The track at Nehru Park, mostly flat, gently rolling in places, was sparse and quiet. The dogs eyed me lazily, a few couples strolled, some families sat around. Not a single runner but me.
It took me a round or two to get into the rhythm but once I did, I wondered why I didn’t run inside more often, usually running the roads circumventing the park.
The dappled winter sunlight, the gentle wave of the trees, frenetic squirrels, the park had its ways to be predictable yet exciting. What lay around that curve? Was that bench always there?
Someone stopped me to take a photo. I took a bunch. I carried on. I could see traffic but somehow I couldn’t hear it. Lost in thought and at times jumping over squirrels, the city seemed far away. Running, sometimes, makes everything seem very far away.
Writing about Running 