Jogging With G.K.

"Do not look at the faces in the illustrated papers.
Look at the faces in the street."—G.K. Chesterton

Against the Stream

by Robert Moore-Jumonville

Civilizations rise and fall passing through certain more or less discernible phases—from birth, struggle and stabilization, to dominance, decadence, and decline. Attempting to chart these stages is a favorite pastime of historians and cultural critics. Is the United States, for instance, currently on the way up or on the way down on this hypothetical civilization graph? Perhaps one reliable indicator of the rise or fall of a civilization—please do not think me completely facetious—is to consider the habits of runners. What would we deduce, for instance, if the people of a culture ran only indoors (in air-conditioned rooms on machines watching television), or if no one in the culture ran, or if they refused to walk short distances even for a good reason, or if they only ran to get a good spot on the couch? Wouldn't we conclude that the culture had grown soft, decadent, and self-destructive?

One of my college history professors introduced me to the theory of English historian Arthur Toynbee who posited that the most advanced civilizations were those forced to overcome the greatest obstacles. To use a cliché: no pain, no gain. Or to illustrate, Toynbee contrasted northern European cultures that were required to overcome harsh climate and terrain conditions (cultures that reached high levels of sophistication) with the peoples, say, of the South Sea Islands whose survival required relatively little effort. If papaya and shellfish abound, why get up regularly at 6:00 a.m.? Mesopotamia, a civilization faced with extreme climate fluctuations and few natural defenses nevertheless invented writing, the wheel, and the lunar calendar (to mention only a few of their fundamental achievements). In order to survive, cooperation in Sumer was paramount. Invention was the daughter; Necessity, in the guise of harsh Nature, was the stepmother of invention.

Its runners in part determine the state of a culture's soul. We recall the story of Marathon—symbolizing not merely the athleticism of a civilization so rich and powerful that it can extend to

select citizens the privilege of consistent training, rather the heroism of Marathon represents the selfless courage and duty of civilized youth, here fighting against external Persian aggression. (It was a later imperialist Athens, weakened by greed and individualism, which over-extended itself rashly against Sparta.)  Healthy running, it could be argued, is one indicator that a culture is still sane.

In contrast, I am amazed at how often people ascribe my running to madness—as an act of sheer lunacy. Why just the other day when I was traveling in Europe, lodged in a city hotel, I decided to run five flights of hotel stairs for a change instead of fighting the crowded streets. The North Americans I was traveling with insisted my behavior constituted derangement (to tell the truth, the Europeans seemed a bit puzzled by it, too).  Chesterton admits that running might easily take on a crazed look.

There was, indeed, something a little mad in the contrast between the evening's stillness over the empty country-side, and these two figures fleeing wildly from nothing. They had the look of two lunatics, possibly they were.

"Are you all right?" said Turnbull, with civility. "Can you keep this up?"
"Quite easily, thank you," replied MacIan. "I run very well."
"Is that a qualification in a family of warriors?" asked Turnbull.
"Undoubtedly. Rapid movement is essential," answered MacIan, who never saw a joke in his life.
Turnbull broke out into a short laugh, and silence fell between them, the panting silence of runners.

This scene from The Ball and the Cross symbolizes the intellectual vigor and spiritual youth of civilization that is the hope of all societies. Turnbull (a fiery atheist) and MacIan (a devout and stubborn Irish Catholic) have determined to fight a duel to the death over their convictions, but the authorities will not let them. Consequently, they are on the run—ironically (providentially) paired as comrades who disagree vehemently with each other, but who nevertheless agree to take ideas seriously against a cynical and indifferent culture. In this scene, running denotes people alive, who care enough to think. "A dead thing can go with the stream," warned Chesterton, "only a living thing can go against it." These two running mates appear as the chief individuals in the story willing to think for themselves.

Once, on a flight to Florida, I overheard a conversation between the people in the seats behind me. A woman was moving from Michigan to Florida. "Won't you miss the seasons?" asked the man next to her. She replied with assurance: "Not if the one you've got is the perfect one." I thought of Toynbee's thesis. Here are people who want to live

without weather, who want to avoid climbing mountains and forging rivers. One of my graduate school professors at Iowa near retirement moved to Sarasota for a year, but came back. While lying on the beach one day, he had overheard the following conversation between a couple of college girls. Girl One: "Why did you say you don't like Sarasota?" Girl Two: "Because it is full of old people who come here to die—but don't."

Our western civilization seems to be dying—growing spiritually old, going south, opting for the path of ease and least resistance. What are we running from in our culture? Perhaps we are afraid, like Britain in the nineteenth century that our civilization is running out of time.

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