I always loved running. it was something you could do by yourself, and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs. — Jesse Owens
I haven’t been running outdoors lately. If the weather is the least bit imperfect or if I feel a mere twinge of laziness, I’ll slink to the gym and leisurely pound the treadmill. But Saturday morning the weather was perfect: 69 degrees, sunny with some light clouds, and a calm breeze circulating pollen to which I am immune. My muscles were loaded with carbs from pigging out at yesterday’s office pizza lunch, my iPod Shuffle was newly filled, my legs were freshly shaved, and my Saucony sneakers have a perfect 100 miles of tread-wear. The planets aligned for a jog.
The Charles River path was filled with groups of tourists, dog-walkers, and other exercisers. No citizenry is as appreciative of a fine Spring day as the beleaguered Bostonians. When I first started jogging the Charles River, way back in – is it possible? – the spring of 2000, the presence of witnesses to my huffing and shuffling annoyed me. The other runners seemed snide as they nimbly passed me, limping in their wake. Honestly, watching an out-of-shape person struggle to run is both amusing and pitiful. You can admire their gumption, but you do fear for their knees and heart.
But as my running improved, pedestrian traffic became a welcome distraction during the tedium that can be a long run. Today I probably passed hundreds of people in both directions, just long enough for my brain to assess their purpose on the path. Runners are, obviously, running but by analyzing their grace and stride, I can gauge if they are a rail-thin speedster, an all-around athlete, a solid life-long runner, or a weekend warrior trying to stave off a middle-aged spread. Walkers wear sweat clothes and carry water bottles, and pump their arms high up in the air, proclaiming to the world: I am exercising! Other walkers are less purposeful in their constitutional, wearing natty clothes and strolling in groups that have a tendency to spread out over the width of the path, obstructing impatient exercisers, especially the bicyclists and rollerbladers. I used to view them as a nuisance, but now I watch with interest the near-calamity that can ensue when a family on bikes attempts to pass a group on the narrow path, or when a walker steps in front of a mercurial rollerblader.
Today the most breathtaking creatures on the path was a group of 5 tall, skinny, coiffured young women wearing workout clothes that cost more than my Sunday best. They all had a bottle of Fiji spring water in one hand and a cell phone in the other, talking in what sounded like Castilian Spanish and walking about 2 miles per hour. I watched them as I approached them from behind, marveling at their otherworldly breeding. In between me and the sophisticates was a plump woman in jogging shorts with an ungainly stride that called to mind my blundering beginnings as a runner. She resolutely charged past the women. When I passed her, I noticed she had cellulite on her calves, a phenomenon I never thought was possible. That she can run with calf muscles literally riddled with fat gave me a little extra inspiration for the remainder of my jog.
