Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

It is behind me, it is with me, it is ahead of me.

The rhythm, the run.

Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath, that rhythm has kept me going, not running from somewhere, not running to somewhere, simply running to right now.

There is a bird above me, noticing her, I look up from the track, she doesn’t look down from her’s. She has her eyes set on the horizon, I follow her eyeline, funny to think I could run there if I tried, I turn left instead.

Back amongst the houses, between the two that make the wind tunnel, launching me from the beach. Back on the pavement that makes my left knee twinge. Ignore it. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath. The house I left behind me is in front of me again, the door I left from is waiting for me to return. I turn right, away from it.

I’m past the point of feeling this particular run, before the point of it catching up with me. There is plenty of light left in the sun, not so much heat, I’m past the point of feeling the cold on my thighs. I’m wearing the shorts my father gave me from when he was fitter, I look up from them. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

Up over the overpass now, the incline always makes it harder, but I won’t turn back yet. The woods are just over it, the hill there makes this one worth it. I wonder if I’ll become my father. Ignore it. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

Onto the trail now, leaves slip over themselves under foot. The river runs alongside me now, it’s much quicker than I am, carries much more purpose. Up along the valley it has carved with that purpose, so much force only for it to follow the same lines. I wonder what my father is doing right now. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath,

A man is walking his dog in front of me. I still don’t know when to let him know I’m behind him, at least cyclists get a bell. Too late. I’m past him, I think I overcompensated with the breathless thanks I yelled at him. Thick spit leaves my mouth reluctantly. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

The woods don’t run out so much as they get cut in two by the road I’ve joined. I swing right, there’s still some more hill to beat. A little more distance. I reach the high house, the one with towers and single glazed panoramic views. I reach the driveway and wonder how long it’s been there, probably not as long as the hill I’ve got to start back down again. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

I go left into the countless homes. No shops, no schools, just houses. Homes, cars, extensions, gardens, lives. A kid cycles past, I’d hate to live here at their age, it’s bad enough at my age when I know there’s other options out there, never mind theirs.  This street is their whole world. I start to get angry at them for not realising there’s world to miss out on. Ignore it. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

The hill is carrying me down faster than I would have liked it to, it’s ruining the rhythm by making it too easy. I resist it by taking another left, along the flat road that splits the graveyards. On my right lies old rotten history with a better view, to my left lies clean memories at the back of back gardens, either way there is stones and dirt. I wonder which my father would prefer. Ignore it. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

Down and down again, passing the pub now. I always want to go there, to feel the warmth I imagine within its walls and doors when I’m out here. The warmth it shoots out into the sky through its chimney, that fills my lungs on colder nights. The warmth I never find when I actually go in. it’s just strangers and alcohol, so I leave. Maybe next time. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

Now for the original houses. There’s the one that says sea view and has its view blocked by the newer building in front of it. The one that crumbles its plaster in protest for not having been demolished yet. The short one that surely can’t be bigger than a room on the inside, and the one that wants everyone to know it’s from the seventies, despite no one asking. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

I’m at the road now. At the unsafe crossing, the one where if you look left, you can see the horizon, spilling its blues and pinks over the rounded mountains. If it’s clear enough you can see all the way to Arran. I can’t. I can only see the van that I’m going to have a near miss with even though it can see me clearly. Halfway across the road. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath

The second half passed without incident. I’m back on our side of the road. The side with the boats, the painted roofs, the broken bridge. I haven’t reached them yet though. For the second time I’m running back towards the house, the door, the top right of my stomach says I can’t make another turn and my heart is starting to agree, so home it is. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath.

I leave the rhythm at the door. Small drops of it cling to my forehead, my t-shirt, and the shoes I dry on the radiator. My father will move them and tell me it’s bad for them. I’ll only move them again tomorrow. Foot, foot, foot, breath, foot, foot, foot, breath. Maybe I’ll chase that bird next time.