Hit the road

Jack.

And so it was. Gaju, another youngster (who stopped after two kilometres) and me. Coach Ravi in his cast riding pillion with his nephew who never spoke. The warm wind. The usual road. The sun baked, half crazed dogs.

The dirt, the dust, the gutkha packets, the rickshaws, the blaring religious music, school buses and manic drivers, cyclists, bus stands, construction, hotels, the metro, motels, the looming hospital, the ugly clinic, the paan walas, the call centre building, Ubers, the free road.

Only here, in India, can you run just about anywhere. Out and back. One hour. How much does one run in an hour. It hardly matters. A distance is traversed.