A Morning Run

My iPhone’s alarm gently starts humming and I groggily reach over to press the Stop button. They make it extra tiny now so you really have to focus to press it. By now, however, I’ve memorised its exact positioning - an ability I’m not entirely proud of. The air is dry and my fan is humming in the background. The autumn weather is getting cooler, but it’s not quite terrible yet.

I negotiate myself out of bed and scratch my crusty eyes looking at myself in the bedside mirror. Everything is quiet. The lock screen on my phone tells me the time is 5:03AM. The Big Smoke hasn’t started bustling just yet. But it soon will.

I toss on a pair of black shorts and a black t-shirt (my de facto uniform) and give my neck a big crack. Good night’s rest. The floor is cold but I make my way to the shoe rack and throw on my dark blue Brooks. They’ve done me well since I bought them 2 years ago in Deansgate. The toes are slowly giving away, but they have many more kilometres ahead of them.

I decide to leave my AirPods inside this time, taking with me only my keys and my phone tucked inside my running belt. I need to clear my head. It seems as though I’ve not been able to have an independent thought for months without it being drowned out by whatever 80s rock band I was into that day.

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I begin at a measly pace jogging on the pavement of Whitechapel. The concrete below my feet feels solid and resistant, almost as though it were pushing back at me. It feels like a different world. The purple bins of Liverpool have been swapped for the overflowing black bins marked “Tower Hamlets Council”. I’ve not been here that long, yet that seems like a lifetime ago. I pick the pace up and exhale. I can just barely see my breath. I can hear not much else except the thud of my shoe on the pavement.

Another jogger joins behind me. I turn my head to see if I can catch a glimpse of my competition but I cannot. He too is dressed in all black, except for his Nike Cortez Shoes - just about the only thing I can make out. They’re hard to miss and outstandingly beautiful. He’s got the OG colourways: white uppers with the bright red Nike swoosh and a hint of blue on the sole. This man is probably a professional.

I give him a nickname in my mind: “Loser”. I try to villainise him. He is now my arch nemesis and I cannot let him get past me. I did not intend to race this morning, yet still I begin to quicken my pace. In response, he also seems to pick up his own pace. There is a certain amount of emotion building that I can’t specifically identify. He seems more fit than me, a bit taller and a bit more muscular. Yet still, if this man were to pass me, he’d have to bleed first. I feel as though I’m running away, though I’m not sure exactly what from.

My heart begins to beat faster and my breathing is deep now. For an odd moment, I think to myself: why do I even care? This jogger probably doesn’t even know he is locked into a mini race with me. I ponder the idea for a minute before discarding it immediately. To me, a man is most in danger not when he is fearful, but rather when he is apathetic to everything around him.

My legs are now going near maximum speed and my vision begins to tunnel. All I can hear now are just the sounds of his shoe and mine hitting the pavement. The world around me seems to fade away. The rhythm of the steps is like a song. It’s soothing like two drums working in tandem. I lock into it.

I forget all about the jogger behind me. And for a moment, he even jogs alongside me on the opposite side of the road. My eyes are focused ahead and I do not turn to meet him. My thoughts switch from worrying about not being fast enough, to worrying if I’d ever figure out how fast I can truly go.

I’ve lost track of the jogger now. He might have turned into another street. I am yet again on my own, the streets of Whitechapel all to myself.

I pause for a second, taking a quick moment to look down at my phone screen. My Strava tells me my heart rate zone is nearing 7 - whatever that means. I take a quick peek at my notifications. One’s just come in. It’s from my mother and reads: “Happy Birthday Son.” I smile, knowing that she’d thought about when to send the message due to the time zone differences back home in Trinidad. I look forward into the distance and mumble to myself, “Happy Birthday indeed buddy.”

The sun is finding its way out now. Ahead of me, I can see the London Skyline in all its poignant glory towering over me. I take a deep breath before starting to run toward it once more.