Have you ever heard of the secretive, bizarre 60-hour over-100-mile race that has only been completed by 15 runners since it began 30 years ago?
If you answered no, we’re in the same boat. I’d never heard of the Barkley Marathons until this week.
When I’m tired, I often watch the Today I Found Out YouTube channel. Earlier this week, I stumbled across this video when YouTube recommended it to me.
If you don’t have the time to watch an 18-minute video, here’s the TL;DW (“too long; didn’t watch”, or a brief summation of the video): Barkley is a race that is deliberately designed to be unbeatable. From the secretive application process to the course that gets harder every time someone manages to finish, the whole thing is designed to be an Experience in Failure.
And from the moment that I watched that first YouTube video, I have been utterly hooked. It’s funny, in a way, because while I do run sometimes as a means to an end (i.e. exercise), it’s never been something I enjoy. I’m happy when I can run 5km continuously; never in a million years have I considered running a marathon, let alone one that’s 160km in the mountains.
But that’s not the point.
This race, to me, isn’t about the running. No—instead, it’s the stuff of dreams: pushing yourself to the limit for a near-impossible goal, with no reward on the horizon beyond the ability to say “I did it.”
Isn’t it glorious?
I’ve watched footage of the race taken by runners, an absolutely spectacular documentary about Gary Robbins’ attempt to complete the race, and a multitude of other sources about the race.
It brings me such joy, this race.
We as a society can be so insecure when it comes to failure.
Whether it be the validity of our own opinions, little inevitable mistakes born of carelessness or inexperience, arbitrary goals that we set for ourselves, or a wide range of other things, we can become embarrassed or ashamed in the moment or even just reliving the memory. Sometimes, we even lie or obfuscate to hide these little things.
But why?
Failure is a wondrous thing. For years, The Incomplete Book of Failures by Stephen Pile has been a staple gift item of mine. It may be out of print, but it is such a wonderful book to have around so that one can have a good laugh from time to time.
But that’s always been insufficient in and of itself, of course, because that book is more about laughing at other people’s failures than about being secure about our own.
It’s more than that, I realized recently as I read The Story of Jiro by Kojin Shimomura. This is a story of an unfortunately “monkey-faced” second son of a well-off family growing up and learning about life and the people around him. It reminded me somewhat of Anne of Green Gables, both stories being episodic stories of a particular child that expanded gradually into that character’s lifetime in stories.
The Story of Jiro and the Danger of Praise
One of Jiro’s childhood struggles is his insecurity about his position in the eyes of the adults in his family. Because Jiro’s mother was unable to produce enough milk, Jiro was raised in his early years by a wet nurse; consequently, even after he is reclaimed by his birth parents, he grows up perceiving his wet nurse as his main mother figure. Between Jiro’s paternal grandmother’s overt favoritism for both of his brothers over Jiro, and his own internal conviction that his own mother neither wants nor loves him due to poor communication between the two, Jiro finds refuge in the male adults in his family: his father and maternal grandfather. At first very rebellious, Jiro settles down after a series of events culminating in a meaningful discussion with his grandfather.
After a time during which Jiro takes care to behave himself well, including several Very Good Deeds, he is praised by everyone in his family—save his grandfather. Jiro becomes increasingly convinced that he has been shunned by his grandfather, and is just about to lash out—when his grandfather acknowledges that Jiro has done a Very Good Thing.
Jiro is at a loss at this. If his grandfather has always been on his side, then why hasn’t he been praising Jiro along with all the other adults?
His grandfather tells him a story, then, about a young Buddhist disciple. All the young disciples are trained in reciting the sutras, but most of them do so going through the motions, only memorizing the words. This disciple, however, is different. He takes the time to meditate on the meanings; to ask the monks about what he doesn’t understand, and meditate upon their answers. Because he takes the time to understand, when he recites the sutras, it is a beautiful thing to hear.
One day, a group of visiting monks arrive, and this young disciple recites the sutras for them in a ceremony. The monks are duly impressed, and tell the disciple that they have never heard those sutras recited so wonderfully. Their praise is lavish, and the disciple is utterly delighted.
And from then on, whenever he starts to recite the sutras, what comes to mind is not the meanings of the sutras, but instead the delight he felt at being praised for reciting so well. The brilliance of his recitation fades away, until they ring dull and hollow.
At last, the boy goes to the monk presiding over his temple and asks for permission to go into the woods to train alone.
“Why do you want to do that?” asks the monk.
“I can’t focus my mind,” the disciple laments. “Ever since those visiting monks praised my recitations, my head’s been turned. I am still utterly immature.”
The monk considers the disciple solemnly. “You are wise,” he says to the boy. “For where many focus on the way that a scolding disturbs the mind, words of praise are far more dangerous—but there are few who ever notice.”
Jiro’s grandfather finishes the story, and asks Jiro if he understands. Jiro does.
I felt like I was there with Jiro, a child being enlightened on something so simple—something that I almost feel like I remember hearing as a child and then forgetting because I, unlike Jiro, didn’t understand its significance.
The Gift of Failure
I’ve been learning to practice radical self-acceptance—this is my therapist’s school of thought. In learning this, failures and mistakes have been the greatest gift.
I grew up beating myself up for every failure; recounting and reliving failures hours or days or months or years past again and again. Somehow, there was a part of me that thought that failure=bad and therefore I must punish myself.
But that’s not true, I’m finally learning. Failures are utterly valuable—I can learn from them, and not just in a don’t-do-this-again sense.
It’s in learning to apologize and change my behavior without letting shame disrupt my mind. It’s in accepting that in conversations where miscommunications prevail, I don’t have to keep talking, trying to clarify as if the misunderstanding is tantamount to a lie. It’s in accepting that I can tell people things about uncertain thoughts of the future without throwing the mantle of “unreliable” over myself when I ultimately don’t choose to do what I said I would. It’s in accepting the flaws of my mind and action as things that are, indeed, flaws, but are simply a part of me and nothing to be ashamed of.
There was a part of me that always thought that if I stopped beating myself up for each and every failure, I’d lose the ability to learn from each failure.
But that’s not what’s happened.
Instead, I’m only more clear-minded: “I didn’t like how I said that. Oh well. Next time.” And often, I do change. Maybe not immediately, but gradually and surely.
And I can do these, because they are failures. Praise and success are, as Jiro’s grandfather’s story portrayed, harder to recover from. I had no words for it before I read that book. Praise sometimes paralyzes me as I fear squandering the good will I’ve somehow built up. Other times, success makes me lazy until I am failing once again and must fight my way back up.
Circling Back to Barkley…
Is this why the idea of a failure-guaranteed race so appeals to me? Maybe. I can’t say for sure. All I know is that I love the idea of Barkley.
Something contestants are almost guaranteed to fail. But they try it anyway. They wish each other five loops with grins. They push themselves and push themselves, and many try again and again.
It’s a bizarre little event.
And I love the idea of it.