Last weekend, I ran my first 10k in India. It was also one
of the few times I had run outside after spending most of the past seven months
running inside on a treadmill. I have run through the Bronx, through the
streets of Brazil chased by wild dogs, through the forests of the American
West, through Central Park, past Dodger Stadium, and under the Golden Gate
Bridge, but I was initially intimidated to run through the streets of India.
They are hot and crowded and loud, filled with people and bicycles, rickshaws
and cows, but now that I have done it I never want to get back on the
treadmill.
I get up at four, pull my running shorts on and lace my sneaks.
I skip out the door into the dark and slam into a warm, wet wall. The sun is
not even thinking of crawling over the horizon and it is nearly 85 degrees out,
summer in South India. The mosque on the other side of the river is chanting
the call to morning prayer from speakers at the top of its minarets, and I
wonder how it doesn’t wake up the kids or why I don’t hear the blaring from
bed, but in the coming days, I will hear it. Every morning. I think it is
getting louder.
I swat flying ants from my face, pull open the gate to our
house and start down the road. A street dog that is normally docile and humble
barks and gives brief chase. I assume I startled him. Both the guard and the
policeman at the end of the street are asleep in their chairs, their necks bent
at a forty-five degree angle, and their heads resting on their shoulders.
I’ve been meeting a group. Our collected courage pushes us
through the streets. I’m not normally out this time of day. Elise is, and I
finally see what I have been missing all this time and finally understand how
easy it is for her to get out of bed every weekend for her photo walks. On
Tuesday, I reached Marina Beach just as the sun was coming up over the Bay of
Bengal, a giant red star. Flocks of blackbirds were spinning in the air like
cyclones. On Thursday, I ran past Pete’s school to Elliot’s Beach. There, a
thousand walkers were strolling its length. Another running group was doing
repeats. I see runners everywhere.
Things, I think, that would normally repulse most runners, I
relish. As we cross rivers, an acrid miasma of human excrement assaults my
nostrils. I breath in clouds of blue smoke, dodge auto tuk-tuks, leap over
piles of poop, pass dogs and cows chowing down on large piles of garbage, race
buses hollering at me with their deep-throated bugles. I see chickens and
goats. I smell vada frying in a giant dish of popping oil from a tea stall. I
run by fish markets just coming to life. But every single sensation is welcome.
Every mile goes by quicker than the one before.
Then, I reach home, turn the corner to my street and see two
giant water buffalos ambling toward me. They are, at the shoulder, several feet
taller than me and as wide a VW Bugs. I pull up and ease around them, giving
them a wide berth and sneak back through the gate to our house. It is 6:30, and
I have seen and done more than I will in the rest of the day combined. I take
off my shoes, ring my socks of sweat and get ready for work.
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