twilight runner

For the last two weeks I have gone on an insane numbers of runs. Over seven days, I’ve gone six times, and one day I even went twice, running about 5km each time. Insane, verge of delirium, runs with no sense. My mind keeps going back to an event that happened a little while ago, or rather a saga, and it keeps re-playing in my mind. It’s no longer important, but those lingering feelings remain, and I need to be rid of them.

By nature, I am a serial pacer, not a runner. But when pacing, your thoughts gather and fester, so as I always find myself pacing around a small confined space that may be my bedroom or my kitchen, my thoughts fold inwards, like a heavy black cloth, doubling in on me. I have paced and festered for far too long, therefore I must run to let them go.

I’ve been heading out just as its starts to turn dark, reclaiming my love for the night. As the day starts to recede, you can see little flickers of light through the glass of the city’s scrapers, lighting up bit by bit, as the night gently fills the air.

It’s the motion of running, as the foot hits the ground, my mind drifts into those thoughts that usually consume me, but I can only entertain them for a little while, and then back to the body the attention goes, to the breathing, to the encroaching ache of the muscles, to the street ahead. It’s meditative.

My route includes going past the beautiful white washed mansions of Islington, places where I can only dream to live, through busy Holloway road, bumping into every man and his dog along the way, and then up towards Finsbury park where the real London is, gritty and real. I finally reach the park, an expansive green space in North London, my favourite bit being down an empty promenade lined with giant barren trees. I then run past Manor house, back though fancy Islington, reach Beacon Hill, my home, my saviour, the steps greeting me towards the front door... towards the shower.