One of my other early memories was that of our Easter Picnic festivities. Greek Orthodox Easter was, from what I could tell, just an excuse to throw one enormous party. Never had I witnessed so much wine, raucousness, and love all taking place in a single location. The quantities of food and celebration were beyond imagination, but what really struck me were the older Greek gentlemen dancing endlessly without rest or tiring. Most of them were recent arrivals from the old country, Greek immigrants whose children and grandchildren had migrated to America and then imported them over to the United States at a later date. These men were distinctive in the way they looked, dressed, and behaved. They seemed less interested in food and social carousing and more interested in moving with incredible form and exquisite mastery to the rhythmic sounds of the Hellenic Tunes, a local Greek band that strummed eight-string bouzoukis and tapped rousing chromatic riffs on the ancient santuri. These instruments didn’t just play music; they infused passion directly into your soul.
Most of the men from the old country were in remarkable shape, lean and fit, with beautifully preserved olive skin and heads full of peppery gray hair. Their faces were chiseled and taut, and they danced with whomever would dance with them, even by themselves when everybody else tired. These were hardy men, resilient and self-reliant, wise in the ways of the world, men who had endured hardship and struggle in the old country far beyond anything their American-bred offspring would ever encounter. Their movements were expressive and stirring. They would dance the zeïbekiko, the hasapiko, and the pentozali, pure emotion bleeding onto the dance floor.
In between sets of music, when the band would take a break, I would watch as they exchanged shots of a clear liquid from little glasses, sometimes hoisting these husky thimbles into the air and cheering “Opa!” before consuming. I later learned that these glasses were filled with an aperitif known as ouzo, or the stronger distillate called tsipouro, unless they were Cretans, in which case they’d drink raki. When the band gathered the energy to resume playing, these men were always the first to head back out onto the dance floor, never stopping, never tiring.
Our family would often leave near midnight, and the only remaining groups of people at the festival were these old Greek men, still dancing as though the party had just begun. The band had long since stopped, and now it was just a scratchy prerecorded sound track playing over the speakers, but the men didn’t slow down. Their endurance was extraordinary.
Why I would remember these particular things as a child, I do not know. But those indefatigable dancing Greek men would stick with me forever.
Another lasting childhood memory was that of a footrace during my kindergarten year. It was an all-school affair that pitted the children in my grade against the older kids in the first and second grades. Judging from my experience during free play at recess, I knew that I wasn’t the swiftest kid around, as other boys and girls could routinely outsprint me. But this was a contest of four laps around the schoolyard, not a quick dash.
The starting gun sounded and off we went. Most kids darted out at a full sprint pace, racing as though they were running a 100-yard dash, not four laps. By the end of the first lap, I was somewhere in the middle of the pack.
By the end of the second lap, many of the initial sprinters were complaining that the race was too long. But the teachers kept telling them it was four laps and to keep going. Most of them quit or started walking.
By the end of the third lap, nearly all of the kids were walking from exhaustion or sitting on the sidelines. But I just kept chugging along, not really paying attention to my position because there were still so many kids in front of me. I was one of the youngest out there, and I remember weaving in and out among the much taller kids as though running through a forest of trees.
Come the fourth lap, something remarkable occurred. Daylight emerged between the trees as I passed the final competitor. Amazingly, I found myself in front of everyone and leading the race. This struck me as odd; it was hardly the outcome I’d expected. Even more startling, I still had lots of energy left. I just kept running along, not feeling tired at all.
I came across the finish line a full half lap ahead of the nearest rival. Not once had I slowed or walked. I just kept going at a steady clip throughout the full duration of the race, and I felt like I could have kept going even after crossing the finish line.
The teachers didn’t seem to make much of my victory, at least initially. They simply congratulated me and then went about corralling all of the other kids back into their classrooms. Later that day, however, I started to notice some teachers having side conversations and then glancing my way. I could tell they were talking about me, but I didn’t know what they were saying. This kept happening throughout the afternoon, and I started to think that perhaps they were saying something good, something positive. I sensed they might have actually been stirred by what they’d witnessed that day on the playground. That was my first inclination that running held the power to move people in unexpected ways. Even though there wasn’t much to it, running inspired.
Not that it really mattered to me. Sure, I’d won the race, but running laps around the playground didn’t particularly interest me. What I really loved was running home after school. This was where true freedom could be found. The heck with running around in circles within the confines of some fenced-off, man-made institution; real adventure took place outside the school walls. Running through the park, chasing the ducks around the lake, breathing the fresh air blowing in off the Pacific, marveling at the great expanses before me, this was the stuff of life. A man’s education shouldn’t be limited to a classroom, not even at 6 years old—especially not at 6 years old.
Why is it that these thoughts and experiences were some of my earliest childhood recollections? Nature or nurture, it remains anybody’s guess. Perhaps we really were born to run, as some have suggested, and certain people feel the pull of this primordial instinct more strongly than others. Whatever the case may be, an adventurous wanderlust seemed hardwired into my genetic constitution, a by-product of my ancestry, perhaps. And so I grew up exploring freely and, in doing so, discovered that my own two feet could carry me wherever I wanted to go.
“Perhaps you’ll run a marathon, like Pheidippides,” my dad once said to me.
“Who?”
“Pheidippides, the ancient Greek messenger who ran from the battlefield of Marathon to announce victory.”
“Wow, that seems like a long way.”
“He ran over 25 miles, and then he died.”
“But he still delivered his message, right?”
“Yes,” my father chuckled, “he still delivered his message.”
It was a profound revelation. A man, a sacred Greek messenger, a runner just like me, had collapsed to the ground dead from exhaustion, but only after having fulfilled his life’s duty. In my young heart’s zeal, I could think of no more honorable way to go. From that moment on I knew my life’s purpose. I wanted to be as Pheidippides. I wanted to run a marathon.
3
FIELDS OF FENNEL
Marathon. It is a word with universal recognition, though no universal meaning. Few people know the origin of the word, while even fewer know the secret truths behind the reality of Pheidippides’s heroic undertaking. When asked the definition of marathon, most people would probably tell you it means anything of excruciatingly long duration requiring great endurance of its participants. For instance, we have marathon sessions of Congress, dance-a-thons, marathon episodes of The Simpsons, marathon lines around the block when Apple releases a new iPhone, and marathon traffic delays during rush-hour commutes. None of these answers would be correct, however. Those in the know would tell you that the definition of the word is a 26.2-mile footrace. But even they would be wrong.
The literal translation of the word marathon is: “a place full of fennel” (yes, that same aromatic herb you enjoy sautéed with vegetables, tossed in salads, or roasted alongside leg of lamb). Why fennel? Because when the invadi
ng Persian military forces landed on the shorelines of Greece in 490 BCE, they encountered a massive field of fennel. It is here that the Battle of Marathon took place. And that is the true etymology of the word—field of fennel. So I guess all those bumper stickers on athletes’ vehicles displaying 26.2 should actually be changed to read Fennel.
While the genesis of the word is rather entertaining, the occasion itself is a bit more poignant. In fact, historians have called the Battle of Marathon one of the most significant events in the course of human history, for the very shape and form of our modern world depended upon its outcome. Had the invading Persian forces defeated the Greeks at Marathon, the evolution of Western society would have been inexorably altered. The impact of this confrontation cannot be overstated given that it occurred during a most fragile juncture in the blossoming of contemporary human civilization. Our very existence hung in the balance.
As military historian Edward S. Creasy wrote in his book, The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World:
The day of Marathon is the critical epoch in the history of the two nations. It broke forever the spell of Persian invincibility, which had paralysed men’s minds. . . . It secured for mankind the intellectual treasures of Athens, the growth of free institutions, the liberal enlightenment of the Western world, and the gradual ascendancy for many ages of the great principles of European civilisation.
If the Battle of Marathon holds such weight, then it may not be overreaching to consider the feat of a single runner the greatest athletic achievement of all time. Indeed, had Pheidippides failed in his conquest, the Battle of Marathon would have almost certainly concluded differently and the history books been eternally rewritten. Few people realize that the footsteps of an ancient Athenian hemerodromos1 (day-long runner) essentially preserved the fate of modern culture and forever influenced the values and way of life we know today. All of this because of a single runner; and all of this because of a single long-distance run.
The Battle of Marathon is one of history’s earliest recorded military clashes, and the valiant drama of a single lone runner stands enduringly as one of the greatest physical accomplishments ever. The story of Pheidippides is one of the first known references to athleticism beyond sport, his long-distance run being notable not only in duration and expediency, but in heroism.
And, most remarkably, it all took place 2,500 years ago, long before the rise of energy gels, sports drinks, and medial posts on highly cushioned footwear. The vision of a lone runner making his way from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens to deliver news of the Greek victory, chest heaving mightily, armor shimmering brightly in the radiant Mediterranean sun, powerful legs thrusting forward, running with the hope of saving all of Greece and forever preserving democratic principles, was just the sort of oversize romantic fodder my young heart needed to ignite a passion. I was Greek, and running was something that brought with it great pride. I saw no higher calling.
Following that enlightened conversation with my father about Pheidippides’s untimely but glorious death, I continued running right up to my freshman year of high school when I joined the San Clemente Tritons cross-country team. We runners were a grungy lot, free-spirited and aloof. People thought we were either really cool or really weird, and I guess we were a bit of both.
Although the race distances we competed in were fairly short in duration—typically 2.3 to 2.7 miles—we sometimes ran 70 or 80 miles a week in training. Not because we had to, but because we loved to.
My history teacher, Benner Cummings, was our cross-country coach. Benner was an interesting character, more of a mentor sage than a hard-nosed drill instructor. He referred to some of us stouter, sturdier runners on the team as “hillmen,” because we specialized in conquering the hills. Calling me a hillman was Benner’s subtle way of explaining to me that I was too slow to keep pace with the lankier sprinters, but that when the going got tough, when the incline steepened and the rocks and roots chewed men alive, I would excel.
Humble and unassuming, Benner was much the Socratic figure. One of the greatest thinkers of all time, Socrates once denounced, “I know nothing except the fact that I know nothing.” Not formally trained as a coach, Benner claimed to know nothing, but he taught us everything.
“Run with your hearts and the body will follow,” Benner used to tell us. Some of the parents were growing concerned about the high mileage we were racking up each week. Listen to your heart, Benner counseled. If the heart grows weary and uninspired, stop. If the heart remains impassioned and burning with desire, go. It was a simple philosophy, one that made sense to me. My heart was ablaze, so I went with it.
Being inherently drawn to extremes, I did something many thought was truly crazy during that first year of high school. Looking back on it, perhaps they were right.
Our school’s annual fundraiser that year was an organized run around the high school track. The idea was for us students to solicit pledges for each lap we completed. A typical donor pledged a dollar per lap. If you were able to garner 10 donors, then you would be raising $10 per lap. Run five laps, and you’d be raising a total of $50 in donations. Not bad. But complete 10 laps, and you’d raise $100, which was even better (of course, running 10 laps wasn’t easy). The donations raised went toward funding the school’s library. This was a cause near and dear to my heart because my mom was a schoolteacher and always stressed the importance of reading and open access to books and literature. The library was an important place of learning to me, and I didn’t just want it to survive, I wanted it to thrive.
Each lap around the track was a standard quarter-mile. Some students were able to complete those 10 laps and raise an amazing $100 for the school library. A couple students managed to go even farther and run 20 laps, raising a hefty $200. One student was able to cover a remarkable 40 laps—10 full miles—raising $400 for the library!
I ran 105 laps. Yes, I raised the most money of anyone and made my mother proud, which was all well and good, but in the process of doing so I accomplished something even grander: I fulfilled my life’s promise. You see, the total mileage covered during that intrepid gallivant around the high school track was the equivalent of a marathon. At 14 years of age my mission had been realized. I had become one with Pheidippides.
It took its toll on me. Completing that marathon wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the toughest thing I’d ever done. Running 70 to 80 miles over the course of a week was one thing, but running 26.25 sustained miles in a single go was an altogether different proposition. There was pain. Avalanches of it, coming in sporadic waves and unpredictable pulses. Sometimes the pounding was acute and specific, as though a wooden mallet was repeatedly striking my kneecaps. Other times it was diffused and ephemeral, as if all of my cells were screaming out in concurrent agony, from the balls of my feet to the very tip of my nose. The pain also brought with it bouts of gut-wrenching nausea. Stop, my body kept telling me. Give up. This is too much. The mental battle was every bit as daunting as the physical one, a raw confrontation with self.
Friends and outsiders who had taken an interest in my endeavor surrounded me, so I did my best to put up a cheerful facade. But my struggles to persist must have been obvious to them; the internal strife was palpable and impossible to conceal. Feelings of self-doubt and doom were often followed by great waves of elation, as though I could run forever, only to shortly thereafter be overtaken by further rounds of darker, more disconcerting emotions. There were several points during the later stages of the run when my mind seemed to disassociate entirely from my body, and a peculiar numbness spread over me like a dense, halcyon haze. These moments were not entirely disagreeable. In fact, I felt almost nothing at such points. All sense of time and place became distorted as though I’d crossed into a new dimension, some sort of foggy parallel universe where things didn’t present as crisply and well defined as they do here on earth. Then someone would hoot or yell my name, and I’d be abruptly transmuted back to reality, bringing with it more pain and an unsettling queasines
s deep within my bowels.
No wonder Pheidippides died, I thought to myself. Those final few steps toward the finish of the 105th lap brought with them a torrent of emotions. There were euphoria and jubilation as people cheered, clapped, and slapped me on the back in congratulatory attaboys as I wobbled by, but there were also intermittent pulses of pain and mind-bending tenderness in my muscles and joints so severe that they threatened to topple me like a domino at any instant. And finally, there was a profound sense of satisfaction in having accomplished what I’d set out to do.
These deep feelings of accomplishment represented one side of the emotional equation; the other side was an almost infinite sense of relief. As my friend’s mother dropped me off in front of my house and I said goodbye and shut the car door, the main thought I had at that moment was, “Thank God it’s over.”
I couldn’t imagine taking another step beyond a marathon. But I would never have to. My conquest was complete and I could now rejoice and relax. I’d done it; I’d completed a marathon. There was nothing left to prove. All was good.
But the contentment in having fulfilled my destiny was surprisingly short-lived. Things move quickly in high school, and soon the exultation of having run a marathon was replaced by an overwhelming sense of What’s next? By the conclusion of cross-country season, the fire in my belly had all but extinguished. Benner retired as our coach, and the motivation to keep running just wasn’t there. Growing up near the beach in Southern California provided plenty of alternative activities. Surfing and volleyball became some of my pursuits, as did lifeguarding. I had nothing left to prove in running, so I hung up my running shoes—quite literally, by flinging them high into a tree branch—and moved on. Just as Pheidippides had died a noble death on the steps of the Acropolis, my life as a runner lofted away heavenward on the limbs of that tree.
The Road to Sparta Page 2
