At the Prague Marathon Expo, the line for bibs was intermingled with spectators for a CrossFit competition. Hundreds of Czechs were watching and competing.
Perhaps it’s time to update the famous quote about ancient Rome conquering the world three times (armies, religion, laws).
My proposal: the United States of America conquered the world three times: the first through its armies, the second through Bretton Woods, the third through its fitness culture.
It is fitting that cultlike dedication to exercise may become America’s lasting export. CrossFit, Ironman, enormous road marathons—they are all a distinct reflection of the bourgeois individualism and consumption culture we’ve come to know and love. I am largely in Prague in an ill-advised attempt to qualify for the Boston Marathon. Boston was the world’s first big road marathon race, and it has spawned thousands of children.
Prague, like many cities across Europe, has realized hosting fitness festivals drags in even more tourists and revenue, in addition to giving residents a chance to compete close to home. At every expo, there are ads for marathons in Krakow, Havana, Bologna, Lisbon, Marrakech, and an ever-growing roster of destination marathons. But there are also world CrossFit events, triathlons, ultramarathons, half marathons, relay races, and so on. They are all staffed by people who speak English and vie for the attention of the Transnational Athlete. It all makes the GDP line go up and to the right.
Let’s not pretend I’m some ostracized critic of the cultural order either—this is my sixth marathon, and I am just as fitness-obsessed as everyone else. My attempts to hit the Boston Marathon qualifying time have consumed the majority of my recreational activity over the last 8 years. I have now been to Reykjavik, Geneva (Illinois), Sparks (Maryland), Duluth, Barcelona, and Prague to race. I enjoy it, clearly. Prague is overrun with tourists, to begin with; there’s no shame in joining the pack.
Distance running is a universal language, as recognizable and transferable as the music staff or habeas corpus. On the way to the start, I chat with other runners Instead of the national anthem, the Prague Marathon organizers play “The Moldau” from “Ma Vlast” by Czech composer Bedřich Smetana. The race goes off at the prearranged time, the streets are lined with spectators, the roads and bridges are closed, the city’s very effective streetcar system is paused. The course winds through cobblestones and dull highways, lined with architecture and detritus from Prague’s centuries of life as a regional outpost for German emperors. It’s a great city and a great marathon.
Yet it is a language irrevocably shaped and constructed by Americans and the inescapable capitalist realism that surrounds us.1 There is no alternative. I mean, there’s a damn marathon in Havana, which is under a sword of inhumane sanctions by the United States government. And if Havana gave me a better shot at qualifying for Boston, I would run it!
Perhaps all these endurance challenges work so well under capitalist realism because they remind us of our own limits. Every day, we are drowned in advertising and propaganda telling us there is no limit to our ambitions, no right that cannot be waived, and no dignity that cannot be forgotten. But there is a human at the center of it all. And during a marathon, the reality bites. I may try to spit it all out like the seeds of the 25 orange slices I grab during the race, but the truth is there.
Around mile 15, my hips began to bitterly ache. After three months of running Barcelona, an ultra in Surrey, two half-marathons, a smattering of shorter races, and playing tennis nonstop, the tendons in my right hip finally had enough. My pace was falling off. The temperature was getting unseasonably warm.2 Qualification and a PR seemed out of sight. I stopped in an overheated Port-a-potty. Upon exiting, I decided to continue and finish around 3 hours and 24 minutes. After all, I spent so much money to get here!
Long footnote warning. There’s something about living in London that draws the mind toward “capitalist realism”, a concept coined by the British philosopher Mark Fisher (a.k.a. k-punk) that there is no alternative to capitalism for the foreseeable future.
Instead of referencing Hegel and Althusser, the idea is best described in the following quotes:
“We all live in a country called capitalism.” — Bong Joon-Ho
“It is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.” — a hodgepodge quote attributed to Frederic Jameson, Slavoj Žižek, and Fisher himself
“When we get hungry we eat the same fucking food, the ramen noodle.” — A Tribe Called Quest
Similar to Fisher, I’m not even sure I have a “critique” of capitalism anymore, I am simply bombarded/drowning in the grim reality of where we actually are. It’s not even interesting to bring these concepts up anymore; the post-left edgelords, “enlightened centrists”, and groyper losers have turned it into a joke. Writing this short essay is more of a quiet complaint than a grand statement.
Fisher grew up in the Thatcher era (his book subtitle is a subtle nod to Thatcher’s “THERE IS NO ALTERNATIVE (to market capitalism). Living in London and observing the critical nexus of mass privatization/commodification will do that to a person. I can see it. Anyway, the thesis of this short blog is that sport is the ultimate expression capitalist realism. But you already knew that, deep down. There is no alternative.
Most of this is lost to time, but there was a pre-Roman society and culture in Europe that were essentially wiped out or assimilated into Christianity. It’s also somewhat clear that many enthusiastically adopted the new order and kept it running through the present.
It is about time you posted again! Hope all is well!