In Brief: The Bastardisation of Passing Time

William Penn wrote that "Time is what we want most but use worst." The more we want time to stop in its tracks, it races ahead of us, causing life itself to accelerate beyond our perceptions of the world. There is a slight irony in so bleakly forecasting a doomed struggle against time in the introduction of a piece that is, ostensibly, about a running race. But it is a race long enough for pride to be measured not in rankings but pace, though satisfaction as an amateur can perhaps only be accurately measured by lactic sensations. Today, at the Uppsala Half Marathon, there were inevitably too many. 

This morning, time was an embuggerance and a bliss. Looping repeatedly back on myself through the outskirts of Uppsala's old and new, time was all I could calculate - my head constantly contorting my distance covered and time spent in an almighty effort to estimate a resemblance of my final time. My head was full, yet empty, liberated from the banal stresses of the everyday, both unable and unwilling to consider the plethora of ideas that typically string together loosely in my mind. In pursuit of emptiness, my focus narrowed only to the numbers on my wrist and the idle hunt of runners ahead.

Whereas cycling brings clarity of thought, running brings this emptiness, a forced state of analysis paralysis where time is slowed, music emphasised, other lives are suspended in motion. The oddity of today was knowing that the masses around me were too transcending these orthodox perceptions, albeit at different speeds. A rare moment of external thought occurred when the race leader looped past - tall, imposing, moustache magnificently complementing his blonde mop. His strides appeared effortless, his use of time far more utilitarian than Penn once predicted.

Only towards conclusion, as the head finally began to permeate the body's suffering, did the real world once again feel visceral. The words of encouragement from spectators and volunteers sent my mind translating, attempting to consider what could constitute a response long after such a window could have ever existed. Days ago, I hit a Babel fish's utopia, briefly understanding the conversation around me without internal translation, the euphoria carrying me past lunchtime into afternoon. Today such a scenario was never possible, but the thought of my earlier success briefly cheered me before the final looping hill. 

Soon, I was ascending, repeatedly checking my watch in hope that metres would pass in lieu of time. Runners I had overtaken soon reclaimed there rightful position, successfully anticipating the final climb to the Castle on the Hill, where the eyes of all people lay. Some in states of exhaustion, some miraculously rejuvenated by the race's conclusion. Others meanwhile stood to cheer and support, offering moderate admiration for the public suffering of amateurs, occasionally capturing the final moments of pain through a camera lens. 

Time did briefly pause after a little over 1hr 35 of exercise to acknowledge my efforts before continuing ever onwards, tracking the subsequent finishers, beginning the stiff recovery period for others.

Today was perhaps a last gasp of Autumn, a final exultation of maximal sunshine before the movement of time backwards an hour corrupts our perspectives of daylight for the forthcoming months. It showed Uppsala perhaps in its strongest light, a city out in force to support its athletes through the idyllic city streets and in the surrounding open greenery. A model of active travel, the city's lack of road closures only strengthened the forces of public support and accessibility, running by and alongside a city going about its most gentle of weekend bustling. 

Thanks to the numbing emptiness of our efforts, we were at once both within and beyond the city, transporting ourselves into the banalities of normal life, and rising above them. We were perceptively bending our understanding of time into something else entirely. A confusing, empty, liberating thing.

See Also:

Foss is Boss - my final essay of the year for Derailleur, similarly themed on suffering, this time reviewing the Men's Individual Time Trial at the 2022 World Championships