About Friday Tempo Runs

Ashish had informed me well in advance that he would not be joining for today’s tempo run. He called it a self-inflicted punishment. I processed this information at 1.52 am as I stared at my ceiling. Sleep was erratic yet again this week. Lately I feel I second guess myself a lot. Am I pondering over things more, like old people? I would like to believe that I am evaluating situations more deeply. But who is to say? Maybe my hormone-deprived brain is doing this to me.

By 2.50 am I had negotiated with myself and turned off the alarm. I had allowed myself to sleep in and run 5km whenever I woke up. Like hello, is this how I will load my Sunday run? Compromising a Friday 13km tempo run with a measly, sluggish 5km, with 8km on Saturday?

Not sure when I actually fell asleep, my eyes opened at 6 am. Ugggh! Now I will have to run. Like a child trying to have her way with her mother to escape a despicable “general knowledge” class, I looked for ways to convince myself to skip the run. Nature’s call sent me to the bathroom. To my bad luck (or good) my running clothes were there — ready for me on the counter from the night before. Ugggh! This was the final stroke.

Just after sunrise, I dragged myself onto the road armed with my loyal, fuchsia iPod shuffle circa 2011 or 12. I was hassled, tired, restless, unsure, afraid of my nocturnal disturbances (this month will be the reason my brain will die when I am old, old, old). With no plan to follow as I had abandoned speed workout in the dark of the night, I congratulated myself for getting out. Seriously? This was my level now, that only showing up was enough? To salvage some respectability, I decided to run the hills. Slow and easy.

The familiar road brought me a little comfort. As I passed the view point on Walkeshwar Road, I stopped. Not because I was tired, or that I was awed by the view like I usually am. No. This stop was just Because. My HR had barely gone up and the skyline was hidden by the haze. Having newly discovered Kindness, I decided I was being kind to myself. (“Or weak?” The Voice whispered.)

Grudgingly, I climbed up the first hill. Halfway up the hill, when one is supposed to push, I stopped. And walked. More kindness. (“Haha,” snickered The Voice). Even the music was uninspiring. Useless. Unhelpful. Hill 2- same story. I crested it as the opening bars of Linkin Park played in my ears. The guitar, followed by drums. The chorus of “Whaaaaat I’ve done” played loud and clear.

I relaxed my shoulders. My cadence found its rhythm. My legs stopped complaining. A load lifted off me. Yesterday’s worries shrank. And where was The Voice?

I was well into the seventh km, climbing hill 3 effortlessly. I took a swig from my water bottle and smiled at the mother and son — in the white shirt-white pant Cathedral school uniform, walking to the S6 bus stop. I saw myself with Arnav, just a decade younger.

“Maybe you should walk the flat,” warned The Voice. But no. I powered through. Up hill 4.

Unstoppable. Ronan Keating crooned, “You say it best, when you say nothing at all…”. I grinned stupidly at everyone — from the bus conductors milling around the Hanging Gardens sipping their tea, to Dhanuben, who has been delivering milk to the neighbourhood from her office on the top of the road for the last forty years. Even the somber barefoot devotees walking towards the Jain temple felt my joy.

I am enough. I can look after myself.

Then Arijit proclaimed his adoration with “Ae dil hai mushkil”, and I was singing loudly! (“Haha,” said The Voice, again). 9km done, and 3km more if I wanted it to be a “proper” Friday run.

Nothing could stop me now. I doubled back, climbed the long, steep fifth hill and sprinted all the way down. And just the luck of this couple to have encountered me in my state of euphoria, when I had only 400m of downhill running left. “I mean, why do you have to walk beside your wife all the time? And that too on this narrow footpath, especially when you can see me charging down?” thought I. I gestured impatiently with my right hand, “Move!” Of course he scooted. I flew down with my arms dangling beside me and Green Day raging inside me. Under the open-armed 100-year-old rain trees lining the road, with the sun glinting off their tiny leaves, I remembered seeing them play live. This would be a good day to die!

The view point

On a better day

(file photo)