This is a provocation, of course, and a bit of spite for not having the compulsion, the willingness, the money, nor – perhaps – the cut-off time required to participate in the marathon of marathons, which this Monday (20) celebrated its 130th edition.
Since 1897, Boston has scrupulously organized its 42.2 km race. In 2020, at the beginning of Covid-19, there was a “virtual” competition.
More than being part of the original group of so-called “majors”, the group of most desired marathons in the world, Boston deserves to be remembered for the history that was shaped there.
In 1967, then-university student Kathrine Switzer, who competed in the race wearing a hoodie and sweatshirt to go unnoticed, completed this competition that had previously been prohibited to women, helping to change the sexist understanding of things in the world.
(And the photos of the Pulitzer Prize for photography Harry Trask of the truculent race director Jock Semple trying to catch her at km 3 were perpetuated in the imagination of the 20th century.)
In 2013, two bombs exploded near the finish line within 14 seconds. Three spectators died, an 8-year-old child among them.
The column would perhaps have to end here, without even mentioning the large number of Brazilians in this 130th edition, 683, which puts us behind only the British and Canadians among foreigners residing outside the United States in the ranking of participants in the race.
But it is not always necessary to take the pain of this plan to the starting totem. My point, in fact, is different: the race does not need a starting totem. It does not require goals or tests to be fully lived.
Before, a “disclosure”. My resume is sparse. I’m going next month for my 12th marathon, the second outside of Brazil. It will be in Calgary, Canada, so be careful not to ask me about curation criteria.
I’m not a fan of the idea that you need to live experiences like “things to do before you die”. “Tickling” Boston, even though I’m technically a marathoner, would be just another fetish.
For this reason, I tend not to give special value to formal events, such as timing and medals. What I experienced on an ordinary Saturday morning in April, when I left home and started running without a defined itinerary, a gravel run that ended 2h20 and some 26 km later —Strava, always the same, recorded 23 km—, seems to me the quintessence of running, or, which amounts to the same thing, my translation for “pleasure in running”.
And it wasn’t even because I passed by the Ipiranga Museum and went down the stairs of the monument; crossed the Tamanduateí by a bridge built solely for cars; the stop at a cultural center of excellence such as Sesc Belenzinho ended; and have a metro station on the way to get home.
All this under brigadier skies and civilized temperatures.
The thing that matters is that I gave the imponderable a chance there. There was no distance, time or pace to follow. Physical activity in general is not remembered as a vector of, come on, losing control, and running stands out here for its self-sufficiency. I often say that, with it, we are our own red double-decker tourist bus.
I will return to the topic, but I leave the recommendation to include a bit of loss of control in the dosage of physical activity.
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