The Extreme Happiness of Extremists
March 9th 2008 11:06
I am not what anyone might refer to as an extreme athlete. Come to think of it, ‘athletic’ is probably one of those adjectives that slid past me in my youth, without so much as a backward glance. Could have been those child-bearing hips combined with the sort of thighs to which child-bearing hips tend to be attached.
I find the idea of extreme sports baffling. From where I am, it appears to be a kind of mental affliction, akin to a masochistic psychosis where people train up to hurt themselves for extended periods of times, only to be able to say at the end of it, ‘I made it.’ Sort of like volunteering for labour in childbirth. Over and over again.
So, in the manner of life's little ironies, I am married to a man to whom running a 45 kilometre race through the Blue Mountains on the Six Foot Track with a cut-off period of seven hours, is considered a rather ‘fun’ way to spend a weekend.
For years I indulged my husband’s absences. His neurotic little pre-race rituals of laying out vests, pinning numbers to it, ensuring he has sufficient supply of Vaseline (please, don’t ask… it goes between the thighs, apparently important to avoid ‘chaffing’), bags with toilet paper (again, there are some things better left unknown), and waking up at 4am to drive somewhere for a race start at 6am. I did this because I am, despite my occasional PMS outbursts, a ‘good wife.’
However, last year, he managed to inveigle my presence at the Jenolan Caves as he crossed the line after running for six hours and 24 minutes over the most tortuous marathon terrain known in the geography of Aussie runners. And this year, even more sneakily, he arranged for us to be staying at the old hotel at the Jenolan Caves, so that we would have no option but to stay the night after the race was over. He also invited some friends of ours to stay over with us so we would have people to celebrate with.
On the morning of the race, my husband woke at 5am, kissed me goodbye in the dark, and left for his all-day ordeal. I awoke, did a tour of one of the magnificent caves with the kids, and set up at the finish line with a glass of wine to celebrate his return to me in one piece.
And then all of a sudden, three and a half hours after the start of the race in Katoomba, the winners began to come in. Perhaps I can describe what a winner of such a race looks like – bionic. Really. There is no other way to put it. We are talking sheer muscle. Equine gallopers who have been galloping for 45km. What one may find surprising (I certainly did) is that entrants to this race are not confined to the handful of peculiar individuals with deep rooted issues best unpacked in therapy. Approximately eight hundred people ran the Six Foot Track this year. For the money? There is no prize money. For what then?
As people, young and old, came home, for no reason I can explain, I found myself becoming a little choked up. Firemen, teachers, garbos, lawyers, doctors, mothers of four, actuaries… all sorts. Each of them crossed the line with a look of such perfect joy (apart from those who were wincing in pain), that my ridicule of extremists who pursue extreme experiences got a little shaken up.
The jubilation, self-satisfaction, health and vitality that seemed to grow as one person after the other came down the hill and ran under the finish arch sort of got me thinking. Young and old, rich and poor, from all walks of life, from all manner of backgrounds and professions all had this one thing in common. These are people who push on. These are people who do not give up. These are not the whingers and the whiners of the world. These are people who push the limits of their fatigue, mental strength and stamina and who choose to do it by putting one foot in front of the other.
By the time my husband crossed the line, my hands were red and itchy from clapping, my throat raw from screaming for people as they finished their race. I saw husband and wife teams hold hands as they came in, I saw one girlfriend stop and wait for her other friend to catch up, I saw men in their seventies pick up the pace to achieve a personal best time, mothers and grandmothers, young fathers and veterans of the race. And I have to admit I got a tear in my eye as my children, holding their dad's hand ran the last ten metres with him as he crossed the line, in his PB (personal best) of nine minutes quicker than his race last year.
And long past the awarding of prizes, the goodwill that ran through that place, like the sweat and the adrenalin, the endorphins and the beer that flowed, was intoxicating. I can truly say everyone was happy. People chatted to one another. This one bought that one a drink and then that one shouted the next round. Strangers asked one another, ‘how did you go?’ People shared details of this hill or that river crossing. I didn’t see a single miserable face all day.
I have never truly understood this compulsion. The compulsion to do the thing one thinks one cannot do. To do it in a group. To risk nipples and joints in the process. To wake at ungodly hours and to endure the kind of terrain Mother Nature never intended human beings to traverse on foot.
However this weekend something like a penny dropped. I thought to myself, ‘if I could, I would love to do this.’ I have no idea why. I just think it would be wonderful to experience such extreme happiness just once in one’s life. And I guess that is the reason these people come back year after year, to test their limbs against the rugged indifference of the Six Foot Track.
www.joannefedler.com
I find the idea of extreme sports baffling. From where I am, it appears to be a kind of mental affliction, akin to a masochistic psychosis where people train up to hurt themselves for extended periods of times, only to be able to say at the end of it, ‘I made it.’ Sort of like volunteering for labour in childbirth. Over and over again.
So, in the manner of life's little ironies, I am married to a man to whom running a 45 kilometre race through the Blue Mountains on the Six Foot Track with a cut-off period of seven hours, is considered a rather ‘fun’ way to spend a weekend.
For years I indulged my husband’s absences. His neurotic little pre-race rituals of laying out vests, pinning numbers to it, ensuring he has sufficient supply of Vaseline (please, don’t ask… it goes between the thighs, apparently important to avoid ‘chaffing’), bags with toilet paper (again, there are some things better left unknown), and waking up at 4am to drive somewhere for a race start at 6am. I did this because I am, despite my occasional PMS outbursts, a ‘good wife.’
However, last year, he managed to inveigle my presence at the Jenolan Caves as he crossed the line after running for six hours and 24 minutes over the most tortuous marathon terrain known in the geography of Aussie runners. And this year, even more sneakily, he arranged for us to be staying at the old hotel at the Jenolan Caves, so that we would have no option but to stay the night after the race was over. He also invited some friends of ours to stay over with us so we would have people to celebrate with.
On the morning of the race, my husband woke at 5am, kissed me goodbye in the dark, and left for his all-day ordeal. I awoke, did a tour of one of the magnificent caves with the kids, and set up at the finish line with a glass of wine to celebrate his return to me in one piece.
And then all of a sudden, three and a half hours after the start of the race in Katoomba, the winners began to come in. Perhaps I can describe what a winner of such a race looks like – bionic. Really. There is no other way to put it. We are talking sheer muscle. Equine gallopers who have been galloping for 45km. What one may find surprising (I certainly did) is that entrants to this race are not confined to the handful of peculiar individuals with deep rooted issues best unpacked in therapy. Approximately eight hundred people ran the Six Foot Track this year. For the money? There is no prize money. For what then?
As people, young and old, came home, for no reason I can explain, I found myself becoming a little choked up. Firemen, teachers, garbos, lawyers, doctors, mothers of four, actuaries… all sorts. Each of them crossed the line with a look of such perfect joy (apart from those who were wincing in pain), that my ridicule of extremists who pursue extreme experiences got a little shaken up.
The jubilation, self-satisfaction, health and vitality that seemed to grow as one person after the other came down the hill and ran under the finish arch sort of got me thinking. Young and old, rich and poor, from all walks of life, from all manner of backgrounds and professions all had this one thing in common. These are people who push on. These are people who do not give up. These are not the whingers and the whiners of the world. These are people who push the limits of their fatigue, mental strength and stamina and who choose to do it by putting one foot in front of the other.
By the time my husband crossed the line, my hands were red and itchy from clapping, my throat raw from screaming for people as they finished their race. I saw husband and wife teams hold hands as they came in, I saw one girlfriend stop and wait for her other friend to catch up, I saw men in their seventies pick up the pace to achieve a personal best time, mothers and grandmothers, young fathers and veterans of the race. And I have to admit I got a tear in my eye as my children, holding their dad's hand ran the last ten metres with him as he crossed the line, in his PB (personal best) of nine minutes quicker than his race last year.
And long past the awarding of prizes, the goodwill that ran through that place, like the sweat and the adrenalin, the endorphins and the beer that flowed, was intoxicating. I can truly say everyone was happy. People chatted to one another. This one bought that one a drink and then that one shouted the next round. Strangers asked one another, ‘how did you go?’ People shared details of this hill or that river crossing. I didn’t see a single miserable face all day.
I have never truly understood this compulsion. The compulsion to do the thing one thinks one cannot do. To do it in a group. To risk nipples and joints in the process. To wake at ungodly hours and to endure the kind of terrain Mother Nature never intended human beings to traverse on foot.
However this weekend something like a penny dropped. I thought to myself, ‘if I could, I would love to do this.’ I have no idea why. I just think it would be wonderful to experience such extreme happiness just once in one’s life. And I guess that is the reason these people come back year after year, to test their limbs against the rugged indifference of the Six Foot Track.
www.joannefedler.com
| 97 |
| Vote |
Subscribe to this blog
Comment by Anonymous
Bruce
Comment by Plu
Maybe we will have a race report from you in years to come.
cheers Plu
Comment by Plu
cheers PLu
Comment by tlcorbin
Coffee Quip
A Global Citizen
Paranormal Paranormal
Is Why
Alaska Chronicle
Sleezer's World
Comment by Blue Dog
Go straight to the writer's podium and adopt the middle position. Cheers, and many thanks.
Comment by Ridgeback
This is beautifully written. You have captured the spirit of the race and the reason "why" we do it. Look forward to reading your other posts.
Comment by OggieB
Comment by Jarrah
Back to the Eighties
Fun run - inst that an oxymoron?
Theres a classic line in Back to the future 3, and the doc is explaining to the cowboys that people run and walk for fun?
The old cowboy says : "Fun??? What the hell kinda fun is that?"
- Jarrah
Back to the Eighties
www.backtotheeighties.net
Comment by Louie
Climate Forum
Climate Red
randomthoughts
Phil's Wellness Tips
Like you i sit here and say why.....why why!!!
This post is the perfect explanation, he isn't an orbler but her had forwarded this post to me pre work this morning with the totle..This is why...
cheers
Louie
Comment by Martin Dugdale
Comment by Harro
Well writtten indeed. Somehow you captured the type of emotionfelt by runners at the end of events.
Harro
Comment by Michaelie
Flick Wit
Michaelie
Comment by Kato
Thanks a lot for being there fort he penny to drop. For years I have come home from this or that race with a medal round my neck (usually a "thanks for coming" medal, but still) and my wife says "that's nice dear" like Sybil in Fawlty Towers, while looking at me like I was a cat presenting her with a dead mouse. At last someone has realised what it is that we're saying. "Look at what I did for you - I killed the six foot track".
Thanks fro reaching me, and my wife too.
Comment by Joanne Fedler
Secret Writers Business
It's taken me a while too to understand my husband's obsession, and to begin to share his passion for the very thing I do believe makes him feel alive and happy to be alive. I think it's those freaky little pre-race rituals, definitely the Vaseline (uggh) and the early morning disappearance of our partners that alienates so many of us. An obsession is hard to understand if it is not shared. But the joy at the end of the Six Foot spilled over for all to share. Any woman who has been through childbirth can understand the relief and sense of achievement at the end of a very long day of giving something all you've got.
Jo
Comment by The Owl
As someone with child-bearing hips, boobs and thighs I could never understand anyone loving sport of any sort...especially running! Running was what the teachers made us do at school when they wanted to b*tch about us without us overhearing. Running hurt.
Somehow I ended up taking up running as an adult. How? I still don't know. Devine intervention I suspect. As someone with aforementioned physical attributes who also runs (albeit slowly) I've wanted to run this event for 3 years.
I loved reading your post. It summed up perfectly why I want so much to run The Six Foot Track Marathon. Thank you.
Comment by Les from San Diego
My partner has been involved in runs like this for many years, but I've never got to go along. Wasn't invited, with the very best of intentions she figured I wasn't interested and made her arrangements to go to nice places to run with her friends without me. If there was a run she wanted to do, she never missed out. Alienation is a very good choice of word indeed. Now I've started doing a bit of running, but it's hard - anyone would think that it would be great to share her passion and have something in common, but I can honestly take or leave going running with her; if I ever did a run like this one, I'd almost rather just go on my own. There is such a distance between us when it comes to running, and that saddens me a lot.
But, I'm working hard to deal with the distance between us over running, therapy is good, and who knows, maybe in a few years we'll be just like these guys -
"husband and wife teams hold hands as they came in" I can only hope so.
Comment by Anonymous
It almost makes me want to miss running the race and be a spectator myself.