Between the hot yellow line and the asphalt he asked me “just do me one last favor, hold with this crazy roller coaster till the end.”
I didn’t know what he meant, was it his spontaneity or the euphoria?
At one point I asked myself “Can this thing be squeezed out? Can the wretched warmth be battled and noxious soreness be conquered?”
The thought of failure arouses contempt in my heart, the thought of quitting is utterly erroneous.
It was a 26.2 mile joy ride, and we were at mile 20. Why would I do this? Because I’m a prototype like no other.
Jordan shoots baskets. Bocephus writes songs. Ali throws punches. Runners go running. Crazy runners run marathons.
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