Trail Runner Quotes

I run because long after my footprints fade away, maybe I will have inspired a few to reject the easy path, hit the trails, put one foot in front of the other, and come to the same conclusion I did: I run because it always takes me where I want to go.

You’re so sweet,' Frypan said with a snort. 'Go ahead and die with Thomas. I think I’ll sneak away and enjoy living with the guilt.

In mind's special processes, a ten-mile run takes far longer than the 60 minutes reported by a grandfather clock. Such time, in fact, hardly exists at all in the real world; it is all out on the trail somewhere, and you only go back to it when you are out there.

Some say I loved her to the point of madness, bordering on obsession. She said I put her on a pedestal that her real self couldn’t attain. Perhaps they’re all right. Perhaps I am mad. And if that’s the case, to be frank, I don’t give a damn. What I know is that she sets me on fire, and if you were to perform an intradermal test on me, you’d know when she was in it because you’d see the trails of blaze she left behind. Because that’s what I feel at the mere thought of her, and I’d rather live my life in flames than be numb without her.” He paused, and I let out a breath, but then he said one last thing. “Come back to me, my little Road Runner, my world is cold and boring without you.

Running efficiently demands good technique, and running efficiently for 100 miles demands great technique. But the wonderful paradox of running is that getting started requires no technique. None at all. If you want to become a runner, get onto a trail, into the woods, or on a sidewalk or street and run. Go 50 yards if that's all you can handle. Tomorrow, you can go farther.

As a runner, that's what I know how to do. To strike out on a trail and just go and go and go like there's no tomorrow; to run until my problems fade beneath my feet and the world becomes new again.

Life’s battles don’t always go to the stronger or faster man. Sooner or later the man who wins is the man who thinks he can. ~Vince Lombardi, American Football Coach

I had never felt more alive, more happy to be living in the moment. My suffering stood on the horizon, like the mountain, contrasting comfort. It stood starkly against familiarity, above old limitations, and towered over complacency. The mountains added the beauty and depth to the landscape around me. I was pushing into a totally new realm and pushing towards my dream of testing my limits. It did not feel pleasant, not in this hour, but I forced myself to run the last mile.

The distance runners were serene messengers. Gliding along wooded trails and mountain paths, their spiritual ancestors kept their own solitary counsel for long hours while carrying some message the import of which was only one corner of their considerable speculation. They lived within themselves; long ago they did so, and they do today. There

Carving your own path gets you to greatness quicker than following someone else's trail.

I finally know what to wish for.” Puzzled, she gazed down at him while the long locks of her hair trailed over his chest and shoulders. “What?” “The wishing well,” he reminded her. “Oh, yes…” Lottie lowered her face to his chest and nuzzled the soft fur, recalling that morning in the forest. “You wouldn’t make a wish.” “Because I didn’t know what I wanted. And now I do.” “What do you want?” she asked tenderly. His hand slipped behind her head, pulling her mouth down to his. “To love you forever,” he whispered just before their lips met. -Nick & Lottie

The physical domain of the country had its counterpart in me. The trails I made led outward into the hills and swamps, but they led inward also. And from the study of things underfoot, and from reading and thinking, came a kind of exploration, myself and the land. In time the two became one in my mind. With the gathering force of an essential thing realizing itself out of early ground, I faced in myself a passionate and tenacious longing—to put away all thought forever, and all the trouble it brings, all but the nearest desire, direct and searching. To take the trail and not look back. Whether on foot, on snowshoes or by sled, into the summer hills and their late freezing shadows—a high blaze, a runner track in the snow would show where I had gone. Let the rest of mankind find me if it could.

Muskie is already finished,” he said then. “He had no base. Nobody’s really for Muskie. They’re only for the Front-Runner, the man who says he’s the only one who can beat Nixon—but not even Muskie himself believes that anymore; he couldn’t even win a majority of the Democratic vote in New Hampshire, on his own turf.

Running efficiently demands good technique, and running efficiently for 100 miles demands great technique. But the wonderful paradox of running is that getting started requires no technique. None at all. If you want to become a runner, get onto a trail, into the woods, or on a sidewalk or street and run. Go 50 yards if that’s all you can handle. Tomorrow, you can go farther. The activity itself will reconnect you with the joy and instinctual pleasure of moving. It will feel like child’s play, which it should be.

Coming back, I noticed a knot of marines, many from G Company gathered in excitement on the river bank. Runner rushed up to them with my new field glasses. He had them to his eyes as I came up. I thought he was squinting overhard, and then I saw that he was actually grimacing. I took the glasses from him and focused on the opposite shore where I saw a crocodile eating the fat chow-hound Japanese. I watched in debased fascination, but when the crocodile began to tug at the intestines I recalled my own presence in that very river hardly an hour ago and my knees went weak, and I relinquished the glasses. That night the V re-appeared in the river. Everyone whooped and hollered, no one fired. We knew what it was. It was the crocodile. Three smaller Vs trailed afterward. They kept us awake, crunching. The smell kept us awake, even though we lay with our heads swathed in a blanket, which was how we kept off the mosquitos, the smell overpowered us. Smell. The sense which somehow seems a joke is the one most susceptible to outrage. It will give you no rest. One can close ones eyes to ugliness or shield the ears from sound, but from a powerful smell there is no recourse but flight. And since we could not flee, we could not escape the smell, and we could not sleep.

while Jack Kirk—a.k.a. “the Dipsea Demon”—was still running the hellacious Dipsea Trail Race at age ninety-six. The race begins with a 671-step cliffside climb, which means a man nearly half as old as America was climbing a fifty-story staircase before running off into the woods. “You don’t stop running because you get old,” said the Demon. “You get old because you stop running.

Daniel observed her from afar, and tried in vain to conceal the hunger in his eyes. She showed none of the disdain against the Indians that he had encountered from whites back east. Aimee was genuinely warm and friendly with these people who were like family to him. She obviously loved children. She played games with the younger ones, and each time she held Elk Runner’s infant in her arms, a new wave of desire spread through him. He tried not to think about what it would be like to see her holding a child, their child, in her arms. That could never happen. His white mother had died in this wilderness, giving birth to him. No matter how she dressed, or her abilities on the trail, Aimee was still a white woman. Like a beautiful spring flower, she would wither and die in these mountains. Neither lasted long in this harsh environment.

The line went dead as I checked the mirror. The blue Dodge was back, but didn’t stay long. It appeared twice more, never closer than three or four cars, and I never picked out the cars that replaced it. I wouldn’t have known the Dodge was following me if they hadn’t jumped the red. Jumping the red had cost them. I passed UCLA and the National Cemetery in Westwood, and reached Brentwood when Pike texted. HERE Pike, saying he was ready. 12OUT Me, saying I was twelve minutes away. Kenter Canyon was a narrow box canyon in the foothills of Brentwood above Sunset. The canyon was dense with upscale homes, but higher, beyond the houses, the hills were undeveloped, and thick with scrub oak and brush. Unpaved roads and trails had been cut for fire crews, and were open to hikers and runners. Pike and I ran the trails often, and knew the canyon well. A single, innocuous residential street led into the canyon, and appeared to be the only way to enter or leave. Smaller streets branched and re-branched from this larger street as it wound its way higher, but the smaller streets appeared trapped in the canyon. This wasn’t true, but the convoluted route using these smaller back streets wasn’t easily found. Pike and I knew this way, and another, but I was betting the tail cops behind me didn’t, and wouldn’t, until I was already gone. I

breeze. Legs sprinted through the knee-high grass. Oil stains smudged the runner’s cheeks, which only grew more slick from the sweat that cut through the rough stubble along his jaw. A name tag pinned to his chest flapped wildly with each hurried step: Reese Coleman, New Energy Inc. Reese twisted at the waist to look behind him. A trail of matted grass stretched back in the direction of an amber red

What i quickly discovered is that high school running was divided into two camps: those who ran cross-country and those who ran track. There was a clear distinction. The kind of runner you were largely mirrored your approach to life. The cross-country guys thought the track runners were high-strung and prissy, while the track guys viewed the cross-country guys as a bunch of athletic misfits. It's true that the guys on the cross-country team were a motley bunch. solidly built with long, unkempt hair and rarely shaven faces, they looked more like a bunch of lumberjacks than runners. They wore baggy shorts, bushy wool socks, and furry beanie caps, even when it was roasting hot outside. Clothing rarely matched. Track runners were tall and lanky; they were sprinters with skinny long legs and narrow shoulders. They wore long white socks, matching jerseys, and shorts that were so high their butt-cheeks were exposed. They always appeared neatly groomed, even after running. The cross-country guys hung out in late-night coffee shops and read books by Kafka and Kerouac. They rarely talked about running; its was just something they did. The track guys, on the other hand, were obsessed. Speed was all they ever talked about....They spent an inordinate amount of time shaking their limbs and loosening up. They stretched before, during, and after practice, not to mention during lunch break and assembly, and before and after using the head. The cross-country guys, on the the other hand, never stretched at all. The track guys ran intervals and kept logbooks detailing their mileage. They wore fancy watched that counted laps and recorded each lap-time....Everything was measured, dissected, and evaluated. Cross-country guys didn't take notes. They just found a trail and went running....I gravitated toward the cross-country team because the culture suited me

Running is not about being fast or fit. Running is about making the decision to lace up your shoes and put one foot in front of the other.

I never wanted to live so much as I did right then, hanging onto that rotting timber," Nick said. "I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again. All I want is time with you. To spend the rest of my life with you. I don't care about anything else." Murmuring her love to him, Lottie kissed the hard silken skin of his shoulder. "Remember when I told you once that I needed to be a runner?" he asked. Lottie nodded. "You said that you were addicted to the challenge and the danger." "I'm not any longer," he said vehemently. "Thank God for that," Lottie said with a smile, lifting herself up on one elbow. "Because I have become rather addicted to you." Nick traced the moonlit curve of her back with his fingers. "And I finally know what to wish for." Puzzled, she gazed down at him while the long locks of her hair trailed over his chest and shoulders. "What?" "The wishing well," he reminded her. "Oh, yes..." Lottie lowered her face to his chest and nuzzled the soft fur, recalling that morning in the forest. "You wouldn't make a wish." "Because I didn't know what I wanted. And now I do." "What do you want?" she asked tenderly. His hand slipped behind her head, pulling her mouth down to his. "To love you forever," he whispered just before their lips met.

Resting when you are tired at mountain races is unwise until you reach lower altitudes, I have learned.

For years now, she had woken up like a runner leaping from the starting blocks - her body yanked into consciousness by a baby's wail, the sound of the puppy vomiting, the growl of the trash truck two doors away, their own trash cans still waiting to be put out on the curb. Sleep tossed over her shoulder as she sprinted down the hall, leaving dreams in a scattered trail behind her. (p125)

Between the Mile I have always counted the miles. Sometimes they came quick, Other times slow. The distance between things, The way I could know. Close could feel far, And far could feel near. The miles that passed too quickly, The ones I ran out of fear. They weren’t all the same, So I had been told, The unmarked trails, And the days I was bold. Some miles went down, Spiraling so low, When I was afraid to look forward, There was nowhere to go. The sunset came fast, And the day turned to night, But the trails could be endless, If I looked at them right. Everything I knew, All I was told, The conversations left behind, The people who grew old. When the miles stretched out before me, I wanted to sew them at the seam, Looking forward and then back, Holding everything in between.

Between the Miles I have always counted the miles. Sometimes they came quick, Other times slow. The distance between things, The way I could know. Close could feel far, And far could feel near. The miles that passed too quickly, The ones I ran out of fear. They weren’t all the same, So I had been told, The unmarked trails, And the days I was bold. Some miles went down, Spiraling so low, When I was afraid to look forward, There was nowhere to go. The sunset came fast, And the day turned to night, But the trails could be endless, If I looked at them right. Everything I knew, All I was told, The conversations left behind, The people who grew old. When the miles stretched out before me, I wanted to sew them at the seam, Looking forward and then back, Holding everything in between.

earned fame and the Medal of Honor for the steel nerves and sheer guts he showed in turning back the Japs that night. Later, I read an interview where Basilone told how he did what seemed impossible against the charging Japs—not once but over and over again—with three machine guns and a pistol. “We kept firing and drove them back, but our ammunition was getting low,” he said, “so I left the guns and started running to the next outfit to get some more. Soon after I got back, a runner came in and told me that at the emplacements on the right, Japs had broken through . . . and the guns were jammed. “I took off up the trail to see what happened. . . . After that I came back to my own guns, grabbed one of them, and told the crew to follow me. Up the trail we went. I was carrying the machine gun by the tripod. We left six dead Japs on the trail. “While I fixed the jams on the other two guns up there, we started to set up. We were really pinned down. Bullets were smacking into the sandbags. “The Japs were still coming at us, and I rolled over from one gun to the other, firing them as fast as they could be loaded. . . . We all thought our end had come. “Some Japs would sneak through the lines and behind us. It got pretty bad because I’d have to stop firing every once in a while and shoot behind me with my pistol. “At dawn, our guns were just burnt out. Altogether we got rid of 26,000 rounds.” More

We don’t do superstars in our Tough Mudder world—but if we were to, it would be hard to ignore the claims of Amelia Boone, an athlete who now features regularly on the cover of Runner’s World and who has been the women’s champion at World’s Toughest three times. An in-house lawyer for Apple in Silicon Valley, Amelia is among the only competitors to keep running for twenty-four hours in the desert without a rest. She keeps coming back not for the glory of “winning” but because, she says, “you will never find a race like World’s Toughest Mudder—where you are technically running against other people but where you will still see the leader out there stopping to help people up over walls or out of the water. It is just this unwritten rule; no one questions it, that is how it is.” Amelia studied social anthropology before she became a lawyer, with an interest in the way that social norms and gossip were used by indigenous tribes to create and maintain healthy and coherent cultures. Tough Mudder, she suggests, is the closest she has come to seeing that tribal spirit in action in the contemporary world. “If I am out for a run and I see someone wearing a Tough Mudder headband or T-Shirt, there is always a big smile and a nod of recognition between us,” she says, as if she is speaking of a pair of Yanomami natives coming across each other on a forest trail. It’s a nod, she suggests, that communicates a great many things—not only shared philosophies and kinship but also the recognition that “I may well have pushed your wet ass over a wall at some point last year.

wall while swinging from the rope bridge. At the top of the wall was a zip line with handlebars you had to grab. After that point, it was difficult to see the rest of the course. There were walls among walls blocking the view. It looked like there were spinning pillars scattered throughout it. I saw other pools of water and mud that the runner would have to avoid or worse yet, swim across. At the end of the course, there was a flat open space with barriers scattered throughout. High above the open space was a gun that shot tennis balls the runner had to avoid. The course was a monster. “Beauty, ain’t she?” Mr. Cooper said proudly as he approached us. “Just got her imported from Norway. The pamphlet said it was something that the Vikings themselves trained with, but somehow I doubt that. It also says ninety nine percent of students who attempt it can’t make it past the first rope bridge.” “What’s it doing here?” Carlyle asked. “Will students be running it today?” Mr. Cooper shook his head. “Oh no, it’s not ready by any means, legally I mean, buuuuut…,” the gym teacher trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t see nothin’.” “Race ya,” Brayden said as he smiled at me. “How can I possibly say no?” I asked as I started running toward the obstacle course at full speed. When I reached the rope bridge, I didn’t hesitate and started climbing. Grabbing the ropes, I balanced myself and walked as quickly as possible over the pool of water. I

Perhaps the pain of running helps numb the pain of the past. In all those hours pushing yourself on the trail, perhaps the feelings of despair, loss, rejection, whatever they are, start to soften, and things get put into perspective" (The Rise of Ultra Runners, 75)

The world and its institutions engulf and suffocate us. We runners find our sanctuary in retreating to the roadways and trails, our sacred reprieve. The wonder isn’t that we go; it’s that we come back.

One of the first scientific papers to write about exercise-induced myokines labeled them “hope molecules.” Ultra-endurance athletes talk about the metaphor of putting one foot in front of the other—how learning that you can take one more step, even when it feels like you can’t possibly keep going, builds confidence and courage. The existence of hope molecules reveals that this is not merely a metaphor. Hope can begin in your muscles. Every time you take a single step, you contract over two hundred myokine-releasing muscles. The very same muscles that propel your body forward also send proteins to your brain that stimulate the neurochemistry of resilience. Importantly, you don’t need to run an ultramarathon across the Arctic to infuse your bloodstream with these chemicals. Any movement that involves muscular contraction—which is to say, all movement—releases beneficial myokines. It seems likely that some ultra-endurance athletes are drawn to the sport precisely because they have a natural capacity to endure. The extreme circumstances of these events allow them to both challenge and enjoy that part of their personality. Yet it’s also possible that the intense physical training contributes to the mental toughness that ultra-endurance athletes demonstrate. Endurance activities like walking, hiking, jogging, running, cycling, and swimming, as well as high-intensity exercise such as interval training, are especially likely to produce a myokinome that supports mental health. Among those who are already active, increasing training intensity or volume—going harder, faster, further, or longer—can jolt muscles to stimulate an even greater myokine release. In one study, running to exhaustion increased irisin levels for the duration of the run and well into a recovery period—an effect that could be viewed as an intravenous dose of hope. Many of the world’s top ultra-endurance athletes have a history of depression, anxiety, trauma, or addiction. Some, like ultrarunner Shawn Bearden, credit the sport with helping to save their lives. This, too, is part of what draws people to the ultra-endurance world. You can start off with seemingly superhuman abilities to endure, or you can build your capacity for resilience one step at a time. Months after I spoke with Bearden, an image from his Instagram account appeared in my feed. It was taken from the middle of a paved road that stretches toward a mountain range, with grassy fields on either side. The sky is blue, except for a huge dark cloud that appears to be hovering directly over the person taking the photo. I remembered how Bearden had described his depression as a black thundercloud rolling in. Under the Instagram photo, Bearden had written, “Tons of wind today, making an easy run far more challenging. So happy to be able to do this. Every day above ground is a good day.” Below, a single comment cheered him on, like a fellow runner on the trail: “Amen to this! Keep striving.

I tried running roads, hung out with road runners. But it's not for me. Being on the road means people will see you, so your outfit matters and you can't blow your nose and wipe it with your hands and brush your hands on the pavement. It's like going to the gym. Sweat, odor, athleisure fashion, being self-conscious—none of those matter in the mountains. You'd slam your shoes across rivers and slap your ass on muddy trails and swing your dick out while running. Pee on the run because stopping to pee takes too much time. You don't bother with trivial matters. Instead, you thank the universe you didn't fall off that cliff or your knees didn't collapse or you finished the race with only calluses, maybe a cut here and there, sore and stiff muscles, but alive and without broken bones. You're in the moment. It's more fun that way.

The physical domain of the country had its counterpart in me. The trails I made led outward into the hills and swamps, but they led inward also. And from the study of things underfoot, and from reading and thinking, came a kind of exploration, myself and the land. In time the two became one in my mind. With the gathering force of an essential thing realizing itself out of early ground, I faced in myself a passionate and tenacious longing—to put away thought forever, and all the trouble it brings, all but the nearest desire, direct and searching. To take the trail and not look back. Whether on foot, on showshoes or by sled, into the summer hills and their late freezing shadows—a high blaze, a runner track in the snow would show where I had gone. Let the rest of mankind find me if it could. JOHN HAINES,

Once you descend into that dark place out on the trail, where everything is crashing down around you, you need to find something real to keep you moving. It could be love or pain, but it has to be real. It certainly won’t be Facebook likes.

I will drop our name loudly everywhere on this earth that we go so people will remember, and you can follow the trail of my voice, follow the love it sings out to you.

Traveling alone is simpler and faster. Traveling with anybody else makes you morally responsible for them and limits your speed to that of the slowest companion.

Routine was death of the worst kind, a slow, insidious stripping of soul. Rarely could I even bring myself to run the same route on subsequent days; more rarely did I run at the same time every day. Sometimes I'd venture out first thing in the morning, other times during midday, still others in the evening or at night. I wasn't made to fit the modern industrialized world; my natural rhythms ran contrary to the nine-to-five business cycle. And I didn't always find people the preferred company. Not that I was antisocial, but being by myself wasn't unpleasant. Running alone was something I relished most of my life, even more so as I'd become older. Most runners prefer to run alone, so these habits are not entirely aberrant. The world and its institutions engulf and suffocate us. We runners find our sanctuary in retreating to the roadways and trails, our sacred reprieve. The wonder isn't that we go; it's that we come back. Our daily outings become purgings and resurrections. We move through this world as spirits, the air and the ground and the sky above absorbing us into something grander, and we disappear from the unbearable heaviness of being. These moments of transcendence cleanse our soul and liberate us from the manufactured and superficial. For a brief, beautiful instant we are as a human is meant to be, free and unencumbered, and this restores us and makes us fresh once more. And then it's on to the follies of being a citizen, of being a useful and contributing member of society. Back to the fickleness and irrationality of human nature and the roller coaster of modern living, with its spirals and twists, letdowns and disappointments. As soon as there are people involved, things get complicated, and rarely do they go the way you want them to. Over a lifetime, nos greatly outnumber the yeses. But the strong endure. The lessons you learn from running translate to life. The runner has a strong body and a strong heart. You get knocked down, you pick yourself back up, dust off, and keep going, only to get knocked down again, only to pick yourself back up once more and continue on, arising one time greater than toppling. And in this persistent enduring you acquire endurance. Your permanence is established in this way because you do not unseat easily, you have what it takes to withstand setbacks. You may waver and misstep, but you never give up. No matter how daunting the obstacle, you forge onward and keep chipping away until that barrier is eventually obliterated and overcome. p97

At this point twenty-four years ago I emerged from the trail in the middle of the night, battered and beaten, unable to continue only to have my father tell me that I must continue, even if that meant crawling, that I could not stop, that I mustn't ever give up the fight. Today he told me that he was proud of me, and I knew that meant not so much for my current accomplishment but for my perseverance over the decades in remaining true to the man I am. I was doing what I was put on earth to do, and in that there is a certain genuineness and purity. For this my father was proud. It had been a long and oftentimes lonely run, and I was still standing. p233