Are marathons made for masochists?

Press, 1 June 1985, Page 14

Are marathons made for masochists?

KEN STRONGMAN is one of the Christchurch jogging (or running, if you must) fraternity who will not be competing in the Christchurch marathon tomorrow. Will “The Press” TV columnist be haunted by the one that got away?

Entering a marathon is the ultimate goal for everyday joggers. I have found the ideal reason for not entering the Christchurch mid-winter marathon this week-end. It goes like this. Ask joggers why they do it (as I did in a survey reported in the New Zealand Runner November/ December 1981) and they give an impressive range of answers. These include such more or less meritorious reasons as: to get fit (easily the most common); to improve health; for the challenge; to gain self-respect; and to lose weight. Splendid. Who would dare to debate the value of such motives? But, strictly speaking, they are reasons for taking up jogging. The urge to continue is Sted by quite different orations, which are somehow not quite as salubrious as “getting fit.” For a start, joggers do seem to become hooked on jogging. About two-thirds of those questioned feel very disappointed if they have to miss a run, and nearly half of them profess to running even if they are feeling unwell and the weather is bad. This certainly sounds like addiction. Compare it with cigarette smoking. Disappointment bordering on desperation is what smokers feel when the packet is unexpectedly empty.

They also continue to smoke when they are ill. Thinking back, I seem to remember the first cigarette of the day bringing with it a feeling of lightheadedness not dissimilar from that which comes from pounding the 6 a.m. pavements. So there is a slighly murky side to jogging, which might even involve one’s internal opiates, if some medical suggestions are proved correct. Alternatively, the addictive side of jogging might simply stem from the thought of how painful it will be to start again if one misses a few runs. Such a thought is not atypical of the even murkier side of jogging. Well over 80 per cent of the joggers surveyed believe that their thoughts whilst jogging are valuable to them. This is getting down to what jogging is all about. It provides one of the few times in the day when it is possible to think, or even fantasize, whatever one wishes, without interruption, for as long as one can keep putting one leg in front of the other. A few more probing questions revealed that joggers’ thoughts range from concerns about jogging, through to work, family relationships, plans and even philsophies of life. This is all very laudible, the safe and worthy things one might expect to be told

in a survey. It is difficult to dig deeper than this though, to find out what the actual thoughts might be.

I was prompted to dwell on these matters because a short while ago my own jogging thoughts changed

formed a pattern. Tbe best of them, that I am prepared to mention here, have involved trying to compose pieces of prose — the kilometres slip past almost unnoticed. Then there are problems with people, which can be thought out ready to act upon. These include what Freud, had he been a jogger, might have called runner’s catharsis. Trotting along thinking that some paunchy, irritating acquaintance could not keep up or that in extremis he couldn’t outrun the tidal wave, or the gunman, or whatever, is curiously satisfying. The added adrenalin this type of thought squeezes from the system can even make the pace increase. Then, occasionally, there are very relaxed, calm times when one is content to count one’s paces, or pulse, or the trees, or indeed, anything. This is definitely therapeutic. Anyway, after many years of thoroughly worthy jogging, it seemed with distances increasing and times decreasing, that the moment had come to unfetter one’s ambition. Christchurch has its own marathon, and it is flat. Why not have a go? From the very moment of making this decision, jogging ceased to be a pleasure. At first, it was not noticeable. It was just a nag which gradually became more obvious. The sparkle had disappeared from the early morning eyes. Legs were heavy, and there was a tendency to stumble up kerbs, and to bump into gateposts. The thought of missing a run became horrifying, but more and more attractive. Bringing the keenly ana-

for the worse. For years, my thoughts whilst slinking in and out of dawn’s rosy fingers have

lytic mind of the social scientist to bear on one’s own concerns is not easy, but after some weeks I tracked down the problem. My jogging (now running) thoughts and fantasies had changed. Now it was all the confounded marathon. Am I doing enough for it? Is it stupid to try? Should I be doing more training? Should I be running harder? Will I be able to crack three hours and a half? Four hours and a half? Five hours and a half? Will I lose my way? Should I be running twice a day? Could I crack three hours? • Even decidedly unworthy notions such as “If Alison Roe can do it, then ...” came unbidden to mind. Such regression to the unthinking thoughts of chauvinistic pre-liberation days showed how desperate matters had become. It was an obsession. ’’ As a good psychologist, having sorted out the problem, I took steps (as it were) to solve it; It was simply done: I resolved not to send in my entry for the marathon. From that moment on, my thoughts and fantasies were back to what passes for normal for me, and .the running (now jogging again) has once more started to become a pleasure. There is a hint, however, that it might never be quite the same. Having once toyed with the idea of the big one, it is still lurking there. All of this shows just how important thoughts and fantasies are to jogging, and how important jogging is to thoughts and fantasies, including the fantasy that one could successfully complete a marathon. Anyway, my reason for not entering was in order to preserve my psychological well-being. What was yours?