NB; Today’s audio volume is a little patchy due to tech issues caused by stormy weather.
The tram is getting away. Instead of resigning myself to wait, I burst into a run. Puddles splash beneath my shoes, syncopated by the rattle of my belongings jumbling together inside my bag. Car fumes and garbage and bitumen and the rotisserie chicken and fresh bread smells venting from the shops as I sprint past in hot pursuit of the tram's boxy rear end. It remains, tantalising, and out of reach.
I surprise myself with the ease of this. Breath, blood and muscle combine without need of conscious direction, responding to my unspoken thought. It feels natural: I am doing this! My arms pump and exhilaration floods me. I know it won't last long but, maybe, today it will last long enough.
Ahead the distant traffic light turns red. I see my chance. I lengthen my stride, duck my head and sprint all out. The balls of my feet seem to reach down to tap the pavement, as I hover, carried by momentum. It's almost like a flying dream. I avoid the mid-morning shoppers with ease, swooping around them, My heart is pounding now, my breath has the faintest catch as my lungs open full but not as full as my body demands, greedy for oxygen.
I strain forward, slap the door button as I leap, then I am through. I fall gasping into a vacant seat as the other passengers look up, senses pricked for danger, but otherwise incurious. Only the woman in the seat across the aisle, with a toddler squirming in her lap, smiles.
"You made it," she remarks. Its an accolade, a sympathetic acknowledgement that sometimes we make it, sometimes we catch our trams even when we start out late.
I unwind my scarf and pull off my beanie. I'm hot, the sweat trickling beneath winter layers. My glasses are steamed up, slipping down my nose. I remove them. In the window I catch sight of my reflection, face bright red, all over, not just a rosy glow on my cheeks. But my eyes are also bright, with laughter. I've chased the tram for three long city blocks, nearly a kilometre, for no particular reason. It seemed like a good idea in the moment. My body tingles, humming with vitality.
I should run more, I decide, staring out at rain soaked streets. It feels really great, like when I was a kid, running for the joy of it
I couldn't know it would be the last time. A bizarre injury, an illness, a long rehab and, eventually, the realisation: no more running for me.
Thank you for reading, your time and attention are a gift.
Over to You
Do you recall the last time you ran? What did that feel like? If you’re able to, maybe go and experiment the next time you have a chance? Go gently, and do so at your own risk, I’m no expert and this does not constitute health advice.
Do you only run dutifully, for ‘exercise’ or because you’re about to miss a flight? How is that different to running for the sheer fun of it? For me, stopping when I want to is part of what made it fun.
What prevents you from running? A physical limitation? In adult years my knees were quick to object. A story from your youth? An exercise physiologist told me I ‘wasn’t built for running. Or something else?
Fabulous!!!
“Running for the joy of it” I love that and know of one friend who runs for the joy of it. I used to do a lot of running pre-chronic illness days. Up to a couple of half marathons in the end during my time of struggle. I would beat myself for not being able to go to the gym or enjoy running anymore, feeling useless and a failure. I had no idea how mentally and physically ill I was at the time. Though I guess id be considered to be in recovery now, my outlook to health and exercise has changed drastically. Exercise became more about movement for me (back in my disabled state). I’ve rebuilt the strength I have now through meeting my body where it was at, (very slow to begin with) walks, yoga (the original kind not the westernised version) and letting go of any ideas of what I thought exercise should be or look like. I do enjoy the short bursts of running when late and may benefit from short bursts more frequently. Now I find myself working on hips with clients a lot though, I’m not sure pounding the pavements or the treadmill is what is best serving in the current times. It feels like a slower approach is required. Making space. Taking time to unravel what’s going on in our bodies. Listening to what they’re trying to communicate to us. I feel like this will take us further (especially from a long term health perspective) than any marathon training ever will.