I really feel like running today—I hardly really feel like running. Barely awake, I imagine myself effortlessly running at a steady pace in evergreen St. James’s Park with a relaxed smile and healthy red cheeks like the runners that I normally stare at. I want the relief that’s on their healthy faces when they reach the finish line, the tired and satisfied smiles, and the personal records they break that day without endless stopping and bending over to catch their breath. I want all of that, forgetting for a moment that I’ve never been a good runner. I’m the opposite. I struggle, I curse, and I fight my way on my sneakers until the torment ends. Runners pass me as if I’m going for a stroll on a Sunday morning. I actually don’t know why I run. I’m not even sure what I do is called running.
Today is different. Today I don’t have to give myself a pep talk to go out and run. I don’t have to drag myself outside like a stubborn kid who doesn’t want to play outside but would rather stay in and watch TV. I have the running fever. It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up on this Tuesday morning and I can’t get it out of my head. I’m ready as never before. It must be the spring air. Whistling, I put on my most professional running clothes I find in the back of my closet, eat a runners’ breakfast, and read the sports section of the newspaper. I tell my husband, who’s observing the scene flabbergasted, I really feel like running. Nothing’s going to stop me.
“Hello, world!” I say when I step outside, stretching my arms and legs. The owner of the Laotian restaurant next door walks by with fresh vegetables. The police officers leaving the station across from our house greet me and return my smile as if we see each other every morning.
No time to waste, I start my run before the front door closes behind me. I cross the street, pass the café latte drinking crowd at the terrace of Prêt à Manger, and continue towards the big square. Artists get ready for the day and put their chalk in a row on the ground. A singer tests his microphone warming up his voice with snippets of songs. The National Gallery opens its doors to the early birds waiting in line to get in.
“Look at you, you’re running in Trafalgar Square!” I say to myself while zigzagging through groups of tourists who spin around to see everything on the square, mouths open in astonishment and pointing out the landmarks so their friends can admire them too. London’s in a good mood, the sun is shining, I feel my cheeks turn red. I can’t understand why I don’t do this more often. I regret not wearing my runners’ skirt. Like a ballerina in a pink tutu, I tiptoe through the crowds. Alicia Keys supports me, this girl is on fire.
Buckingham Palace welcomes me as I reach the end of The Mall. My heart fills with excitement and I tear up running towards the Queen of all queens, proud to be a Londoner. I can’t help myself and wave at the guards on duty behind the large fence with red tunics and bearskin hats, trained not to wave back. I feel like a world citizen, a cosmopolitan, a globetrotter who’s discovering the world in her sneakers. Halfway around St. James’s Park surrounded by loud ducks and squirrels collecting and hiding nuts, I stop to check my active body.
I check my heart rate on my Fitbit—reasonable. I check my breath—out of breath, I check on palpitations—not one heartbeat out of place. Beads of sweat form on my forehead. During my break, I do fifty squats and twenty-five push-ups with my hands on a wooden bench. And some more stretching in between. God forbid I take it easy on my first run in weeks.
I’m on a high, there’s no stopping me. I see the London Eye in the distance slowly moving behind the white nineteenth-century buildings and run through the Admiralty Arch to the roundabout. I cross red traffic lights looking the right way, pass black cabs in the usual traffic jams tooting their horns, and take the steps at Trafalgar Square. My heart is cool as ice, so I run up and down the steps again, and again. Tourists turn around and street artists look up from drawing when I pass by sprinting the last part of my run, breathing like a hundred-year-old. To finish my run properly, I run up the three flights of stairs at home. Me and my heart feel like we’re in heaven, my body heavy.
What a great way to start the day. Nothing can throw me off today. After a hot shower, my body starts protesting. Two hours later I can hardly move my legs, my shoulders are stiff, and the muscles in my butt are on strike. Waking up tomorrow morning won’t be pretty. But my aching body can’t get the smirk off my face. My mood is set for the rest of the day and my heart acts as if this morning didn’t even happen. As if she’s stayed in bed until noon with a cup of tea, two scones with strawberry jam and a good book. The unhealthy, bright red runners’ cheeks don’t go anywhere for the rest of the day. People in my Skype meeting comment on how healthy I look.
The running fever stays, and I make new running plans for the following day, my heart jumping just thinking of it. Me and my heart are on the same page today. I better enjoy it because I never know how long that’s going to last.
