The workout asked for one mile intervals. The mile is 1609.344 or 1760 yards. I did it on the track. On the track, four rounds is just shy of the mile.

It’s an acceptable substitute – at least for my training. There is something desirable about running this fabled distance. It’s neither short nor long. It’s long enough for endurance to kick in and short in demanding anaerobic effort.

The Perfect Mile is an unputdownable book about the chase for the four minute mile. Perhaps in another life, I thought, thinking about that crazy time.

Today I had many of the usual boys for company. Some joined in for a part of the intervals, weaving in and out through laps and sets. After the debacle of Saturday’s intervals, I ran with a certain khundak. The timing was nearly okay but not quite there. Not yet.

But I finished satisfied, spent, happiness and heart pounding with equal measure.

It seemed like after quite a while that intervals had some spirit. Maybe it was the paranthas I ate last night.

Yesterday, when I texted my sister Roshini the time I would pick her up, she sent me something partly sarcastic and an accompanying thinking emoji. We ended up negotiating an in-between time.

But the joke was on me. Because when I woke up, my eyes were glued shut. No matter the routine. This morning, an enveloping need to sleep seeped into every pore. Somewhat groaning, I made my way to the kitchen squinting as I made mocha pot coffee. Caffeine, that miracle morning lifesaver.

She was ready and bright when I picked her up. But the early hours of the day lend to natural quietude. It was dark on the way to Nehru Park, Norah Jones played softly on the car stereo, and dark when we reached.

Already there were a few runners. And there were kids ranging from probably six to sixteen racing about in formation on roller blades with two cars flanking them, the coach yelling out instructions from the open window, and possibly in a dual role, keeping them safe from morning traffic. They looked intense, moving their arms as if in marching mode and legs splaying this way and that as they zoomed down Shanti Path.

Just as we were finishing our first loop, the sky was beginning to change colour. I remarked to my sister, but really talking to myself, that a month ago this was how the sky looked twenty minutes earlier. These slow, remarkable changes.

Some of the usual runners dotted around the loop; the roads vastly more sparse than crowded Sunday. It felt private, peaceful.

We didn’t speak much and ran on in comfortable silence, me ever so slightly ahead but keeping pace with each other. I suggested we try the routine again tomorrow – intervals at the track. There was some more negotiation about the time and later a snorting emoji followed on text.

I laughed. A good start to the running week, eyes glued shut notwithstanding.

When I stepped on the scale today I was horrified. But not surprised. It had been a week of unabated eating thrown in with a couple of night outs. Now the scale had shown the damage in my face. 

At any rate, this was simply curiosity. I could feel it in my face, see it in the mirror. But now that I had a number, I had to lose a few kilos to get to racing weight. 

For me, this means mindful eating more than any other formula. Slow, relaxed. For me, this isn’t simple although I suspect that some practice would go a long way.

Today, at lunch this was put to the test and I failed. Engrossed in conversation, I ended up overeating. While I seemed to notice it, I probably ignored it. The act of exchanging interesting sentences and continuing to sit at the table with food in front of me attracted ever more eating.

And so begins Monday, a bit sleepy and definitely puffy. Whether and to what extent the weight comes off is to be seen, but an easy run tomorrow will sort out the mind.

Oh well.

After sleeping just over three hours last night, I was less tired than I thought after the long run. That was a welcome surprise.

But fatigue after a long run – for me – comes later in the day and is usually felt the day after – Monday.

For now, I could enjoy the run for what it was – relaxed loops with the young boy and later by myself. I put on some music – hip hop blaring in my ears – but barely paying attention. Just running.

The week in running has been mediocre.

from French médiocre (16c.), from Latin mediocris “of middling height or state, moderate, ordinary,” … literally “halfway up a mountain.”… This is from medius “middle” … + ocris “jagged mountain”.

When I read the etymology, that is exactly how I felt. Just about a middling week. Somewhat okay. But that was the running report card of the week. Not to be confused with gratitude – to be out there. On the road, track and treadmill.

At any rate, I would rather be halfway up the mountain to enjoy a view than not at all.

I may as well have tied weights to my legs. That’s how heavy I felt today. 

Yes, the track was wet and slippery – it had rained overnight. But that is no excuse for the horrid interval session. Yes, the humidity was sauna-steam level. Probably more. But that is no excuse. 

Today I had the pack running with me. 1200s. I could feel the sliding surface under my shoes and the struggle right at the onset. I almost laughed when I saw the timing. The second set was better – way better – but not sustainable. And so it went till I finished the last set – even worse than the first. 

But it didn’t feel like drudgery. Because of the pack. Because of Sujit’s winning smile after each repetition even as he was miles ahead of me. Because of Monu. 

Because of Suryansh giving me company and saying that he felt the intervals were harder than usual. That made feel better. 

A session that should have made me feel terrible. Will certainly be labelled as one. But I didn’t feel that – I felt gratitude to these wonderful runners – for the opportunity to run the same lane as them. 

It was back on the treadmill today. Short, easy run followed by a quick but vigorous workout.

The treadmill setting was mindfully slow and once I warmed up, it was nose breathing all the way through. But, it had been a few days of overeating and I could feel the weight bouncing about in my body.

Following yesterday’s series on Apple Classical, I was listening to Arnold Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) and a search later told me about the origin and inspiration of the work.

 Transfigured described in the Cambridge Dictionary as: to change the appearance of a person or thing very much, usually in a very positive and often spiritual way.

The look of the word did not – to me – seem like the meaning at all.

Later, I searched for words that look like their meaning, and came across this excellent article that wondered if there was such a thing as ‘structural’ onomatopoeia – itself such an exquisite word.

To me, transfigured reminded me – immediately – of the Joker, my favourite villainous character. And therefore quite the opposite of the meaning of the word and the intended composition.

With these thoughts, completing the glute workout combined with burpees et al, an easy morning hour came to rest.

Because of a somewhat late night, I decided to sleep in a bit and run on the treadmill this morning.

After the usual coffee and a few rubs of my bleary eyes, I got on and started playing with the incline right away. It was the only way to wake me up.

I decided to hear the series The Story of Classical on Apple Music Classical. I choose Part V: Early 20^th Century.

The first one hour (in each of the nine parts) is a commentary explaining the context of the period narrated by Guy Jones. The story begins with the music of Igor Stravinsky and in particular his work The Rite of Spring. Here is a wonderful article on the work from the British Library calling its premiere ‘one of the most famous scandals in the history of the performing arts’.

I continue to play with the incline dial as I hear the commentary on Stravinsky, Debussy, Schoenberg, Ravel, Copland and more. It’s a lot to fit in an hour and a lot to absorb – for me certainly – and especially on the treadmill.

Or does that make it easier? That I can run and that I can listen without the other ordinary distractions of everyday modern life. But surely, I can listen to this – and any music – with more care and attention while not running?

Like at a performance.

I think these thoughts, while running, and while missing out on sentences and information that is streaming in my ears. I don’t know about others but I find it impossible not to let my thoughts wander once a while during a performance or a movie. What is absolute attention?

Perhaps I have felt it the most – and that too only symbolic in recognizing that it is in retrospect – during the final kilometres of the Bombay Marathon this year. When I just had to finish. When I was just a few kilometres away. Then just two. Then one. That burst of want and desire and need to just finish within a time limit, keeping a certain pace, I don’t think I have ever concentrated so hard.

But here I was, playing with the incline once a while, listening to a bit of this and a bit of that, careful to run at the same speed and to not lose patience.

The commentary ended a few minutes before the run. It was enough information for today.

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.

As soon as I entered the track, I was met by an older gentleman who I see every time and with whom I have run a few times.

Aaj kya, he said.

It wasn’t yet dawn. These were the first words I had heard today. 

Continuous, I said. My first word for the day. 

Chalo, he said. As if it was obvious that we should run together.

I pointed at Lane 10. He nodded and we began. 

In the first lap, he grumbled ever so slightly about his glutes and kidneys. Ya glutes ki problem hai ya kidney ki problem. I murmured that he should have it checked out and he grunted.

For the next fifty minutes we scarcely said a word. Just in step running lane ten. Some joined in for a few laps. No words exchanged.

A fist bump and a nod at the end was enough. 

It was quite the perfect way to start the week.

Rest days with day travel can sometimes be contrary to what a rest day should be. To sleep in extra hour. To use the morning time for something else. But then again Monday at work can’t be true rest – not for me – but I wouldn’t trade my routine or long run for anything different.

And I had used the day for travel – so in that sense it was the something else – away from the packed humdrum of Monday work routine.

Back in Delhi in the evening, when the disembarkation began, I used my stopwatch to see how long it would take me to exit the airport. Seated in the middle of the plane, it took me 4:50 to exit the plane and just under a total of fifteen minutes to reach the exit. Elite marathon runners would have run more than five kilometres in that time.

The travel back home in the car would take me nearly an hour. Door to door this would make it about five and half hours. Plus, the four and half hours that it took in the morning to reach my destination.

Tomorrow morning the routine begins again. I wonder if it’s the treadmill, the road or the track. We’ll see, I tell myself as I move in crawling traffic, nearing home – not more than fifteen minutes away for an elite runner.

I start my watch again to see what happens – will the elite runner reach home or would I, in spite of the traffic?

It turned out that it would have been a photo finish, reaching at just about the same time.