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I boarded the ICE train to Munich in the morning, watching the autumn scenery slide along beside the track. The fields looked as if they were having a disagreement about the season: some still green with late-year crops and optimism, others waiting to be harvested, and some already bare, as if they had simply given up. Most trees were already wearing their autumn colours and would probably soon dress down even further, letting their leaves fall to the ground. The weather was not too bad yet, a cloudy, greyish twelve degrees outside - the exact temperature at which optimism begins to wear a jacket. Around the hills, a layer of mist hung indecisively, unable to decide whether it wanted to be low-lying cloud or high-flying fog. Yet somehow it seemed to find its way into the train, giving me chills. Either that or the heater had been set too low, perhaps an aftermath to the earlier, fuller crowd. The weather tomorrow looked friendly for runners, but even thinking about it gave me that fami...

It was close to midnight as I stepped out onto the street. I had just finished one of my last training sessions before my run on Sunday in Munich. The cool air hit my face. The weather had been on the wetter side this evening, though there was no heavy rain. The wet asphalt reflected the streetlights, multiplying their glow in the quiet night, which held a calm atmosphere as everything and everyone was winding down. The last patrons of Saints 'n' Scholars were still finishing their conversations and cigarettes outside as I walked by. Continuing down Wilhelmsstraße, a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia gave me company with every step. Directly behind me was the Brecht Bau, where I spent hours sitting in seminars as a young student. Across the road stood Unckel, where, on countless occasions, pizza, pasta, and beer happily settled into my belly amidst good company. Passing by the library, some students were exiting the building, and I could still spot heads inside, probably deep in...