"Futility of futilities," says the writer of Ecclesiastes, "all is futility."  Is he right?  In some respects, yes; in others, maybe not.  Much depends on one's perspective.  I cite this verse as I have reflected on a book penned by ultramarathoner Scott Jurek (North:  Finding my Way While Running the Appalachian Trail).  In it Jurek writes of his steadfast willingness to push his boundaries, to constantly test himself with increasingly more severe and challenging tests of physical (and, inevitably, mental) endurance.  As the book's title implies, he devotes much of these pages to his efforts to set a new speed record for hiking (actually, running) the 2200 mile long Appalachian Trail.
      Traveling from southern Georgia to northern Vermont, the Appalachian Trail, although it does not share the high altitude opportunities of its western cousins, the Pacific Crest and Continental Divide Trails, is nonetheless a considerable undertaking.  Particularly for Jurek.  As he nears the end of the trail, he is delirious and seeing things that are not really there, and dealing with the pain of a torn quadriceps and badly inflamed kneecap.  Nonetheless, he perseveres, and finishes in record time:  46 days, 8 hours, and 7 minutes, three hours faster than the previous record.
     As a book reviewer points out, however, even as Jurek nurses his wounds, striving to recover quickly so that he can throw himself into a new challenge, two other people quickly eclipse his time.  His record is a thing of the past.
     But his pain and debilitating psychic injury are not.
     Futility of futilities.  Setting records is Jurek's passion, and it's great that he wishes to do so.  But in a finite world, there's always another record to set.
     And one day, as Ecclesiastes never tires of pointing out, it all ends.