I expected a book seemingly about running and actually about writing. It’s actually a book about doing difficult things with no hope about their outcome, things that include running long distance and writing novels (but it's mostly about running).
The many obstacles are, of course, the body, that thing that is ours without being ours and which has its own mind, and the mind itself and its many movements: he mentions some bad days quietly pushing him towards some full-blown paranoia he has to ignore.
I am always surprised by how often the feeling of accomplishment happens through not being yourself, through getting over or beyond yourself, or even not being at all. The internal reward is there when you melt yourself through effort into the mold of an ever-moving process, for a limited time.
