The Jogging
The hitch in his stride. The broken lope. The funky, middle-aged gait of a man who spends a bit of time each evening thinking about the state of his knees. The boneache and tendonstrain — he thinks you could bisect the atrophying cartilage to see there recorded, like timber rings, the years and miles, the years and miles on gravel and asphalt, hardcourt and muddy path, beach, rock, and wooden step. The late winter sun blurring the edges of his shadow. The legs of his shadow gliding over surfaces with an airy grace that makes him jealous. The subtle jiggle at his centre, not just weight or heft but a thin layer of what he knows to be fat. The stubbornness of this fat. The heavy smolder in his lungs. The phlegm. The way he remembers being able to run all day long, run without the running triggering any sort of introspection, just run, the way he took pride in being able to outrun all the other boys at practice, knowing that he wasn’t the fastest but that had he untapped reserves no one else possessed. The way he could always just keep running. The way that running now is both a physical activity and a simulation streaming in his head: I am running I am running This is what it feels like when I run I didn’t want to run tonight but I’m glad I made it out Feels good to get the body moving I am running This is my body running. The elemental burn up his calves. The corroded hinges that are his hips. The metronomic quality of his steady, wonky pace. The way it feels like he is chasing something. The way it feels like he is chasing himself.
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