"As I ran, different parts of my body, one after another, began to hurt. First my right thigh hurt like crazy, then that pain migrated over to my right knee, then to my left thigh, and on and on. All parts of my body had their chance to take center stage and scream out their complaints. The screamed, complained, yelled in distress, and warned me that they weren't going to take it anymore. For them, running sixty miles was an unknown experience, and each bady part had its own excuse. I understood completely, but all I wanted them to do was be quiet and keep on running. Like Danton or Robespierre eloquently attempting to persuade the dissatified and rebellious Revolutionary Tribunal, I tried to talk each body part into showing a little cooperation. Encouraged them, clung to them, flattered them, scolded them, tried to buck them up. It's just a little farther, guys. You can't give up on me now. But if you think about it - and I did think about it - Danton and Robespierre wound up with their heads cut off."
"I don't care what time I run. I can try all I want, but I doubt I'll ever be able to run the way I used to. I'm ready to accept that. It's not one of your happier realities, but that's what happens when you get older. Just as I have my own role to play, so does time. And time does its job much more faithfully, much more accurately, than I ever do. Every since time began (when was that, I wonder?), it's been moving ever forward without a moment's reat. And one of the privileges given to those who've avoided dying young is the blessed right to grow old. The honor of physical decline is waiting, and you have to get used to that reality."
- Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
(In honor of this weekend's Pit Run, which I will be running on Sunday...)