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When I approached the track in the morning, it was dark, nearly empty, a drizzle washed across it, the solitary stadium light reflected pools of water on the rust surface, there was a sense – at least for me – that said oh no this is going to be tough.

This is of course especially so on interval days.

It’s clearly autumn. It was still dark during the middle of the block sets, 800m, 400m, 200m, and nearly an hour later, it was just beginning to turn to dawn.

It rained through the run, the misty, London kind of rain. When I started there were a handful of people at the track. A half hour later, a few dozen.

But sometimes – at least for me – sets and time can seem as if going on forever.

One more set. And just one more after that. It’s just a few minutes of work. The things I say to myself on these days.

My legs felt heavy as if weights had been tied to them. Today was one of those days. My times were fine, but the feeling was as if laden with sandbags.

Finally, done.

When I ran at home today, I thought I would be tired. It’s been long days – emotional, and hard all around.

But surprisingly, the run came easy. It was short and easy in the first place but I felt light, almost bouncy.

It must have been the binge ice cream session last night.

The workout afterwards was a quick hard circuit that had me soaked.

Intervals tomorrow. Let’s see about that.

Last evening when the young boy suggested that we run at home, I immediately said yes.

He wanted to run barefoot which I agreed to with some uncertainty. The barefoot running, I was sure, made his ankles and feet strong – especially at this age – but it was the occasional piece of metal or glass that worried me. But he loved it, so off we went. 

We spoke about my Uncle and he had many questions about age and mortality. After I had somewhat satisfied his curiosity, we heard some music (emanating from a phone in the back zipper of the shorts) and continuing a myriad of conversations. We rarely listen to music but when we do, it can be fun. Between sentences, he hummed rap lyrics that he knew or the chorus of Closer.

The sun was coming up, just as he was finishing – an orb of orange low in the horizon. I continued on. A steady time on feet session today. 

When I woke up an hour before my usual time, I felt a sense of unease, of restlessness. I tried to sleep and I am not sure I managed.

My program said intervals and I thought to replace them with a straightforward run. An easy one hour. But at the track, I decided to go for it. What could be the worst outcome, I thought.

Most of the boys were there and I was ever so grateful for the company. I always am. But perhaps especially today. The third quarter moon was directly overhead. The track was bustling. Life went on. One group was doing stair drills. Walkers were walking, runners were running, speed sessions, all types of workouts – the track was a kaleidoscope of activity.

My Chacha was on my mind as I did the one kilometre repetitions today. The boys weaved in and out. I thought about him. My childhood. Our family. The reps continued. It seemed never ending.

When it was done, I was elated. The reps were within the prescribed time and to do intervals this soon after a race Sunday was special. Running never lets me down.

Because of a late night, I ran at home. The sun was barely peeking through the trees. It felt good. I had done this during the pandemic and I knew how lucky I was to be able to keep up the routine as much as was possible.

I remember thinking that it was a glorious September, albeit hot morning.

Afterwards there was a reasonably quick and medium-hard workout. Hopefully the sweat took care of some of last night’s overeating. Careless, wolfing without reason.

At any rate, the day had started well.

Later, when I heard the news about my Chacha, I thought about the sportsperson he was, the encouragement he gave me, and that he ran a proud, large, woodworking factory.

Sunken cheekbones and rail thin, I still like to think of him as handsome. Deepak Vadehra, India number 1, Table Tennis.

The day after a race can feel many things. A continued sense of elation, tiredness, a now-what-next feeling, a precipitous drop from race morning and at times all of it, all at once.  More than any other feeling, for me, it’s a return to a reality. The fact that nearly no one outside of the running ‘circle’ knows about the training or the races, let alone cares about. Such is the case of an amateur everyday runner – at least for me.

As for the running ‘circle’, there is no formal group. No social media or communication. At most, a short exchange with one or two, if we are meeting on a particular morning. It is boys from the track, whose presence I think of (sadly) as transitory. Training for Agniveer or for a state team, perhaps for college, I doubt we would be running together a year down the road.

While writing this, it seems like perhaps there is a complaint here, but there is none at all. My running life is such, and is as real as the life at work or home. Like a patchwork quilt.

Today, was a manic day full of meetings but the race yesterday was never too far from my mind. There was a lingering sense of the taste of it. I wanted to savour that feeling again soon.

More than anything, I am rearing to get back to routine and training with last weeks few taper days behind me.

The race was finally done. Just over four hours after I woke up. Forty minutes of running after a nearly two hour drive and one hour wait around the start line. 

When we reached the sprawling campus where the run was held, the weather seemed cool, benevolent in September. So when the organisers announced we would be half hour delayed, I hoped the weather would hold. But it wasn’t so. It quickly became very hot, hot enough that I had to pour water several times during the two five kilometre loops. 

Technically it was a personal best, but I had done slightly better at the track at the end of last year. It seemed so long ago.

Today the race experience seemed ever so slightly underwhelming – the boys and I were all spread out – perhaps secretly I had hoped we would run like we ran at the track – in formation – keeping pace and encouraging each other.

But as always it was good to simply run, to race, to push myself like I hadn’t done in a while and to feel the energy of hundreds around me.

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.

Waking up on what is usually a non-rest day to rest – in the name of taper – gave me a reason to sleep in a little extra today. After cooking breakfast for the young boy – something I hadn’t done in ages – I settled down to a bit of work and reading.

I had a long work day ahead of me. Combining race week taper and work can be tricky – at least for me. An uneasy rest that feels neither here nor there. But here is a very interesting excerpt from the etymology of the word ‘rest‘:

The original prehistoric signification of the Germanic noun was perhaps a measure of distance; compare Old High German rasta, which in addition to “rest” meant “league of miles,” Old Norse rost “league, distance after which one rests,” Gothic rasta “mile, stage of a journey.”

League of miles; what a nice sound about that, an apt name for a movie or a play.

An easy run on a taper week makes me think about the usual questions. Have I trained well? Am I feeling rested? How will it go?

On one hand, a few days before a race, this suggests nervous energy but on the other hand, I tend to have a removed and dispassionate attitude. What Will be, Will be.

The one feeling I can’t quite get a grip on is if I am at a racing weight that makes me feel light. As a middle aged amateur runner, that joyous sense comes far and few in between. Quite like the super blue moon this August.