The 18th Mile

So, I ran another marathon. I looked back at what I wrote about my last marathon (See Crippled, May 2005). Most of what I said then is just as true today.

Still, this 26.2 had its differences. It was mostly flat instead of hilly. It had 34,000 participants rather than 50. It was exciting and entertaining rather than boring. This time around, I ran on a sprained ankle and ran my marathon in 4 hours, twenty-one minutes.

26.2 miles seems like something that should be fairly uniform. Yes, there were the differences I listed, but honestly, for the most part, it was pretty similar. I ran, I finished and I felt like crap. Not-to-mention, there was Mile 18, where everything changes. From now on, I am going to tell runners, “a marathon isn’t about running 26.2 miles; it’s about running 18 miles and then running 8.2 more.”

So, when is a door not adore?

For many yesterday, the marathon was not just a marathon. Sure, a marathon can have its dimensions and runners discuss them ad nauseum. There’s the course- its incline, the sites, the weather. There’s the runner and his or her condition. Yesterday, though, there was another dimension that I never considered before- the symbolism.

(Well, I suppose that’s not completely true. I understand that marathons are arbitrary symbolic measures of one’s own self-worth to boost one’s ego. I got that.)

Yesterday, there were plenty of people running >for< something. There were runners for causes like cancer and autism. There were runners running with flags of countries and branches of the military. There were Vietnam vets, POWs and Virginia Techers. And there were tons of people running “in memory of” a loved one who died in Iraq.

For all of them (including me who wanted to boost his ego), 26.2 miles was more than just 26.2 miles. Honestly, though, its not. No one is a better person for having run 26.2 miles, no cause is really advanced and no amount of honoring is going to fill the void when someone is gone. 26.2 = 26.2 = 26.2.

There were a few people for which 26.2 miles was less than 26.2. Some people were dressed in ridiculous costumes and had a good time. They weren’t running for times or causes. They just wanted to be assholes. Glorious assholes.

I wonder what Mile 18 is like for all of them. Do they think about their causes or their costumes? Does it help them through it?

Somehow, I doubt it. For me, I just thought about pain and how much it sucked. It is an interesting thing, that long and drawn out painful moment of reckoning. One imagines it is be filled with something meaningful, but instead it is very empty.

Of Course

We all speak of the course. The world is how it is and when it functions banally, we remind ourselves of it to crush ideas of the contrary. The car races left, in its course. The bear eats it prey, in its course. The sun rises in the east, in its course. Of course.

The course often sucks. In fact, I believe most of the time it does. Of course, Bush was reelected. Of course, that psoriasis spot returned. Of course, it didn’t work out with her. Of course, grandmothers die. Of course, cavemen beat astronauts. What was I thinking?

Every once in a while, though, things are different and it gives one immense hope. Sometimes the Yankees lose, after all.

Lets change course for a second.

Say one has nothing to do on a Friday and one decides to head to Austin Grill, of all places, to grab a beer with one’s roommate and his friends. One has met the friends and they are good guys, but one would never expect to meet any attractive or interesting females around them. Plus, one is getting a beer at Austin Grill, of all places, in the middle of McDowntown Silver Spring. But, say one goes and, by chance, a sister is brought along who is stunning. Oh, not stunning in that blonde hair, big breast objective way where you knows she’s been hit on seventeen times early today and she’ll have nothing to do with you because she thinks she’s hot shit. No, stunning in that subjective way where she’s exactly your type- a hidden treasure at a yard sale that everyone else is too stupid to notice. And to top things off, lets say she’s intelligent and funny and self-aware and challenging. So, say one talks to her for a couple hours and things seem to be going alright. For a moment, one might think that the world is not on course. For a moment, one might think that they are lucky. For a moment, one forgets the completely obvious. But, then the boyfriend arrives and the world stabilizes, of course. Of, fucking, course.

When the course is so obvious, how can we so quickly forget? Is delusional hope so unbridled that we must constantly reminds ourselves to be rational? Apparently so. Oh well, we live on and continue to hope that things don’t end up on course, of course.

Measuring the Marigolds

Sports are in high gear, lately. The baseball playoffs are on along with good ol’ American football. I have always loved watching these two, but I have always hated sports coverage of games. Frankly, I wish they offered games on TV without announcers. I also hate shows where they discuss sports and I despise fantasy football. It occurred to me recently why I hate sports analysis. It’s the statistics.

Sure, statistics are pretty darn practical for coaches and gamblers, but they are means to an end. They are trends that can give insight into players and the game over the long term. Some stats are generally useful and others are not. Most importantly, though, statistics are only useful within a particular context. That context happens to be the goal for your team beat the other teams.

Statistics are not a number of things. They are not entertainment. Announcers do not need to tell me about post-season left-handed hitting at home when facing elimination. Nor do they need to tell me about 4th quarter passing yards in the red zone by rookie quarterbacks. Not only are these stats not very relevant, but they are presented at the wrong time. The players are in place. The coaches have made their decisions. Statistics have played their role. The only thing left to do is watch the players play the game.

Statistics are not proof of greatness. The point of a sport is to win the championship as a team. Was Dan Marino the greatest quarterback that ever lived? It’s a pretty ridiculous question. We can look at how many yards he passed and the number of completions he had, but it’s pointless. It’s a team game. Linemen protected him and receivers caught the ball. His opponents tried to sack him or block him and tried to cover receivers. Divorcing Marino or any player from their team and their opponent is impossible. For this very reason, fantasy football is a sham.

Whether it’s a poem, a frog or a game, analyzing may help one learn more about something. Most of the time, though, one just ends up killing it.

Tribalism

Cultural identity is a double-edged sword. It binds people together so they can cooperate, but it also creates a sense of otherness for those not within that cultural group. Rooting for the home team can bind a city, but also creates hatred for a different city. Fighting for one’s nation, by definition, involves fighting against a different nation.

Those with no tribalism are seen as deplorable creatures. They do not care for their family, their city, their nation or their species; they are only interested in themselves. Society has a clear vested interest in cooperation and naturally looks down on such selfish behavior and sentiment.

Those with tribalism are usually spoken of well. They are called family men, culturally proud or patriots. The peak of tribalism seems to be the selfless humanitarian. People like Mother Theresa are deemed “saints” for their work. Still, tribalism has its negative sides as well. There are nepotists, racists and nationalists who care only for their tribe and care not for the rest.

Interestingly, the criticism of the nepotist, the racist and the nationalist is rarely that they have too much tribalism, yet lessening their tribalism can be a very effective solution to tribalist hatred. German and Japanese warmongering may have been mitigated by selfish modernity. Wearing a shirt that says “me power” is probably better than “white power.”

Instead of lessening tribalism, there is usually a perception that more tribalism can cure nepotism, racism and nationalism. By reaching the level of humanitarian where everyone is in one’s tribe, all hatred would be eradicated. Unity of tribe leads to elimination of tribe.

I used to believe that I was at the highest level, that I was a humanitarian. Then, when I was speaking with my uncle a while back about having children, I had second thoughts. He was childless and felt liberated because he could care about society without selfish interest. I, on the other hand, wanted to children. I had the belief that the whole point of caring for the world is because my descendents will be in it. It occurred to me that I was not the highest level, but the lowest. I was only a humanitarian because I thought it would logically bring safety and security to my descendents, not because I really care about other people.

So it seems, in the expanding universe of tribalism and caring, there is a point where the incredibly small meets the incredibly vast. The truly selfish and the truly selfless should have the same goal of cooperation. It is not too surprising since the reduction of tribalism leads to its elimination and the unification of tribalism leads to its elimination. I suppose the lesson is to love everyone or love thyself, but anything in-between leads to hatred.