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Published: December 22nd 2013
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It’s ironic.
Why?
Because he died.
Who?
The messenger.
What messenger?
The one who ran from Marathon to Athens.
What?
I stare at my boss incredulously, trying to arrest the involuntary adolescent eye rolling I never grew out of. I fail, but I manage to bite back the condescending adage about not knowing history and being doomed to repeat it. Historically speaking, running marathons is ironically idiotic. This is clearly not common knowledge. Over fifty thousand runners have descended on NYC this weekend to pay for the privilege to repeat a history they are better off not knowing.
History tells that the greatly outnumbered Athenians defeated the Persians in the battle of Marathon in 490 BCE. Philippides, a messenger, was dispatched to Athens. After running the twenty six miles from Marathon, he burst into the assembly and announced the Athenian victory. Then he collapsed and died. The moral of the story seems self-evident: running 26.2 miles will kill you.
Nevertheless, there are now marathons across the world, and this year, a record number of participants are running in New York. The East Africans are coming for the purse. The other professionals are coming to chase the Africans. And
then there are the rest: the largely middle-aged, largely caucasian cohort. They are running for breast cancer or Boston or a thousand other things both private and personal. Some are undoubtedly trying to get some measure of themselves, and more than a few are pointlessly denying the inevitability of age.
Then there is John. Like the vast majority, John is a middle-aged white guy. Unlike the vast majority, he is sipping his third glass of whiskey at 11pm the night before the race and has a whole lifetime of bad lifestyle decisions that make marathon running seem extremely out of character. Sitting back, he peers into the glass, searching the slowly swirling whiskey for the answer. He isn’t worried about age, the Africans, or the 4:30 wake up call. Why run? Why not? It seemed like a good idea. Ok Forrest Gump, pass the whiskey.
Hours before dawn, John and his girlfriend Sara are gone, on their way to Staten Island to run the New York Marathon. Craziness. At 10 am, the first wave of runners crosses the Verazano Bridge from Staten Island into
Brooklyn. The course connects the five boroughs of New York City, running from Brooklyn north into Queens before crossing the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Once on the island, the runners head east up First Ave into the Bronx, loop around, and come back down through Harlem and along Fifth Avenue before cutting into Central Park. The finish line is on the west side at Strawberry Fields.
About the time the Africans are finishing, we find a perch overlooking the hordes streaming onto the Queensboro Bridge and begin the impossible task of trying to spot John or Sara. The cheering crowd and the roadside band’s inspiring rendition of Eye of the Tiger make the grey day festive and spur on the runners - supermans, spidermans, multinational flag draped patriots, and the more ordinary mid-life crisis crowd. Sadly, Jesus, barefooted, loin clothed, and shouldering a cross, is still laboring through Brooklyn. Luckily, John has only whiskey, rather than the sins of humanity to bear, so he is be somewhere in Queens by now. Moments later, Carly spots him near a lady in a purple tiger body suit.
Leaving the house by noon was actually quite a formidible challenge, but now,
driven on by anthem rock and a fleeting glimpse, we begin our rather less demanding marathon - hopping trains and racing around the city trying to intercept John. Dissapointingly, John’s pace does not allow time for afternoon Bloody Mary’s. On one side of Harlem, he hollers at us, and thirty minutes later, on the other side, we high five him for the home stretch. Foolishy grinning, he passes mile 20, known to runners as ‘the wall’ because it is typically when the body expends the last of its stored glycogen. Glycogen is what provides the body energy. After it is exhausted, the marathon literally starts killing you, and the real struggling and suffering begin. Three hours and forty eight minutes after starting, John finished the race, his personal best. Obviously, his accomplishement reflected our enormous dedication to the cause. Perhaps whiskey is the secret strategy for getting over the wall and across the finish line.
I still have no idea what compelled him to do it. Maybe it is something primordial, an echo of the Rift Valley. Maybe it is something about demanding more of yourself and more of life. Maybe it is just an interesting way to see
three hours forty eight minutes later
John looked significantly better than Phidippides at the end. Although I didn't get a medal, I did wear orange to celebrate my effort. a city. Maybe it is just a thing to do. You probably have to do it to understand it, so I am okay not knowing.
For runners in general, the race is probably about strength and human perseverance and overcoming obstacles. In the wake of the hurricane’s destruction and the senseless horror of the Boston marathon bombing, this was particularly true of this year’s race. Undoubtedly, a marathon is deeply personal, an individual mental struggle to overcome common sense and one’s physical limitations. However, it is also a surprisingly social experience. For nearly all of the runners, the race is less a race against others than a race with others. There is a symbiosis that develops between the runners and also between runners and observers. This deeply individual effort becomes a communal activity. Runners marker their names on their shirts, and strangers call out encouragement as they pass. The haggard faces lift and gain strength from unknown voices. Packed along the sidelines, the observers insulate the race course from the cold disinterested life of the city through which it winds. The whole spectacle is infused by a strange happiness borne of the collective effort of runners and those who
Queensboro Bridge
c. someone on the internet; another much sunnier year wish them well.
Although I will never entertain even the thought of running a marathon, i learned something surprising: marathons make people happy. So, in the end, perhaps there is good reason to deny the historical lesson of Marathon. Perhaps there is another lesson: once upon a time, a man ran alone and died, but running together, the outcome can be different. Win or lose.
Congratulations to John and Sara and all the rest of the lunatics who do such things.
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