Not so long ago I
wrote about Tony Judt (1948-2010) who coined the phrase the crappy generation,
whose members “grew up in the 1960s in Western Europe or in America, in a world
of no hard choices, either economic nor political.”
I had Judt in
mind when I was talking to my friend J last month over cocktails. When J and I
get together for Hendricks martinis and dinner on the side, we often talk about
running.
One thought I had
during out last session was that as a member of the crappy generation I had no
mass, or national, war to occupy my body and mind. So, as a way to compensate
for this deficiency (after all, we are talking “crappy” here), I run marathons.
How are marathons
like wars? As a group, we marathoners struggle and suffer through months of
basic training to bring ourselves up to the standards of road “combat,” which
is running continually for 26.2 miles. Out there on the course, we urge each
other forward, like mates in the trenches. We understand, as best we can, the common
enemy (especially at mile sixteen or mile twenty when we are convinced that we
have nothing left.) Along the course, the civilians cheer as if to the soldiers
on march to harbor and their troop ships, saying reassuring war-years-like
things: “Looking great!” “We’re proud of you!” “You’re all so amazing!”
At the end of
race, we have a memory and a medal to show to those at home. And, after our
marathoning days are over, we put the medal in a drawer for safekeeping. When
we take it out we will handle it carefully and memories of our own sacrifice
and those who shared it will come flooding back.
There will be no marathon
cenotaphs, no memorials built for the nameless marathoner. It is, I’m sure you
agree, better that way.
Next: Running for Your Life: Baseball,
Hockey and a Birthday!
