thrown off balance, but Edilio was ready. He let loose a roar and plowed headfirst into Orc. Edilio was maybe half Orc’s size, but Orc was knocked off his feet. He sprawled out on the concrete. Chaz went after Edilio, trying to pull him off Orc. The crowd of kids who had come running down the street surged forward. There were angry voices and threats, all aimed at Orc. They yelled, Sam noted, but no one exactly jumped into the unequal fight.

The goal of your first marathon is to finish. You have no time goal. You’re not endeavoring to win or place in your age category. Being a speed demon serves no purpose other than to court injury. Your only competition is you.

In a life full of work, family, civic responsibilities, commutes and errands, your training runs offer fertile opportunity to lean inward and listen.

If you’ve nurtured your Spirit and trained your Mind as well as your Body you’ll be prepared with everything you need to draft across the finish. Remember: all the training runs when you didn’t feel like running but ran anyway and felt so good physically but also about yourself. Envision the flash of friendly faces waiting to greet you. Celebrate that you have more energy now than you ever dreamed. Revel in the uptick in personal productivity and self-worth. Yes, you will run a marathon. And you will finish.

When nothing but the best outcome is acceptable, disappointment is almost assured, reducing happiness on the journey and at journey’s end.

Perfectionism impedes success. It encourages procrastination and inactivity for fear of failure, likely leading to anxiety.

Just like the body responds with sore muscles when we add mileage, the initial discomfort felt when we listen to the Voice Inside reflects growth. The good news: anxiety initially triggered by listening to our inner dialogue is short-term vs. the unnamed, interminable dread that piggybacks suppression. Even better, we can manage it with self-talk, deep breathing (inherent to running), the Tribe and social support.

Boredom has a bad rap. Its true character reveals you are deep inside your comfort zone. Boredom is a docent beckoning toward the edges of a labyrinth.

Whether you want to be a better mother or a better CEO, to find the love of your life or make a million dollars, to finish a marathon or lose twenty pounds or get your degree or finally find your true passion in life, it doesn’t matter. You can turn any piece of clay into a masterpiece, and you are the piece of clay. If your path is to get healthy or be a better citizen or love your family more or just gain a certain degree of self-awareness, come from a place of yes and you can do it.

Allow seven months to responsibly train for your first marathon. This will minimize stress to your mind and body and give your existential nature time to incorporate a new way of being.

The habit of listening and responding to what your body needs – how much, when and for how long whether food, water, rest, sleep or mileage – involves more than anything, willingness. If you are willing to practice – pay attention to signals, honor the signals you receive and train with mindfulness over distraction – then you are well on your way to listening becoming habit.

There’s more to marathon day than running long. Learning how your body reacts to the early alarm, light breakfast and warm-up is key. Minimize surprises come race day. Run long the same time of day as the race.

George Mumford, a Newton-based mindfulness teacher, one such moment took place in 1993, at the Omega Institute, a holistic learning center in Rhinebeck, New York. The center was hosting a retreat devoted to mindfulness meditation, the clear-your-head habit in which participants sit quietly and focus on their breathing. Leading the session: meditation megastar Jon Kabat-Zinn. Originally trained as a molecular biologist at MIT, Kabat-Zinn had gone on to revolutionize the meditation world in the 1970s by creating a more secularized version of the practice, one focused less on Buddhism and more on stress reduction and other health benefits. After dinner one night, Kabat-Zinn was giving a talk about his work, clicking through a slide show to give the audience something to look at. At one point he displayed a slide of Mumford. Mumford had been a star high school basketball player who’d subsequently hit hard times as a heroin addict, Kabat-Zinn explained. By the early 1980s, however, he’d embraced meditation and gotten sober. Now Mumford taught meditation to prison inmates and other unlikely students. Kabat-Zinn explained how they were able to relate to Mumford because of his tough upbringing, his openness about his addiction — and because, like many inmates, he’s African-American. Kabat-Zinn’s description of Mumford didn’t seem to affect most Omega visitors, but one participant immediately took notice: June Jackson, whose husband had just coached the Chicago Bulls to their third consecutive NBA championship. Phil Jackson had spent years studying Buddhism and Native American spirituality and was a devoted meditator. Yet his efforts to get Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and their teammates to embrace mindfulness was meeting with only limited success. “June took one look at George and said, ‘He could totally connect with Phil’s players,’ ’’ Kabat-Zinn recalls. So he provided an introduction. Soon Mumford was in Chicago, gathering some of the world’s most famous athletes in a darkened room and telling them to focus on their breathing. Mumford spent the next five years working with the Bulls, frequently sitting behind the bench, as they won three more championships. In 1999 Mumford followed Phil Jackson to the Los Angeles Lakers, where he helped turn Kobe Bryant into an outspoken adherent of meditation. Last year, as Jackson began rebuilding the moribund New York Knicks as president, Mumford signed on for a third tour of duty. He won’t speak about the specific work he’s doing in New York, but it surely involves helping a new team adjust to Jackson’s sensibilities, his controversial triangle offense, and the particular stress that comes with compiling the worst record in the NBA. Late one April afternoon just as the NBA playoffs are beginning, Mumford is sitting at a table in O’Hara’s, a Newton pub. Sober for more than 30 years, he sips Perrier. It’s Marathon Monday, and as police begin allowing traffic back onto Commonwealth Avenue, early finishers surround us, un-showered and drinking beer. No one recognizes Mumford, but that’s hardly unusual. While most NBA fans are aware that Jackson is serious about meditation — his nickname is the Zen Master — few outside his locker rooms can name the consultant he employs. And Mumford hasn’t done much to change that. He has no office and does no marketing, and his recently launched website, mindfulathlete.org, is mired deep in search-engine results. Mumford has worked with teams that have won six championships, but, one friend jokes, he remains the world’s most famous completely unknown meditation teacher. That may soon change. This month, Mumford published his first book, The Mindful Athlete, which is part memoir and part instruction guide, and he has agreed to give a series of talks and book signings

Listening to your body does not imply a lack of grit but a willingness to honor true physical limits. Kenyan runners have a reputation for listening to their bodies but certainly do not take it easy on themselves; they are among the world’s most gifted and accomplished athletes.

Your body provides you with constant feedback that can help improve your running performance while minimizing biomechanical stress. Learn to differentiate between the discomfort of effort and the pain of injury. When you practice listening, you increase competence in persevering through the former and responding with respect and compassion to the latter.

One of the most important ways for you to train, stay healthy and injury free is to listen closely to what your body tells you.

All discomfort is not equal. Learning to listen will help you distinguish among effort, fatigue and pain. To what degree, under what conditions and over what period of time your body experiences these sensations will determine how you respond.

The idea infusing this book: training for a marathon while remaining connected to our whole self. Mind, Body and Spirit – what animates our lives, uplifts us and stirs our energy – are not fixed, mutually exclusive states. They are organic trajectories expressed as an integrated spiral, their balance a process in which we are not conductor but collaborator.

Uncertain about an aspect of training? Read, consult others and experiment. In the end, though, listen to the body and the Voice Inside. Instead of dousing it with music, podcasts or talk radio, let the Voice Inside play out and wind past rumination to rich sediment that informs what drives and scares you.