What I talk about when I talk about running

Unlike Murakami

Like you, I too have known many people who have succumbed to running. I have been kind to them, offering my commiserations, making there-there sounds and telling them to keep their hopes up, who knows, the running bug may be only temporary and may pass through the system. They may soon feel better and go back to appreciating the merits of lying down. I have also kept some distance from them, a little afraid that I might catch whatever it is that they have got.

Honestly, I thought I was at low risk. For one, my running form brings to mind a lawnmower – a lot of noise and barely any distance covered. For another, I have dodgy knees, the kinds that moan and groan if I suggest climbing two floors when a perfectly good elevator is in the vicinity. So yes, running has always been a spectator sport for me, to be enjoyed from the sidelines, cheering other runners, all the while chomping down popcorn and cola while enjoying the free entertainment.

Those were the good old days.

My nemesis arrived in the form of East Coast Park. Deceptive little place. You think you will mosey down for a bit, enjoy a nice stroll, go see the pretty colours in the sky and wave at the ships and then come home to a hearty dinner replete with carbs. That’s how it begins anyway. All very innocent.

Soon though, you look around and notice that ECP is full of scarily-fit runners, the kind who whoosh past at crazy speeds, very often shirtless, maybe they are overheated, maybe the shirt gets in the way of showing the six-pack, who can tell. It is okay to feel a tad intimidated by these gazelle-like creatures and admire them from afar. The tip-off into insanity happens when one thinks – oh, I bet I could do it too.

I should have known better. I should have lied down till the feeling passed. Instead, I read this book. Look at these Tarahumara. Running these crazy distances! And that too barefoot! With barely any protein going into them! What a feat!

Oh, I bet I could do it too.

That was it. I decided that it was time. I would in fact be a runner. This week, a modest five miles. Next week, a brisk 10K and by the time summer rolls along I would be in shape to fly over for the Great Wall Marathon. I could just see myself, Hoka shoes, Garmin watch, running vests, hydration gels, the works. No half-measures, no, sir.

On the first day, I decided I would take it easy. Maybe a five km run at a moderate pace, yes, that should do it.  I took off. In about thirty seconds, my heart told me that it wanted to exit via my mouth. I slowed down the pace. I mean, it was only my first time so I guess a little bit of huffing and puffing and a minor coronary were all acceptable. In order to distract myself from what can only be described as a face-off with my cardiovascular fitness, I tried to think of other things.

I wonder if SRK will join politics. Didn’t work too well for Amitabh B but SRK would make one helluva Prime Minister. Imma vote for him.

How is that eighty year old grandma overtaking me with such ease?

I bet I am almost there. Why is my Apple Watch saying I have done 200 meters? Apple products man, all about design, so respect for accuracy.

There is no shame in revising one’s targets so maybe five kms was a bit of a stretch. I came home, having completed my transformation to a human tomato, my preferred look in such situations (old readers will testify).

To my credit though, I didn’t give up. All about grit and perseverance, this running business, with just a hint of masochism thrown in. What I needed was some good music to get the legs going. Spotify told me Bollywood Dance Dhamaka was what I needed and who am I to challenge the wisdom of the algorithm? Trying to match my steps to What Jhumka, I decided to focus on other runners passing me by in a blaze because #fitspo

I looked at each of them. Who are you, you aesthetically-pleasing, athletically-blessed young creature? Why do you look so radiant at the idea of sweating out half your bodyweight? Who hurt you? And you, unnaturally tall, suspiciously-blond male? Do you not have the decency to slow the fuck down for one small moment? And who are you, this team of annoying runners that exudes camaraderie and team-spirit? I know I will be seeing you later at the café, enjoying a healthy and companionable breakfast of coffee and fruit.

No, this was not inspiring. I had to think of something else. Woof, said the furry creature at my feet, asking me for treats. Retro! Why didn’t I think of this before? You and I must go for runs together. I have seen plenty of people running with their dogs, some of them tiny poodles (the dogs, not the runners) who didn’t look like they would make it, to be honest and here we have a hefty beast who could do with some exercise. Also, Retro is a golden retriever who spends his days fixating on his good looks and completely ignoring me. A dog that is a cat. Yes, he needs to do something useful with his days.  

Retro however is made of sterner stuff. He is very quick at spotting the canon events that have the potential to set precedents. He knows if you do it once, you run the risk of having to do it regularly. No, he dug in his heels and told me in no uncertain terms, no running, no jogging, no brisk walking even. Tugging and pulling only brings out the bull in him and even with repeated exhortations, he seemed determined to never run a single pace if he can avoid it.

I should have taken that as a sign and joined him in lying down on the floor and panting with my tongue hanging out. But no, there is no escaping it. I am back in the park, sweating it out on the equator, battling dehydration and hallucination. And sedimentation, if that is the word I am looking for. Everything hurts, everything chafes. Will keep you posted on how it goes. Till then, keep me in your prayers. And stay safe, don’t catch the bug.