I read books before my marathon: H. Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running; G. le Blanc, Courir; J. Echenoz, Courir. I collected mantras, from books and from other runners whose paths I would cross while training: bits of conversations I would overhear, one sentence or two outside of their contexts.

Take two unlikely friends, like Laurel and Hardy, except they both exercise. One (let us call him Art) is a rather small but muscly man, and the other (it will be Ben) is tall, thin and slightly stooping. Ben is breathless, because he is telling stories all the time, and because he runs with plenty of unnecessary gestures – his hands wave around, he lifts his legs too high. Art is running beautifully. You can see all his movements have one purpose, to bring him forward with an economy of energy. He is looking straight to the horizon. His lips are closed tight, his jaw clenched. Not with the effort of running but of bearing the stories of Ben. Just when I pass by, Ben is telling Art about his visit to the doctor, and how the doctor told him: “Ben, you are a strong man, both mentally and physically.”  Art can't bear it anymore and, without a look at Ben, slowly accelerates.

Or two other runners. They are indistinguishable. They go really fast. They wear T-shirts showing their exploits, with the name of a foreign city, plenty of miles and a huge “FINISHER.” They are telling each other about the last race. One says: 
“I had trouble turning on the automatic pilot.”

Then there is the mantra that Murakami writes at the beginning of his book: 
“Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.”