Running, Two Acts

Act I

Of the many things I enjoy about Cambridge, the running routes are not among them. Narrow streets, congested sidewalks and miles of cobblestone make the city a runner’s nightmare. Nevertheless, I persevere for the sake of my addiction, and have found two main suitable running areas. When I’m working at the hospital, I usually take a mid-afternoon trot around the compound. Addenbrooke’s is a huge place; the hospital wards, research institutes, administrative offices, and outpatient clinics make it worthy of its own postal code (which it does have, btw). Consequently, it provides several interesting routes.

I love to run in front of the entrance to the main ward. With patients and staff milling around in front of the double revolving doors, I feel like I’m in a race, with spectators cheering and chanting my name, Boston marathon style. Of course, I am sure their most prevalent thought goes something like, “Crazy bloke, prancing around like a Newmarket pony in this weather. What a wanker” and then they manage that subtly disdainful/reprimanding eye-contact-avoidance that only the English can properly execute. But I do make the most of my imaginary fans by hurdling the low fences, weaving in and out of the stalled traffic, and giving heart attacks to old men by narrowly avoiding their walkers. While running I must look either miserable or exuberant, because I get tons of smiles that could be either sympathy or reciprocated joy. No way to tell with these people. I sprint the last quarter mile past the food court, and end at the front of my Institute: tired, aching, out of breath, and feeling so damn good. Fellow runners, you know what I’m talkin’ 'bout.

On the weekends or in the evenings when I don’t get the chance to run at work, I usually go into the city centre for some pedestrian-chasing. I live on Mill Road, which runs roughly east-west and intersects the northern border of the center of town. On the northeast corner of the centre, there is a huge green space called Parker’s Piece, which hosts pickup football (soccer), rugby, and field hockey games. Recently, it also gave birth to massive rickshaw skating rink, which will swiftly melt into oblivion after New Year’s. To get to town, I run west on Mill Road, turn southwest through Parker’s Piece, and into the heart of Cambridge.

On my third day here, I passed a man who could’ve been either crazy homeless or a slightly senile professor (once again, no way to tell) mumbling something about the pedestrian congestion in Cambridge. Despite his obvious mental deficit, he was clearly correct. It gets super crowded, especially on weekends and around 7 PM on working days. The novice runner’s nerve might fail at this gapless mass of people, but not me, friends.

I play a game of what I lovingly call “Avoid the Nervous Brit”. In the heart of the city, the roads are closed to motor traffic, so people crowd the streets and the sidewalks.

I weave. And let me tell you, faithful reader: I weave very well.

A foot of space opens between a bespectacled, tweed-cloaked man and a hippie whose long, dread-locked hair is intent on depositing its grease on my face. SHWOOP!! I dart through without a millisecond to spare!! Before the old man can mutter about young people and before the hippie can offer me dope, I’m on to the next obstacle.

Six teenage girls are 15 feet in front of me; a two foot space between them and the wall on the right. A male cyclist in hardcore cycling gear approaches about 50 feet in front of me, intent on making that space his bitch. It’s a veritable game of chicken, and neither one of us is about to back down.

He looks up at me, shades gleaming with the sunlight that has just appeared. His feet pump the petals twice.

I stare back, mouth open and probably drooling. I lengthen my stride.

15 feet, we both speed up. 10 feet, no one slowing down. 5 feet, his mouth tightens in fear and he braces for what he thinks is an inevitable collision. I chuckle softly to myself: rookie.

SHWOOP!!!!

One nanosecond slower and we would both surely have perished!!! His handlebars pass through the space between my tricept and ribcage. It’s so close that I can feel the plastic tickle my nylon shirt.

The girls, now behind me, don’t even notice the moment of daring bravery. I glance backwards and so does the cyclist. His head gives a nearly imperceptible nod of respect. I acknowledge it by oh-so-slightly lifting my chin. The girls continue to chirp.

A young mother with a stroller bares her teeth as I appear to threaten her infant with my jog. No worries, I assure her with a smile, and - SHWOOP!! - calmly hurdle the carriage.

SHWOOP!!- Side-step between two walking college kids. SHWOOP!!- Slide over the hood of a idling Mercedes (the driver is too stunned to honk). SHWOOP!! duck under the left side mirror of a speeding city bus. For the Cambridge runner, the joy and the danger go hand in hand.

Act II

I love to run, but telling people why is the problem. How do you describe the appeal of such a masochistic activity? It is 5-6 miles of discomfort, in weather that is often barely bearable, and completely without any sort of redeeming teleology. My body aches and my lungs burn. 20 years from now, I probably won't be able to walk because my knees will be completely broken.

It is truly an addiction, with all the accompanying side effects, including withdrawal. Three or four days without a run and I get anxious and irritable, hyperactive but lazy. Is it worth it?

...

Have you ever felt elevated above the mundanity of normal-ness? Where excitement, adventure, happiness, all the possibilities of life seem not just accessible but easily so?

When I run, those feelings swell within me like a song's gradual crescendo. Each step I take is another instrument joining the verse; I can feel chorus lifting me, and I soar, miles above the pavement with Adidas wings.

It's a song without words, rhythm, tempo, or melody, but I can hear it nonetheless. It emanates from everything, as if God himself was urging me onward. The little stresses and anxieties of the day become ethereal; ghosts without any power to worry me. But this isn't anesthesia; while my sorrows fade, the joys become brighter and more coherent. The music reminds me how funny that joke was, and how that girl's smile draws my eyes from across hallways.

Though I run towards nowhere in particular, I approach something. The air shimmers, parts, and through it the music shows me past, present, and future happiness. I see all my triumphs and my delights coalesce and join the music, become the music.

I am laughing aloud with jubilation and exhalation and I see the music spreading to everything my eyes touch. I run faster. I thank the music and it your-welcomes me with slight modulations in its toneless tone.

I lied before. My lungs don't burn, they hum with power, an electric generator in my chest. My knees don't hurt. How could they, when I'm running through air? The smiles I get are from the people who hear, just for a second, their own music through me.

...

The sun goes back behind the clouds (did it ever really emerge?). The air becomes opaque again (?)

I am drenched in sweat, chilled to the bone, with knees that will not survive the next 20 years.

But the music, though slowed and steadied, pulses lightly. In the wind I hear its non-existent melody, and in my friend's laugh I feel it's beat-less rhythm. "Come find me," it says- song without words-. "I'll be waiting."