The fan whirred at the foot of my bed and three indeterminate insects chirped soulfully somewhere in the recesses of my room. The hour read two thirty in the morning; not even the most ambitious roosters felt it necessary to awaken and call the rising sun. My eyes flipped open.
For hours I tossed and turned. I spurned my blanket for the heat, then clutched it close for the cold. My head yearned for sleep but my brain rebelled. For the night is its playground. What better time to mull over the great impossible than when no eyes but those omniscient can intrude?
Yet the great impossible would not be tonight’s rope swings and jungle gyms. Rather, a runner’s dilemma – this runner, to be precise, and the dilemma of whether or not to begin running again.
Admittedly, I have been intimidated into lethargy. I name any number of factors: the heat, the dozens of eyes and taunts, the traffic, and many others.
This night my thoughts bore the banner of Hugo’s French Revolution, with orders to march, to abandon house, to suffer – if only the aches of exercise.
Five AM arrived with ceremony. Shorts on. Laces tied. The road was mine, the air was cool, all traffic ceased but my feet pounding the dirt.
A runner, I think, shall I be once more.