A Surprising Addiction

In high school, I begged my mum to write notes excusing me from Physical Education for vague “female” problems.  Having a fake gynaecological disorder seemed, to me, less embarrassing than being smacked in the face by a volleyball.  I wished they would erect a library on every cricket pitch and I hated sport so much that I daydreamed about arriving to class with a cast on my leg.

But, when I started uni, I seemed to quaff more beer than Mount Franklin and I had to burn those extra calories somehow.  I took up running and was predictably woeful at it.  I’d heard runners say that surging endorphins made them feel exhilarated and alive but I, wheezing and clutching my side, felt much closer to death.  Nevertheless, my experiences as a child migrant left me needing to succeed in everything, so I persisted.  I winced through many runs with grim determination until I was, inexplicably and surprisingly, addicted.

Since then, I’ve lugged a pair of running shoes everywhere.  I ran through smog and dust in Bangalore, tripped on neglected footpaths and dodged cows with udders swinging like chubby children in a park.  In London, blushing autumn boughs shed leaves on me as I sloshed through puddles.  I ran barefoot through drizzle on a deserted beach in Rio while foamy, grey waves sighed and churned beside me.  I was stared at by men squatting on roadsides in Lima and serenaded to by buskers in cobbled streets in Madrid.   

At home, my daily runs are pages in a flipbook of changing seasons.  I dreaded hurling myself into frosty, black winter mornings. My fingers turned numb and my lungs ached as I slid along lawns glossy with dew.  Thankfully, summer has finally come and it is now light when I lace up my shoes.  The Jacarandas are heavy and swollen with flowers.  They beckon in the breeze and shower violet confetti on me.  When I wind along the riverside, swans bend their elastic necks into the water and teenage boys flex and wrestle with their oars.  Paperbark trees dangle over the river like skinny, old monkeys leaning into a waterhole for a drink.

Even after years of running, I am still not good at it.  Minutes into a run, my feet turn into sandbags and my muscles feel like duck liver parfait.  But I like running because it is so hard.  The pain is comforting, familiar, and so persistent that I can’t worry about anything else.  In that morning hour of solitude, I forget about overdue bills, looming deadlines and to-do lists.  I can rest from making small talk with neighbours or cajoling cranky magistrates.  There’s no need to be pretty or clever. Whatever doubts I have about the things I cannot do, I know that I can put one foot in front of another and I’ll keep doing that until I’m grey and wrinkled and the only cartilage I have is in my ears and nose.  Even then, I hope I’ll manage to slip past the nurses after Bingo and shuffle my way to happiness.