Sunday Run

Running was dangerous, difficult, and unpleasant, but Dan and I did it anyway. The only possible time was in the early morning, before the punishing equatorial sun asserted its power. The evening was out of the question due to mosquitoes. Even though we made it up the steps and onto the road before 7 AM, rush hour would already be in full chaotic glory. Japanese mini buses coming in both directions, three-wheelers trying to pick us up, pods of school kids walking in their white uniforms, potholes, trash, ditches, cow shit, dog shit, eternal construction, trees full of bats, homeless people on the pavement, ox-carts, buses, motorcyclists trying to pass everyone else, monkeys gathered around a dumpster, cows in the road, stray dogs everywhere, and even an ornery stallion miniature pony tethered near the playground. Running in this seething Third World soup required total attention to the environment at all times.

The one thing you have in your favor running is here is the right to exist and be on the road, nothing else. Running in the Third World gets easier once you embrace the inalienable right of everyone to convey himself down the road is whatever manner necessary at the time. If you are driving an ox-cart then everyone else will work that in to their trajectory. If you are running, then everyone out and around will accommodate that also. Everyone has the right away all of the time. You just have to balance your right away with other guy’s right of way without collision, that’s the tricky part. Getting down the street is a team effort involving everyone present on the road at the time. During the morning rush there are lots of team members on the road, but this can be an advantage also as nobody is going anywhere at too fast. Along the main road hugging the edge of the lake we might be the fastest thing on the road.

On Sunday morning for a special treat Dan suggested that we went to the Botanical Gardens to run. You had pay admission, but the paths are paved and well-maintained, there were no motorized vehicles, no pavement dwellers, no monkeys, no trash, and no pony. “And we can take the car,” Dan added. Dan’s 1968 Lancer had just arrived back from the shop where the crank-shaft had been replaced and the radiator had been repaired. He had taken it around town a few times and was eager to continuing driving it. It would be my first voyage. After we got our gear on we headed up the steps to Dan’s little parking spot inside the compound walls. I opened and closed the iron gates for Dan as he expertly backed the car out of its tiny covered slot. “I have total confidence in everything…except maybe the brakes,” he mentioned off-hand as I got into the car. My immediate internal reaction to the car’s interior was that “it’s fascinating how different people have different levels of physical comfort, and this is way, way outside of mine.” This thought consumed me even more than the comment about the breaks as we started down the hill. I could feel the stink of the seat fabric oozing into my running pants. There was a feeling of dampness in the seat, but this was actually just my own sweat plastering me into the seat. The car had no ventilation other than the small open window.

Dan seemed pleased enough with his repaired ride. “Thilak and I’ve really put in some miles in this thing,” he said wistfully as he muscled the rack-and-pinion steering around the hair-pin curves. “You know, when we pull up at the Army base in this thing, they know we aren’t CIA. It really helps put the soldiers at ease and helps them open up,” he continued.
“I bet,” I replied bitingly, raising and eyebrow. “They must know you guys’re academics for sure.”
“I just like the review mirrors on the hood,” Dan replied, “that’s my favorite part, like insect antennae or something.” When we arrived at the gardens and got out of the car I could smell the car’s stink clinging to my sweaty legs. “I hate your car, you know that right?” I commented as we crossed the busy road.
“Really Sweeite?” he replied with concern. “We can take a three-wheeler next time then, I promise.”

Dan explained to the ticket man in Singhala why we deserved the local rate of 20 Rupees and not the visitor rate of 300 Rupees. I would think that his proficiency in the language would be proof itself of residency, but the man took a fair amount of convincing. Once inside the gate we started running on the sparsely populated black asphalt path. I started to feel tired quickly. “Are you ok?” Dan asked, “You’re breathing pretty hard.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, I willed myself with pride to control my breathing. I tried to focus on the beauty of the lush and carefully manicured vegetation. I tried to enjoy the freedom of running without having to worry about being hit by minivan. As we approached the bat-tree section of the Gardens, I used my desire to get away from the bats to motivate me to keep going as quickly as possible. These were not the small little bats that live in your attic. These bats are huge, like a large North American Grey Squirrel with a three foot wingspan. Hundreds of them roost together in a single large tree. The Botanical Gardens must have featured 20 or so bat-trees over its 60 hectares. When I ran under them I could hear the bats squeaking and shifting around. At dusk at home I watched them each night gliding at an incredibly high altitude from the Botanical Gardens, over the Kandy Lake, and into the hills beyond. At dusk I found them elegant and peaceful, high up in the sky. When running under them 20 feet above my head and smelling their acrid guano, I found them revolting motivation to keep moving as quickly as my labored breathing would allow.

Even between the beautiful flowers and the bats to motivate me along, I could not make it around the outer loop of the Botanical Gardens, which I estimate to be about 2 miles and included no hills. In Kandy I was not sure if the harsh environment wore me down faster, but here out of the danger and activity of Kandy I had to face a simple fact: I was horribly out of shape.

Three years ago I had trained for a marathon that had been canceled. I followed my training plan exactly and was poised, injury-free, for a great race when the plug had been pulled three days before by the sponsors. It would have been the second running of the Washington DC marathon. Security issues secondary to Operation Iraqi Freedom were cited, but rumor had it that interest was not high enough. I had not been seriously running since. Before coming to Sri Lanka I bought myself my first new pair of running shoes since the failed marathon attempt and vowed to return to my training.

After the run I got back into the car gingerly, motivated towards its shelter by a clove seller and a beggar rapidly closing in on me from opposite sides. I set a benchmark in my mind: today, nearly one lap around the Botanical Gardens. I would run in Kandy twice during the week and then next Sunday I bet that I could do a lap and a half.