miracle mile

Three times a week, one mile and then climbing eight flights of stairs. No time limit. It is all I can muster, and was designed to be something I cannot detour. It is possible. In the pouring rain, in -20C, it is possible. No excuses. I do not enjoy it. There are no surges of serotonin, no soundtrack to Chariots of Fire ringing in my ears. It is something I need to do. Sometimes my mind wanders as my feet shuffle across the old road that snakes along the stream where I run. I solve script problems in these moments, or commit to a decision. My heart pounds. My breath hangs in the cold air. Old people with dogs stare. Once a child ran along with me, a naive tribute to those running scenes in the first Rocky, but it only lasted for a few seconds. There is no eye of the tiger on this run. It is a miracle though, each time I somehow pull on layers of clothes and leave the house, fancy sneakers glowing in the dim light, a hat pulled down over my ears.

People do not run outside here. That is something you do in the gym. I catch odd glances, as if my eyebrows are on fire. They stare at me, or ignore me, nothing in-between. No polite little smiles, no miniature head nods.

Today I stabbed at the panel by the outside door, my fingers lost in the wrong code. A man stood behind me, waiting until I got it right. I paused in the doorway catching my breath. I still had to climb the stairs. He mumbles. I turn to him. He is shaking his head, as if he feels sorry for me, then asks something I cannot decipher, except for the word twenty. Does he mean twenty kilometers, or twenty minutes?

Less. I mumble. Less.

He shakes his head again, as I pull on the banister and make my way upstairs.