After 5k he wanted to run barefoot. He kicked up a stride as soon as he was rid of his shoes and it was joy to see the pure, seemingly effortless running of a young child.
When he left, the pace of my run quickened but it was solitary. Just thoughts that came and went, without perception, without attempt to think or not think. Pace and breathing.
It is easy to think about Waking Up by Sam Harris as I write this. A few years ago, the app subscription was a gift from a friend. It had lasted for a while. I wondered if I should pick it up again.
Coming towards me, I saw Shikha, her beautiful, effortless stride from a distance. As she approached, I motioned her to join me.
I’m slow today, she said.
Within a kilometre we were running faster and soon at nearly tempo effort. Slow?
We both laughed. Whatever laughter feels and sounds like between the rhythmic breathing of running. A few runners and cyclists acknowledged her and called out her name. She had run astonishing ultra marathons and we had known each other for more than a decade. Training almost solitarily, her cadence and cap was as familiar a sight as could be at Nehru Park. As it is with many runners, we knew each other in the context of running and little else.
The Shanti Path-Niti Marg loop abutting Nehru Park was still crowded. I was alone again, this time counting down the kilometres, continuing to run at a faster pace.
Familiar faces, bare chested runners, hydration packs, sound of music, the thwack thwack of feet, laughter of friends, selfies within groups, the Nehru Park scene was intimately known to me and yet I knew nearly no one. A wave, a smile, a nod was always enough.
The roads at Nehru Park were our home.
Writing about Running 