Marathon Absurdity
Why the world is fascinated with records and record-breaking is completely beyond the ken of pedestrian minds like mine. Why is it particularly notable that a group of people hatched a notion to bake the largest chocolate chip cookie in the world? What is so fascinating about the largest paperclip collection in the world? Why register for posterity the incidence of the largest group hug ever mounted?
Yet there we are, falling all over ourselves attempting to initiate events that will capture the imagination of the world, and the attention of the Guinness Book of Records. A fleeting moment of fame - but forever enshrined in the annals of the Guinness Book of Records. As though by their very nature they represent outstanding accomplishments of great merit.
What accounts for this mass obsession, this adulation of over-achievement, this cult of records-worship?
And how exactly is it that we have such problems putting things in their rightful perspective? We ohh, and ahh, over items and events boasting the singular distinction of first, largest, most, only. We're so beguiled by size that we must celebrate it - or consume it. Consuming giant, massive, helpings of food or drink - or the information of huge by-the-numbers achievements.
The truly silly nature of this propensity is brought home by the hubbub occasioned by the revelation that an elderly man, a marathon competitor by the name of "Buster" Martin, alias Pierre Jean Martin, may not be the legendary 101 years of age he presents himself as. Thus making himself worthy of Guinness Records fame, as a successful marathoner.
He is reputed, on the evidence, to be a raw youngster of 94. Poor Mr. Martin; it would now appear that with this inconvenient revelation he may no longer rank. Might that be if there are no other contenders hoarier than 94 grand old years of age? He rankles at the suggestion that he has inflated his age.
"I know how long I have lived. There are always rumours from a lot of people who are jealous." Right on, Mr. Martin. You go out there, you run your aged heart out to your tired lungs' satisfaction. You're a true medal-winner. Blast the Guinness World Records, anyway.
Folks, this gutsy man is 94 years old. What does that say about our obese society heading for the dungheap of mortality at half his age?
Yet there we are, falling all over ourselves attempting to initiate events that will capture the imagination of the world, and the attention of the Guinness Book of Records. A fleeting moment of fame - but forever enshrined in the annals of the Guinness Book of Records. As though by their very nature they represent outstanding accomplishments of great merit.
What accounts for this mass obsession, this adulation of over-achievement, this cult of records-worship?
And how exactly is it that we have such problems putting things in their rightful perspective? We ohh, and ahh, over items and events boasting the singular distinction of first, largest, most, only. We're so beguiled by size that we must celebrate it - or consume it. Consuming giant, massive, helpings of food or drink - or the information of huge by-the-numbers achievements.
The truly silly nature of this propensity is brought home by the hubbub occasioned by the revelation that an elderly man, a marathon competitor by the name of "Buster" Martin, alias Pierre Jean Martin, may not be the legendary 101 years of age he presents himself as. Thus making himself worthy of Guinness Records fame, as a successful marathoner.
He is reputed, on the evidence, to be a raw youngster of 94. Poor Mr. Martin; it would now appear that with this inconvenient revelation he may no longer rank. Might that be if there are no other contenders hoarier than 94 grand old years of age? He rankles at the suggestion that he has inflated his age.
"I know how long I have lived. There are always rumours from a lot of people who are jealous." Right on, Mr. Martin. You go out there, you run your aged heart out to your tired lungs' satisfaction. You're a true medal-winner. Blast the Guinness World Records, anyway.
Folks, this gutsy man is 94 years old. What does that say about our obese society heading for the dungheap of mortality at half his age?
Labels: Health, Heros and Villains, Life's Like That, Society
posted by Pieface | 5:58 PM
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