The Great Experiment

“First, I figured out the time I thought the mile should be run in. Second, I started testing my theories and particularly my own constitution and capabilities; the result of this study soon convinced me that the then existing records at the distance were by no means good.”
- Walter George, former world record-holder in the mile

In my relatively brief history as a long distance runner, I have come upon many revelations concerning the nature of our sport but perhaps none more striking than the following observation: The uncanny resemblance between the runner’s craft and the scientific method. Runners are indeed a heterogeneous bunch, falling into what I would refer to as overlapping categories. Even the so-called free spirits, who are prone to leave their watch at home and revel in the aesthetics or graceful art of running, are on a quest. Perhaps not a physiological one, but even so, it is a quest for greater understanding of the self, of personal limits, and of the inner need to go the distance.

Consider, for instance, the evolution of training methods since the Golden Age of Greece and it becomes clear that throughout human history, the athlete’s journey has been marked by the goal of self-actualization, or the maximizing of one’s potential. Hellenic runners trained on four-day schedules called tetras and were driven by coaches carrying forked sticks. Aristotle, himself, suggested that runners practice holding their breath for increasing lengths of time while others like Milo of Criton walked everyday with a calf in their arms to gain strength as the animal matured. The Romans had their athletes abstain from water, were flogged by slaves to familiarize them with pain, and ate only dried figs, boiled grain, and fresh cheese. By the seventeenth century, runners were having their spleens removed to increase their speed, an operation which had a one-in-five chance of death. The “pedestrians” of the nineteenth century were known for purging their bodies with Glauber salts, ate steak, stale bread, and beer for breakfast everyday, and lied in bed naked for half-an-hour after exercise. The consensus at the time was that too much exercise guaranteed an untimely death since the heart was believed to have a limited number of beats over a lifetime. It wasn’t until Paavo Nurmi came around at the turn of the century and began to rewrite the record books that this myth began to lose credence among professionals in the field. To this very day, the number of training philosophies and the variety of approaches to building up a runner’s endurance and speed are dizzying. The sequence of trial and error, most often carried out between coach and dedicated athlete, is one that continues to define success in the world of running.

Each one of us continues this tradition by insisting on testing our little hypotheses, using our bodies as subjects. Our measurements must always be exact, our records precise; down to the very last detail so that nothing can escape judgment or scrutiny. We delight in crunching numbers, analyzing performance data, comparing results, and then looking for needed areas of improvement, all in the interest of shaving off a few precious seconds and being leaner and quicker than we were yesterday. It’s a numbers game, really, an obsession with standardization and a method aimed at nothing less than perfection. The Holy Grail of runners is to find the ideal training scheme, that flawless mix of overload and rest, stress and recovery. And since every runner deviates from the mean by varying degrees, the task remains an individual one. Methodical? You bet. Overzealous? Absolutely. Madness? Well, Percy Cerutty certainly thought so: “ To be great, one does not have to be mad, but definitely it helps.”