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| Gerald Bybee |
The spike girls: The number-one U.S. volleyball tandem of Annette Davis (left) and Jennifer Johnson Jordan, both 27, has perfected that most essential of ancient instincts—cooperating for the kill—and now they're looking for gold.
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WE WERE ALL RUNNERS ONCE. Although some of us forget that primal fact, comparative biology teaches us that life on the plains generates arms races between predators and prey—and our ancestors definitely weren't into unilateral disarmament. Meat was abundant, for those who could catch it or wrest it from the competition, i.e. leopards and lions, not to
mention hyenas, jackals, and vultures. Because we primates weren't superb runners, we needed alternatives to sheer speed to eat in the wide-open spaces. So we traveled in groups, racing overland to fresh-killed carcasses and chasing off scavengers. These skirmishes, as well as infighting with our own species—that is, our first true
competitors—became the bridge to hunting live prey. The faster you could run, the more valuable you became in the new social groups based on the hunt.
In 1961 I spent a year collecting birds in Africa for Yale's Peabody Museum, and I experienced, I think, what ancient hunters were up against. I'll never forget my feelings of dreary claustrophobia during the months we spent in dense, dripping forests, nor, alternatively, the feeling of glorious exhilaration out on the open steppes. To catch even small
birds, I had to wander extensively, half of each day, just as our ancestors must have done. By about two to three million years ago, they had a leg and foot structure almost identical to our own, and it's reasonable to assume that they walked and ran like we do. While other predators rested, I was able to continue, albeit slowly, because we humans have one
major physical advantage: We can sweat, copiously, which allows us to manage our internal temperature and extend our endurance. Most animals have no such mechanism. Through the ages and across the continents there are examples of men actually chasing down beasts that are much faster. In fact, there are modern reports of the Paiutes and Navajos of North
America hunting pronghorn antelope on foot, patiently running down a stray till it drops in its tracks from exhaustion and then reverently suffocating the animal by hand.
A quick pounce and kill requires no dream. Dreams are the beacons that carry us far ahead into the hunt, into the future, and into the marathon. We have the unique ability to keep in mind what is not before the eye. Visualizing far ahead, we see our quarry, even as it recedes over the hills and into the mists. Those ancient hunters who had the longest
vision—the most imagination—were the ones who persisted the longest on the trail and therefore were the ones who left more descendants. The same goes these days: Human beings with the longest vision tend to make the biggest mark. Vision allows us to reach into the future, whether it's to kill a mammoth or an antelope, to write a book, or to
achieve the record time in a race.
Now we chase each other rather than woolly mammoths. But the basic body movements required for hunting and for warfare—running, throwing, jumping—have become ritualized in the track and field events, which are still the heart and soul, the very essence, of the Olympics. The Games are simply mock wars waged in the spirit of camaraderie, though
they retain the intensity of their origins. The difference is that in a contest with prey there is always an endpoint: We get it, or it gets away. In our races against one another, in our constant striving to better our achievements and set new records, there is no apparent end. Where, then, are the limits?
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