Paavo and Me

When I wrote about Helsinki's Keskuspuisto (aka, Central Park) last month, the response was overwhelming.  "Tell us more!"  "Give us pictures!"  "What about the statue of Paavo Nurmi in front of the Olympic Stadium?"  "Are there any signs on the trails giving mysterious warnings in Finnish and Swedish?"

If, because of some tragic character flaw, you were not asking one of these questions, do not despair.  I do not hold it against you that you are misguided and/or deluded into believing that your life deserves your attention more than being fixated on the crazed ramblings of some crackpot living in a foreign country (or, if you are Finnish, "some crackpot from a foreign country").  I will now provide you with a report on my running experiences in Keskuspuisto so detailed and extensive that no court in either my former country or my new country would have any hesitancy in declaring me mentally incompetent.

 

Let me start with the question that uppermost in your mind--which is, of course, "what was Paavo Nurmi's secret that let him win 9 Olympic gold metals and to simultaneously hold world records in the 1500 meters, 5000 meters and 10000 meters?" 

 

I have learned the answer to that question through my running in Keskuspuisto, but rather than merely telling you Nurmi's secret, I will "go the extra 1500 meters", as we cosmopolitan track-and-field buffs say, and I will show you his secret.  All is revealed in the statue of Paavo Nurmi located in the park by the Olympic Stadium, as shown here:

 

 

When I say that "all is revealed", I--of course--mean that the secret to Nurmi's success is clearly shown by a close examination of the statue.  That secret, for those of you not as perceptive as I am:  Paavo Nurmi is running NAKED! 

 

It is obvious to an eminent scientist like me that "no clothes" is less weight to carry than "some clothes."  Giving Nurmi an insurmountable advantage. 

 

I need hardly say that every time I run past this statue, I feel great inspiration for my own running efforts.  Inspiration to, too, take off my clothes and stand in one place.  Luckily, I live only a 10 minute run from the statue, so I have--so far--always been able to get back home before I let my inspiration take charge.

 

On those few occasions when I continue running past the statue, I go almost directly into heavily forested trails.  This next picture is a 5-minute run for me from the Nurmi statue.  Or, for any normally fit person, a 5-minute walk.  Nay, a 5-minute stroll, or perhaps a 5-minute meander; possibly even a 5-minute dawdle or frolic.

 

 

 

 If this looks to you like a dirt trail through an old growth forest, then it is accurate.  Or if this looks to you like a major highway through the best land for miles around, and you are from the Deep South (meaning southern Indiana, southern Ohio or southern Illinois), then it is also accurate.

 

This truly is like a major highway.  People bike to work on it every work day, as well as walking, walking with children, walking with dogs (like walking with children, but with less screaming involved), walking with trekking poles, and jogging.

 

Of course, there are also real trails for those that believe that "trail running" should not involve dodging baby strollers.

 

I avoid this sort of "sissy running" myself, living by Immanuel Kant's doctrine of the Categorical Imperative.  Which can be translated into English as saying, "If you are not running somewhere that you risk being smashed into by someone zooming along on 'cross-country practice skis' (short metal skis on wheels), then it doesn't really count as running." 

 

 

 

[This is certainly not an accurate translation of the Categorical Imperative, but rather is proof that a person with an extremely limited knowledge of German--such as the writer of this blog--CAN make such a poor translation.]

 

In case you are doubting my account of the high usage of this trail in the Central Park, based in all probability on the fact that I generally make up sh*t at every juncture in my life, let me point out that, in this case, it was simply too much work to try to come up with anything more dubious than the truth.  If you look at the following picture, you will see "two roads diverge in a yellow wood" [thank you, Robert Frost].

 

 

 

Actually, it's two roads diverging in a green wood with a yellow sign, but I'm willing to give Robert Frost a break--I'm sure it was just his trying out that "poetic license" technique.

 

Anyway, that sign proclaims, in Finnish, "EI TALVISKUNNOSSAPITOA."  Not that that means anything to any of us who speak the One True World Language (American).  Luckily, the sign also has a translation below the Finnish announcement, namely: "EJ VINTERUNDERHALL".  (Actually, there is a little circle over the "A", but my keyboard only types real letters, not those silly, made-up Scandinavian letters.)  It's a good thing that my Swedish is almost as fluent as my German, so that I can translate the Swedish announcement as follows:  "This land belonged to King Gustav Vaasa in 1550, and it still belongs to Sweden.  And we will come back to claim it.  As soon as we can do so without having to have a fight.  Because we are a big bunch of pussies."

 

 

 

(This image actually from the second row of photos--not the second page, the second row--when I Googled "Swedish fashion" images.  Geez, I just hate it when I try to slander an entire nation and I accidentally just tell the truth.)

 

Anyway, back to my Robert Frost poem about two announcements diverging on a yellow sign.  It turns out that both announcements are telling users of the trail to the left that it will not be plowed in the winter.  Which might seem to you, as it seemed to me, to rank up there with the warning on lawn darts not to catch them with your face.  (Some exceptions apply.)  However, a careful examination of the picture, sign, and intellectual level of this author will cause you to realize far sooner than he did that the trail to the right does have the snow plowed all winter.  Because people do ride and walk to work, school and shops all year round.  And jog and run, I guess.  Since the later works of Immanuel Kant acknowledge that having your shin broken by actual cross-country skis is the ethical equal to having it broken by a metal ski on wheels.

 

And, as everyone knows, I am all about The Ethics!

 

The fondue; the Octoberfest; the beret and Gauloises cigarette; the Gouda cheese; the Motown Sound; the Bocce ball in the park.

 

(As you can see, these ancient Bocce ball players were actually aware of Paavo Nurmi's competitive edge even before he was.)

 

Oh, wait!  Did I say that I was all about "The Ethics"?  I meant, I'm all about "The Ethnics."  I never give any thought to The Ethics.