When the young boy and I reached the track this morning, it was closed. There was a helicopter standing in the grounds. It looked rather like a large SUV with blades, underwhelming and diminutive surrounded by the red track lanes. A forlorn mosquito that had made its way to sacred ground. All the usual runners and walkers were parading up and down the driveway of the stadium, but we decided to drive back and train at home.
Two missed exits was somewhat alleviated by seeing a magnificent Singapore Airlines landing. We finally reached home when dawn was breaking but the moon still hung low in the sky rather like a squished orange, its super status now reduced to a waning gibbous.
At home, we did the warm up together and he continued on to 50m and 100m interval training. Shouting out encouragement and his timing, with each rep, he eventually broke his PB for the 100m. But the real test would be at a race, at a track.
At the same time, and all at once, this was real too. The squished moon above, yellow footed green pigeons flitting about from tree to tree, a personal best, and a glorious sunny September morning.
Writing about Running 