In the Sand, I run

So Stuck am I that I don’t notice that I’m stuck in the mud anymore. 

Andrew Watkins

Left, right left, right – A poem about movement

 

I meander past the breakfast bar and saunter to the lounge

where I settle with my coffee and leisurely supine myself on the sofa

The cat comes in and sleekly wanders past my legs, rubbing them gently but firmly. It’s breakfast time.

After the cats breakfast, I change into my running gear. It’s out of the front door to turn left them straight on for three miles. Bouncy bouncy. I feel as light as a feather gliding as the meters rush by, I am literally flying at the 2 KM mark and don’t notice a flock of seagulls is following me. I rush into the underground subway as the flock passes overhead.

Echoes fill my ears in the noisy subway and then it’s back into the glorious sunshine, stride not broken. I nod at the palm and the policeman waves as I go past and on up the hill.

This is what I do whenever I can. Run for the sheer thrill of watching the pavement get eaten up and the KM turn into miles while I barely break into a sweat. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins and other life appears as if in slow motion as I speed past everyone else. Pedestrians, motorists, Joggers cyclists, skateboarders, skaters, are all my silent partners in the business of running and I am CEO of movement, answering the questions of nutrition, fitness and trim.

I fly past 4KM in the sunshine and pour fluid down my throat eager for the

liquid. Running school is a memory as my body dictates through extension and contraction what way I move and I appear as a finely tuned machine to any observer. It’s mind over miles or matter as the 5KM mark approaches

I finish too soon and move to shower but find a black widow spider has taken over the cubicle. I remember what to do and soon the spider is outside and I am under a cascade of hot foaming water. I am drying myself and feel a strange vibration in the floor. Then the movement increases and the ground is shaking and things are falling off shelves and I am scared. It’s only an earthquake, says the voice of my mother in my ears. It’s only an earthquake, barely a tremor. Thanks, Mom.

 

 

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