Who Wins the 109.361 Yard Race?
by J. S. O’Keefe
The United States has only four percent of the planet’s population but a full one-quarter of its economic output, which is wealth for all intents and purposes. Pundits and laymen have offered various explanations, both scholarly and emotional, divine intervention frequently mentioned among them.
Now after a brief yet deep analysis, I can also offer my two cents. The reason for our outsized affluence is that we are one of the very few remaining countries that haven’t converted to the metric system. A pound of meat is what a healthy grown man eats for dinner on a holiday; a kilogram would be too much even for a wrestler. Forty-three feels cold in Fahrenheit; it is a high fever in Celsius. The length category does not fare any better: an inch is roughly a thumbprint, a foot is an average human step, but a centimetre measures nothing except itself. The yard and the metre, however, are kissing cousins. I asked around the other day, what’s the difference between the two? Some said the yard was a bit longer, others thought it a few inches shorter. Turns out, one metre is 1.09361 yards.
For the most part, I only follow team sports, except there is a track-and-field event that has always fascinated me: the hundred-metre running race (109.361 yards). Since 1984 all Olympic winners in the men’s category have run it below ten seconds. That is one incredible tempo; I visualise a gazelle chasing Usain Bolt, the poor animal huffing and puffing and finally giving up with a hamstring.
Over the years I have developed the ability to predict the winner of the hundred-metre, and all it takes is a quick glance. I tell anybody who’s willing to listen, hey, if you’re a betting man put serious dough on that guy, he’s a shoo-in. And I don’t even have to size up the sprinters or know about their recent performance. Without any effort, I pick out the one who will cross the finish line first, leaving the rest to eat his dust. And let’s up the ante here, say a helicopter takes me half a mile above the runners, and from there they appear only like ants or dots, I can point out to the pilot, which ant or dot will win it hands down, so to speak.
So who’s going to win the hundred-metre dash? Simple: the one who has a forty-metre head start.
I work for a magazine, we call it the Journal, although, in reality, it is a think tank. Our job titles vary, such as writer, associate, analyst, research fellow, but we all are paid for thinking. The outside world believes that ours is a super-high IQ organisation; they leave us alone and pay us very well. Once you are hired you have a fairly safe cushy job, so why would anybody ever quit? Still, a few do because, I suspect, they realise that they don’t measure up, or they get bored trying to solve problems in which they have little or no interest. I am the low man on the totem pole, that is, the one who joined the Journal most recently. It’s clear to me I’m not nearly as smart as most of my colleagues.
Last Friday, during the staff meeting, the editor brought up an issue that’s never on anybody’s mind: What’s the root of all evil? “The root of all evil is the love of money, at least according to Pablo,” said one of the young writers who got his Ph.D. at Duke in Spanish Language and Literature. “I am familiar with the old tent maker’s work,” said the editor, “but as we well know, he was prone to exaggerating. Even if money were abolished and our system reverted to a barter economy, there would still be war, crime, hate, anxiety, etc., the list continues. Greed might contribute but it alone doesn’t cause all societal ills. Is it the imperfect human mind or uncontrollable forces that occasionally cause us to turn into raging savages fully dedicated to hurting one another? What do you think, Chris?” The writer’s name is not Chris, but when the big guy rejects your idea with such vehemence, it softens the blow that at least the son-of-a-bitch doesn’t know who you are.
Over the weeks I’ve trained myself not to pay attention during these so-called brainstorming sessions. One of the old timers told me recently the meetings used to be held on Wednesday but a year ago the editor decided to switch to Friday. He wants us to spend the entire weekend pondering the issues he throws out at the last minute. On this occasion, I was thinking about the metric system and who wins the hundred-metre sprint. He who has the forty-metre head start.
Then I noticed the editor kept turning in my direction, freaking me out. “This is a practical, not a philosophical question,” he said, “since the problem itself is real and shows no sign of going away. The root of all evil! Humanity has ignored it because we feel that either it cannot be solved or we will reform ourselves. The opposite is true: Every problem can be solved with enough effort, and evil can be tackled, too. Right, Mike?” Here, I could almost swear, he looked right into my eyes. My name is not Mike but nobody else’s name sitting near me was Mike either. Still, I held out hope that his focus was on another guy with whom I share the same first name to the extent that it’s not Mike. “When Nietzsche warned that every hero who fights monsters could become a monster himself, the great thinker from Sachsen advised us to tackle evil collectively.” The editor suddenly stopped the harangue; now he was definitely staring at me. No way out, I felt an overwhelming urge to jump up and confess that yes, my name is Mike, and I am the root of all evil.
“By the way,” continued the editor, “I’ve done some intelligence work on salaries and, guess what, even the lowest-paid among you pockets a much bigger paycheck than your counterparts at Heritage, Cato, Brookings and Hoover.” This time he didn’t turn specifically toward me, but my mind went into overdrive again. Am I the lowest-paid analyst here, or is my salary considered excessively high?
Saturday was sunny with a light breeze; I drove to High Point NJ for a hike. It has several good trails, not particularly challenging but always a good workout, and the scenery is nice. A popular place, I often meet some of my colleagues here, including the editor who always comes with his wife. They must be early risers because whenever we bump into each other they are about to finish while I am barely on my first mile. This Saturday it was different. After completing the Monument/Steeny Kill trail, I saw the editor in the Route 23 parking lot getting out of his car. “In the morning I noticed that the sole of my left boot had partially come off,” he explained. “I tried crazy glue but it didn’t do the trick. No big deal, I went to the Mall to pick up a new pair. My wife of course lost interest in hiking today; she is a firm believer that the day is gone by noon.” He put on the boots and started adjusting his trekking poles. Suddenly he turned to me. “Greg, I noticed yesterday you were deep in thought concerning the root of all evil.” My name is not Greg; the editor only knows the older employees and compensates by randomly assigning names to the rest of us. “Sir, to tell the truth, I was thinking about the metric system, and how to predict the winner of the one hundred metre running race. Interestingly, one metre is 1.09361 yards.” The editor shook his head. “I always thought it was exactly 1.1. Anyway, the metric system becomes important only when we go abroad. And who cares about the hundred-metre race? It’s like the Kentucky Derby; even the experts can’t predict it with any degree of certainty.” He was walking up and down in the parking lot feeling his new boots. “Last weekend the trail was muddy but we haven’t had much rain recently. How’s it now?” I told him the trail was fairly dry. The editor was ready to get underway. As I put my car key in the ignition, he was back and waved to roll down the window. “So what’s the big mystery about calling the hundred-metre dash?” I told him the sprinter with a forty-metre head start will always win. He chuckled, “You’re a funny guy, Ted”, and got on the trail.
Monday morning we were notified that the staff meeting had to be moved up from Friday to Tuesday because the editor was going away for the rest of the week to attend a meeting in D.C. Hopefully he has enough on his mind and forgets about the root of all evil, I thought. That’s exactly what the sages call wishful thinking. Tuesday the editor started off by announcing that he had had a very productive conversation with Bob while hiking together at High Point last weekend. My name is not Bob but I knew he meant me. “Stand up Fred, and tell us about who will win the hundred-metre sprint.” My name is not Fred either but I stood up and said the runner with a forty-metre head start will triumph. I scanned the room; a few faces showed confusion, the others were reflective, and nobody laughed. “My friends, that’s the answer to the root of all evil”, said the editor. “Having undeserved advantage leads to strife between individuals, between races and social classes, and between nations. The result is mistrust, hatred, and eventually violence and destruction.” I wanted to clarify that I never meant that an unfair edge is equal to the root of all evil and that there’s rarely a simple answer to complex problems, but payday was just around the corner and I didn’t want to jeopardise my big salary.
WENSUM 