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Once a Runner is a novel by American author John L. Parker Jr. and published in 1998 by Cedarwinds and was first published in 1978. In Once a Runner, Parker attempts to illustrate the hard work and dedication that is required of an elite runner. Since its publication, the novel has become a cult classic for competitive runners of all abilities.
Quenton Cassidy is a collegiate runner at fictional Southeastern University. He is a well-rounded distance runner who specializes in the mile. After writing a petition for the college's football team protesting a dress and conduct code, Quenton is suspended from the university and prohibited from competing in the university's annual track meet. Cassidy moves to a cabin in the woods and submits himself to a brutal training regimen. His plan is to compete at the Southeastern Relays in disguise against the best miler in the world.
QUOTES
"The secret is this: there is no secret." - Cassidy's answer to various people asking the question 'how does he run so fast?'
"The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials."
"It is simply that we can all be good boys and wear our letter sweaters around and get our little degrees and find some nice girl to settle, you know, down with... take up what a friend of ours calls the hearty challenges of lawn care... Or we can blaze! Become legends in our own time, strike fear in the heart of mediocre talent everywhere! We can scald dogs, put records out of reach! Make the stands gasp as we blow into an unearthly kick from three hundred yards out! We can become God's own messengers delivering the dreaded scrolls! We can race dark Satan himself till he wheezes fiery cinders down the back straightaway....They'll speak our names in hushed tones, 'those guys are animals' they'll say! We can lay it on the line, bust a gut, show them a clean pair of heels. We can sprint the turn on a spring breeze and feel the winter leave our feet! We can, by God, let our demons loose and just wail on!"
"And too there were questions: What did he eat? Did he believe in isometrics? Isotonics? Ice and heat? How about aerobics, est, ESP, STP? What did he have to say about yoga, yogurt, Yogi Berra? What was his pulse rate, his blood pressure, his time for the 100-yard dash? What was the secret, they wanted to know; in a thousand different ways they wanted to know The Secret. And not one of them was prepared, truly prepared to believe that it had not so much to do with chemicals and zippy mental tricks as with that most unprofound and sometimes heart-rending process of removing, molecule by molecule, the very tough rubber that comprised the bottoms of his training shoes. The Trial of Miles, Miles of Trials. How could they be expected to understand that?"
"That quarter mile oval may be one of the few places in the world where the bastards can't screw you over, Quenton. That's because there's no place to hide out there. No way to fake it or charm your way through, no deals to be made. You know all that stuff. You've talked about it. It's why you became a miler. The question is whether you are prepared to live by it or whether it was just a bunch of words."
"Cassidy sought no euphoric interludes. They came, when they did, quite naturally and he was content to enjoy them privately. He ran not for crypto-religious reasons, but to win races, to cover ground fast. Not only to be better than his fellows, but better than himself. To be faster by a tenth of a second, by an inch, by two feet or two yards than he had been the week or year before. He sought to conquer the physical limitations placed upon him by a three-dimensional world (and if Time is the fourth dimension, that too was his province). If he could conquer the weakness, the cowardice in himself, he would not worry about the rest; it would come. Training was a rite of purification; from it came speed, strength. Racing was a rite of death; from it came knowledge. Such rites demand, if they are to be meaningful at all, a certain amount of time spent precisely on the Red Line, where you can lean over the manicured putting green at the edge of the precipice and see exactly nothing."
"Running to him was real, the way he did it the realest thing he knew. It was all joy and woe, hard as diamond; it made him weary beyond comprehension. But it also made him free."
"Quenton Cassidy was 6-2, his meager 167 pounds stretched across his frame in a manner dictated by the searing daily necessities of his special task. Beneath the tight skin, the smooth musculature glided with fluid ease, giving the impression of elastic, lightweight power; a featherless view of a young falcon. There were no inefficient corners or bulges; the form was sharply chisled as if from sand-worn driftwood, fluted with oblique angles and long, tapering ridges, thin products of his care. Even now, standing perfectly still in the early morning glow, inverted teardrop thighs and high bunched calves suggested only motion: smooth effortless speed."
"'What now?'...'20 more'"
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