The Proof of the Pudding

One of my favourite proverbs says that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. 

As an editor, I can’t help noticing how many people misquote this, twisting the words into "the proof is in the pudding,” which is basically meaningless (unless they’re thinking of how much rum is in there). The thought behind the saying is that the cook can tell us all he wants about what a terrific recipe he used and how carefully he made it, and we can admire how lovely it looks in the bowl, but it isn’t till we eat it that we can tell if he was successful.

I think of the finish line in a race as the proof of the pudding. Whether your goal is to set a record or simply to get there under your own power, crossing a finish line is a clean, pure measurement of your accomplishment. I’ve always loved the whole process of preparing for a race, from the first glint in my eye to the first step or pedal stroke or splash. But everything I have worked for up to the actual event is proven when I cross that line. For me, setting a personal best is satisfying, but it's the whipped cream on top:  a bonus, not a goal.

Finishing a race is not a matter of judgment, or opinion, or cash earnings, or popularity. Shouldn’t we consider a runner who finishes a race much more of a success than, say, a movie that has a great box office, or wins an Oscar, or scores high on the Tomatometer?

This is my Tomatometer

The tape you break at the finish can be an arbitrary distance from the start, but its existence is never arbitrary. The marathon standard length of 42.195 kilometres is based on the distance run at the 1908 Olympics in London. This odd figure was set because the organizers wanted the race to finish in front of the Royal Box at the stadium after having started from Windsor Castle. Nonetheless, this is the agreed-upon distance; every marathoner knows that this is how exactly far you have to travel in order to be successful. A hundred steps fewer and you have not run a marathon. It is an absolute.

Several years ago a group of people from Toronto entered a marathon in the U.S. When it became clear to them that they weren’t going to make a time cutoff, some of them took a shortcut and made it to the end. They were discovered and disqualified. There is no point in moralizing about what made them want to cross the finish line without travelling the full distance. There was even the view expressed that it was the effort, not the result, that was most important. But they didn’t run 42.195 kilometres. Even if they hadn’t been caught, I want to feel that their finish would never have been absolutely real to them. What was in their pudding?

I’ve had three devastating DNFs in my athletic career. Although just being part of those races— including the months of training and preparation—broadened and enriched my life, the fact is that I did not finish them. The distances I travelled on those days were measured against the finish line, which I never reached; I came up short. Of course, I can live with that. It would be the utmost arrogance to think that I can master every event I try. In fact, part of what attracts me to endurance events is the element of the unknown outcome. From the security and predictability of my first world existence, I find that straying outside my comfort zones can be liberating and affirming.

But a greater part of me is looking for that measurement, the absolute of the finish line, the confirmation that I did what I told myself I would do, that I finished what I started. The finish is not open to critique or judgment; it is not the result of a score; there are no extra marks for artistic merit; it is not a victory over another team. It is just a line you run towards. If you get there, you have done it. Nothing in sport is as unequivocally final.

The pudding is of little value sitting in the bowl; it must be eaten. Whipped cream optional.