I think it was in a Melbourne University film studies class that I saw Tony Richardson’s The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (1962). It’s a rebellious coming of age piece that shared some 400 Blows DNA. A cruel reform school was the setting and chronicled one boy’s athletic prowess that garnered him favor with the competitive headmaster. The long distance running was of course a metaphor for life itself, for the non conformist paths we blaze on our own while society dictates conforming to certain rules and more importantly expectations and debts owed for providing group protection and privilege. It was also a means to convey an individual’s inner thoughts that accompany running.
I saw it before I got bitten by the running bug and now recall the moments of stream of consciousness voice over, a running commentary whilst the boy was running, the images of exertion juxtaposed with inner turmoil and insights, the class conflicts and social commentary. It’s a bleak tale.
Those moments have come back to me in full force as my final hours in Sweden count down. I also often think of the movie, mainly it’s construction more than it’s content, when I’m running. It’s a good representation of the visualized panoply of past, present and future that rolls through One’s mind while on the road.
Looking back at my Stockholm experience, I was chuffed about the various posts as I was writing them, confident that I was churning out some really good prose and photos. But in reviewing them now as I prep this final log entry before this journey’s end, I’m struck by how middling they seemed to turn out. Bit of a bummer really as I did really try on these and thus feel a bit underwhelmed by the outcomes.
Some of this feeling is a carry over from last night’s sleepless misadventures in my murder hostel. I was still in my bottom bunk (Bed 5B, y’all!), but for the first time someone was in the upper bed. The woman, who snacked away into the night out of a crinkling bag of chips and downed beverages with the gulping sounds of a parched shipwrecked soul, shifted roughly to settle into her bed, moving the entire bunk bed assembly and shaking my bed from its dowel and screw supports. There was a loud crack and crash and I was lopsided in my lower berth. None of the other inhabitants of room 5 seemed plussed… they were the epitome of non-plussed nonchalance. I however was the epitome of low man on the totem pole, or in this case low bunk on the bed.
I couldn’t sleep, ever fearful the top bunk would break apart and collapse upon me. Who knew the victim of a murder hotel could be me? But I survived the night and the curse of the murder hotel; if this were a William Castle movie, I’d win the House on Haunted Hill. Instead I just got a quick shower at 3:45 am and caught the bus to the airport.
I wasn’t sure how security would be post the latest terror attacks in London. It was relatively calm and easy. I’m spoiled with TSA PreCheck so always find it odd when I need to take off my belt, dig out my toiletries and remove my iPad from my carry on. I am relieved though that I’m still allowed to bring my iPad on the flight at all.
But here I sit, sipping a duty free Coke Zero that while cheaper than other vendors in the airport is still more expensive than high street in Stockholm.
While at Duty Free I saw this US contraband for sale:
I had only recently heard about the underground smuggling of Kinder Surprises into the US. These chocolate/toy hybrids are banned in the US as a choking hazard and because the toy and food commingle the candy breaches FDA requirements. Something like 60,000+ kinder eggs are confiscated by US Customs and Border Patrol each year. I was tempted to make the kinder egg run in under 12 parsecs but I knew the odds and that ruined everything.
I digress, as I’m wont.
The point of this is the loneliness of the long distance runner. Much like Venice, Stockholm would benefit from visiting as a couple. I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm to visit the famed ice bar; hell, I hemmed and hawed about the taste of Sweden at the Spirits Museum. Contrary to the song, I’m not convinced sharing a drink called loneliness is better than drinking one; I know it’s more expensive.
I am a tad lonely. Not just alone, a distinction Michael Mann so artfully articulates via Robert DeNiro in Heat (1995):
I do what I do. I run what I run. But I find myself wondering what I might have done differently, be it in the past, the present, or future.
This is a poor entry. I suspect it’s the lack of sleep, the early hour, and… something else.
The tag line on the poster for The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner is “You can play by the rules…or you can play it by ear – WHAT COUNTS is you play it right by YOU…”
I really should see that movie again. I wonder what effect it would have on me now, 20+ years later and miles and miles of road underfoot.
I think maybe I’ve lost the plot a bit in this post. But maybe that’s befitting my feelings in especially reviewing the past few days. On the plus side, my buddy Brent and my brother Steve have sorted out my burglarized home while I’ve been away. I’m lucky in so many ways. I really shouldn’t wallow.
But seriously – I have seen the Sword of Damocles and it is a bunk bed in Stockholm.