When you move house everything is new. It takes a while to
get your bearings, to work out where your nearest supermarket is, how you turn
the new oven on, which transport to take around the city. One of the first
things I do when I arrive in a new place is to work out some running routes. I
hate to admit it, but I like to run. It gives me time to think, to rearrange my
head. It also fills me with those good old happy chemicals, endorphins, which I
like to think makes me a more pleasant person. In all honesty though, I run
because it allows me to eat as much cake as I like.
When I first started running, it used to be more of a
scuttle down the road under the cover of darkness so that no one could see me. Now
that I’ve improved slightly and no longer resemble Phoebe’s infamous jogging scene in Friends, I’m getting bolder as I search out routes, seeking challenge
rather than ease and anonymity. On arrival in Edinburgh, Arthur’s seat was
calling to me through my window, laying down the gauntlet, defying me to attempt
such a feat. The sun was shining and I hadn’t been for a run in a few days. I
gave in, googled a rough route plan and pulled my grotty old trainers on.
All went well for the first 25 minutes, until I began to
doubt that I was still on track. Eventually I gave up on my nice circular route
and went back roughly the way I had come only to find out later that I had been
on the right road and had come about seven tenths of the way before I turned
around. Undeterred and ever the sucker for punishment I attempted the same
circular route again the next day. This time I made it further before my doubts
set in and I found myself wondering if I was lost.
I once knew of a chap who, on his study-abroad year, refused
through stubborn pride to ask for directions to the local supermarket. In the
end, he sat out on benches, watching for streams of people with carrier bags of
groceries, before following the stream in reverse to find the store. I remember
thinking how silly it was that he should let his pride stop him from asking for
simple directions, but now I found myself in the same position. I’ll admit this
was less due to pride and more through fear that my dulcet, almost-RP tones
wouldn’t be so well received in the area of town I found myself in, but all the
same I continued to run on with no idea as to which roads to take or when the
end would be in sight.
Eventually inspiration struck as a bus drove past me that I
knew would be stopping outside my flat. Surely we were travelling in the same direction?
I began to run after the bus. Of course, this was a short-lived endeavour as
busses travel significantly faster than me but I soon found that Edinburgh
busses are frequent enough that it wasn’t long before another bus appeared on
the same route. And so I spent the final ten minutes of what was now feeling
like a marathon chasing after busses in a most unseemly manner in the hope that
they would guide me home.
As I ran, I thought about life and how similar it feels
sometimes. I know where I’m headed – home – but I often don’t know the route or
how long it will take to get there. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing though,
it forces me to pace myself as I go, not knowing how long I need to keep going
for. If I attempt a sprint finish thinking that the end is just around the
corner, then I’m scuppered when it turns out that I still have several more
blocks to go. Not knowing the way, or what might be around the next corner
means I have to trust that some sort of direction will be provided in due time.
It might not take me the whole way, but it will get me where I need for time
being.
I have to admit, scoping running routes is one of the first things I do when I go somewhere - and often I find a supermarket or shop along the way. It's also easier to run further if you have no idea where you are - the slightly unnerving feeling of being in the wrong part of town is quite a motivator.
ReplyDeleteKate