Routine

“Better late than never...”

He was smiling. This was a joy that he could not explain. He woke extra early that morning, putting away a warm glass of lemon and mint water with the granola bar that he knew gave him an edge as he jogged on the paths nearby. Today was the start of what was going to be a very long week, so sidewalks and dirt trails would not be enough. He would have to use the track near the school. This meant leaving a little extra early to do at least four laps and then head home. A slow jog and a few indifferent traffic lights later, and he was on the oval gravel and dirt ring that he usually enjoyed on the odd weekend. Those days were tricky with the dog walkers, slow walkers (always the elderly and local new arrivals who just wanted some fresh air); cricket and football players on his path who treated him like a nuisance. Now, he was not forced to avoid bodies or leap over heaps of trash. The path was his and he was ready.

*

He could not explain this joy. At work, he made the mistake of sharing his exercise routine with the staff, and somewhat serious questions were posed about his mental health. “You really do that four times a week?” He did, and if he could, he would be here every day. But age and the stresses of the body told him that maybe four runs per week with his new sneakers, shorts and windbreaker were enough. Also, winter would soon be here. He could not take sidewalks covered in grey ice that would be hidden in the daylight-deprived mornings. The track was often cleared after the first snowfall, but for some reason, he hated running there when the weather turned. Skipping and yoga in his front room were winter pursuits. He felt the chill grow in the air as he turned a corner thick with trees and saw the lights still holding a powerful glare over the grass and rough track. No, these days were numbered. He would have to enjoy this now.

*

The usual starting point would be the tree that faced a drinking fountain that had been repaired and replaced by the city. He noted the faint outline graffiti on its base from before had been blasted away with spray guns, but he could still see some of the impressions left behind. Were those gang signs? As he stretched on the concrete, he wondered if any gangs really did claim this territory. An amusing thought in Bainesville… What would they want here, anyway? The local IGA or the Tim Hortons that never had dark roast available? He felt the chill air as he smiled and started his first lap.

*

He had done one lap and felt well. The old pains in his legs and back were not taking up space in his body, and the gravel felt good under his feet. Through the trees, he could see the lights of the local mall parking lot. There was a thought about when the building opened and he knew that he could probably find himself a very tall dark roast as a reward after he covered four laps (the card holder with his credit card and ID in his left breast pocket pressed lightly against his chest). As he passed the fountain, he pointed one of his fingers at the sky to mark that first turn (an unconscious habit that he could not shake), and he smiled. And then he looked across the middle expanse of grass into the darkness.

There was another runner starting directly opposite him.

*

Was he scared?

He looked at his watch and had to touch a button so he could see the glow of the letters and numbers. At least ten minutes had passed since he left the house, and he had about an hour to get through his whole routine. There had never been anyone on the track at that time; the occasional joggers he saw in the morning disappeared into the darkness of side streets and roads he usually avoided before the sun rose. But this man was right behind him…

And it was a man, right?

He kept up his pace, avoiding the temptation to speed up as he made out the figure in the periphery. White socks were clear, yes, but the rest of the outfit was either black or dark blue. And that was a head wrap. No way to be a hundred percent on this, but he was working with what his imagination put there.

He had someone else on the track with him. 

There were benches stationed around the gravelly track (three to a set). He could stop and pretend that he actually cared about the possibility of his shoelaces being untied, but decided against it. Maybe his companion – he wanted to think of a fellow jogger on friendly terms – was just as nervous to be here as he was. Stopping could be seen as something a little too threatening in the dark. He would just continue his circuit and hope that the dim light of the sun would grow quickly before he finished.

This was the exact moment when his body decided that it had had enough. A cramp gave him what he once read called a “stitch” in his left side. The cold air had allowed him to forget that this could happen (it had not been a problem since he learned that having a full meal before a run was a bad idea). One granola bar and flavoured water were taking him out?

No, not like this.

He could hear the footfalls of the man behind him, now out of his sight.

There was no way he was going to stop now. It was silly to think that he could be taken out by something that had not bothered him since he was a teenager and just learning how to handle his diet while learning to run and conquer his weight. That was the reason why he had started to do this. He had gained a lot of weight as a kid, and no one commented on what he should do with all that extra fat except stop eating. He then developed gout in his toes and fingers without knowing what it was called (a trip to the encyclopedia and a sympathetic librarian cleared that up). The only things that an unpopular boy could do was look at the local park and start to hurtle his body around the soccer fields until he shocked his system into accepting that he would not give up. A complete trip around one field was a miracle after one week. Then it was three times around from goal post to goal post. And then, the whole park was covered. 

It became his life.

No, he could not stop now. Let the cramp tear him up.

He began to move faster.

*

Was he now racing?

From a side glance, he could tell that the other runner was a little faster with his circuit around that track. He would soon be passed by him if he did not start to go a little faster. Instinct told him that he should get away; routine made him look at his watch as he got to his second lap.

Yes, he was going to speed up and do his last two laps without looking back.

But he did not have to look back now.

The runner was right behind him.

It was a very odd feeling, having the stranger behind him matching his own pace and not trying to surpass him as he pointed two fingers at the sky (he wished he could stop doing that). Was this a sign of respect? Was the other jogger young (not enough information there; did not even know if it was a man or woman)?  

He kept going and looked straight ahead.

Halfway through the third lap, the “stitch” returned, dragging down the right side of his body (how did it change sides?). For some reason, he thought of an incident at work where a colleague shared that he was ambidextrous. “I can write with both my left and right hands, no problem,” he said, proving it with a red and blue pen and two yellow legal pads that soon had his signature in perfect strokes. Left and right… Left and right… Just like his pace…but…

He had to stop.

The cramp would not let him go.

And he learned that fear can come in all forms.

The runner behind him had stopped.

*

There was no bench nearby (a thicket of trees would have provided shade where he stopped if the sun had been early to rise). He was standing with his arms fully akimbo as he leaned over to catch whatever breath he had left. And he could hear his respiration come in starts (some sort of internal warning was taking place inside his head and heart). Could he continue to do this as he got older? Was it wise to be out there on his own without a partner? Was there another sort of exercise he could practice during the day?

And was he really alone now?

The temptation to turn around was not going to leave him as he looked off at the lights of the mall (so far away now). He tried to look between his legs, but he felt his weight shift too far forward and tempt his body to hit the gravel beneath it. No, he had to take a moment and try to recover. The stitch was not that bad, but his legs felt spongy and raw now. The cool air ran between them and he looked at his watch as he straightened up. 

Ten more minutes and then…

He felt the silence grow behind him.

*

He looked up at the brightening sky and walked.

It was a slow pace, he figuring that if the man behind him wanted to attack, he could have done so at any time during his rest. And it was a man, right (why was this so important)? He had a thought that it could have been a woman who trailed him on that run, but this seemed to be someone very male (or at least masculine; was that acceptable?). The gait, the clothes and the general manner of the runner was enough to set the gender in his thoughts. This was what on his mind as he found the trail that led back to the sidewalk and street towards home. This was what was on his mind as he looked back.

The other runner was sitting down in the middle of a set of benches.

The other runner was looking directly at him from under a very powerful light.

There was no denying it. He was being stared at.

There was something recognizable there, but he just…

No, it was time to go home.

And with a turn around the corner, he decided that he did not want to know what was so special about him that a complete stranger felt it necessary to stare him down. The strength returned to him and he found a way to race back home.

Better late...?