A Quote by Hal Higdon
The marathon never ceases to be a race of joy, a race of wonder.
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Science Fiction will never run out of things to wonder about until the human race ceases to use its brain.
These people yapped loudly of race, of race consciousness, of race pride, and yet suppressed its most delightful manifestations, love of color, joy of rhythmic motion, naive, spontaneous laughter. Harmony, radiance, and simplicity, all the essentials of spiritual beauty in the race they had marked for destructions.
In 1984, as a college freshman, I spent a fall weekend at a friend's house in suburban Chicago. His father worked for Beatrice Foods, a sponsor of the Chicago Marathon, and we watched that race from the finish line as a Welshman named Steve Jones set a new world marathon record. I was bewitched by the race and, especially, the clock.
I am happy that I ran the half-marathon, but to me, just running and saying that I finished a race isn't enough for me. I want to run the race as best as I can. Working out for pants size isn't enough. I need a goal or a race to get back on the treadmill every day.
There was no way to lock down, or tighten up, or Fail-Safe into Security Theater a race that covers 26.2 miles, a race that travels from town to town, a race that travels past people's houses. There was no way to garrison the Boston Marathon. Now there will be.
The individual man tries to escape the race. And as soon as he ceases to represent the race, he represents man.
My first proper race was a full marathon in 1987. A work colleague convinced us this was the best way to start and signed me up for the Lakeland marathon.
No matter how old I get, the race remains one of life's most rewarding experiences. My times become slower and slower, but the experience of the race is unchanged: each race a drama, each race a challenge, each race stretching me in one way or another, and each race telling me more about myself and others.
I like the marathon because it's one race where you can find out who's really the toughest. On the track, sometimes a guy can just pull away, and you want to stay with him but you don't have the leg speed. The marathon is slow enough that anyone can stay with you if he wants, if he has the will. The marathon is ultimately a test of will.
It's the culture, not the blood. If you can go anywhere in the world and adopt these babies and put them into households that were already assimilated in America, those babies will grow up as American as any other baby with as much patriotism and love of country as any other baby. It's not about race. It's never been about race. In fact the struggles across this planet, we describe them as race, they're not race. They're culture based. It's a clash of culture, not the race. Sometimes that race is used as an identifier.
I achieved too little result from my principal task, the task of making my race a race that is respected, a race that is honourable, a race that is highly regarded.
Life is a marathon and you have to pace yourself. I believe that slow and steady wins the race, so in that way, I've been training for a marathon my whole life.
Regarding the idea of race, .. no agreement seems to exist about what race means. Race seems to embody a fact as simple and as obvious as the noonday sun, but if that is so, why the endless wrangling about the idea and the facts of race. What is a race? How can it be recognized? Who constitute the several races?.
It's probably the toughest distance race in the world to win. World class runners from 1500m to the marathon contest it and instead of just three runners from each country, like in the Olympics or World Championships, in the senior men's race there are nine.
We're all so busy. We race and race. Life is a sprint. We want to get 'there' so badly. But I wonder if we even know what to do when we actually get 'there'.
Nobody loves the Boston Marathon as much as the people who make fun of it year after year. This was the race that previously offered as a prize a not particularly expensive medal, a laurel wreath, and a bowl of beef stew. This was the race that, on one memorable occasion, nobody knew who actually won.
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