David Beresford ANOTHER COUNTRY The brigade of determined faces that is the Tour de France has been hurtling across the television screen again and once more, after witnessing the agony of the proceedings, I come away puzzling: why do they do it ?
Once upon a time, and a very long time ago it was, I took part in an endurance race and was left agonising over the same question. I ran the Comrades Marathon and after finishing, sat down and drank a bottle of beer only to find myself stuck in a sitting position for three days, my leg muscles seized as rigid as wood. Aaiiiiii, the pain! I thought I’d had the worst of it when I stumbled into Pinetown earlier and – still being new to those parts – inquired of a passerby: “Where’s the finish?” “The finish to what?” she asked. “The Comrades Marathon!” I said. “Oh,” she said with a dawning smile: “That’s in Durban!”
“Durban! Then what’s this?” I demanded, waving a hand at our urban surrounds with the indignation of one who has been confronted with prima facie evidence of municipal fraud and conspiracy. “This is Pinetown!” “So where’s Durban?” “Over there,” she declared with a grin, pointing to the summit of Mount Everest with which some pillock had replaced the hill I now know as the Berea. I sat on the pavement, wept a little, stumbled to my feet and started to stagger upwards. When I had crossed the finishing line and finished my beer, course officials had to help pick me up and carry me away in a sitting position, to wedge me into a waiting car like a chair. The pain was excruciating, as was the accompanying question as to why I felt the need to run from Pietermaritzburg to Durban when there were no doubt buses available. The question faded in time along with the pain, but re- intrudes in anticipation of the wider question, which I have no doubt will confront me in that last moment of conscious thought: “Now what the hell was that all about?”
In the case of athletic competition the obvious answer would seem to be the evolutionary instinct, the survival of the fittest. Sport is the sexual arena in which the athlete parades his suitability as a hunter- gatherer, or hop-step-and-jumper, with muscles and whatever other protuberances might help promote the species.
But there lie contradictions. Sport is becoming more popular while the improvement of genes is arguably better served by learning the tango, or swotting up on commodity prices. As a mating dance a double marathon, or the Tour de France, is a painful way to go. Sex, anyway, has increasingly little to do with reproduction. Certainly, where Americans are concerned sex appears to have been replaced as the evolutionary impulse by the anticipation of their five minutes of fame on TV. It may be my imagination, but when Americans hurriedly look around at the scene of a disaster I suspect they are not looking for a fire extinguisher, but for the reassurance that a camera is there to record their moment in history. The other memory of my painful celebration of youthful athleticism was of a hangover. Hurrying to get to Pietermaritzburg for the race after a heavy student night out, we arrived at a garage-cafe somewhere in the Karoo as dawn was breaking and ordered coffee. The three of us collapsed gratefully into old battered armchairs furnishing the cafe and were dozing off when the door swung open with a bang. In strode a man dressed importantly in a suit and a tie and clutching a violin case under one arm. He walked over to a table, placed the violin case with care in the middle and then – displaying that air of unconcern which bespeaks a large audience – opened it.
After a close examination, he seized the instrument and held it aloft triumphantly, like a lurking rabbit discovered in a hat. Then he started busying himself, plucking a tablet of resin from the case with which he burnished the strings and a good piece of the woodwork. Vigorously shaking a tin, he conjured up a cloud of talcum powder into which he seemed likely to disappear, but which he dispersed efficiently, if not intentionally, with a volley of loud sneezes. Hangovers forgotten in the face of this electric performance, the three of us were by now sitting bolt upright in anticipation. With a flourish he produced a handkerchief, spread it on his shoulder and settled the violin under his chin with a scowl of determination. The bow squawked once across the strings. He held still for a moment and then, seemingly satisfied with the sound, strode to a corner where a 1950s-style gramophone was standing. He put on a record and hurried back to his position at his table, resuming his scowling stance. Out of the gramophone came the familiarly saccharine tones of Jim Reeves and our violinist began sawing away at his instrument in a squealing parody. His audience collapsed in merriment, while the solo artist retreated indignantly to the gents. The giggles subsiding as we drove on to KwaZulu-Natal, we puzzled over the performance; what had it been about?
Some years later I was reminded of the question by an article in Life about a violinist who, having reached the top of the profession, became a recluse, retreating to an isolated house, I think in the Rockies. I cannot remember the musician, but I think I recall – because I so wish I had written it – the final line of the piece. The interviewer described how, as he left the house, the musician began closing the windows and doors and curtains. “And then, unheard by anyone, the world’s greatest violinist began to play.” >From the ridiculous to the sublime.