600s

As I was nearing the track, I got a call from Coach Ravi that he had been trying to get in touch with me since last night. He said that the track was closed because of civil unrest in the area. Because I was nearly there I checked and fortunately it was open.

It was empty save for a handful of people. Clearly only a few knew that track was open. It had a ghostly feel about it this morning. The stadium lights were off, the full moon hung low like lantern in the night sky. The red surface of the track glistened and glittered.

I began with my usual few rounds of warm up and strides. I did some half-hearted stretches and jumps. I attempted some hip flexor exercises I had seen recently on YouTube. The intervals ahead not only felt daunting but also lonely.

Within a couple of reps, my head was a cloud of uncertainty. The pace seemed too fast, the weather was simply brutal, and the lack of the usual crowd only added to the difficulty of today’s session.

One more, I kept telling myself. You can stop after. It’s only half hour of running left. It’s only twenty-five minutes more. And so on.

Eventually, I began to find a rhythm in the difficulty of the session. 600s.

For the first hundred metres, I listened to the clapping sound my feet seemed to make, then I would look straight on at the back hundred and the curve beyond. That’s two hundred metres, I said to myself as I crossed over. Another four hundred. Only a lap. I looked at the watch, my timing, at some of the key waypoints.

I attempted to lope along the length of the track imagining and attempting at increasing my stride length. This of course had a sardonic element to it.

Eventually I counted them down. Did the work. I had managed the paces for nearly all the reps. Drenched in sweat, there was no elation just relief as I walked slowly to the exit.