Running Away from Home

I can’t complain about a job that takes me to places like Hawaii and India, but combining it with running has its drawbacks. Once in training for an event it must be committed to, and in combination with a job that is also mobile it seems that I can no longer get away with one carry-on bag. Trainers and running gear must be packed along with water belt, gels, running watch, iPod and rechargers. In addition to the excess baggage, the jogger in transit also has to contend with conditions that may not always be ideal, requiring adjustments in order to mitigate any propensity to embarrassment.

In Jaipur, for example, there was a 400m running track around the hotel grounds that led nowhere (indicative perhaps of India's infrastructure). Heat and dust seeped into everything as attempts at a degree of modesty were also necessary; my baggiest shorts over knee length leggings is never going to be impressive. While I’ve always admired women who can still look gorgeous at the end of a marathon (like 'glamour' model Jordan, who I happened to run the Brighton Half with a few years back … well, not so much ‘with’ as a fair distance away from her bodyguard), I always end up looking like a stumpy, soggy mop at the best of times. To go beyond the bounds of the hotel grounds meant attracting more stares and the possibility of encounter with the ever-present stray dog against which no joggers' legs stand a chance. So a running machine became my best friend, in a one room gym facing the pool and lawns on which expensive tourists sunned themselves while pervy peacocks leered in through the window. Clocking up kilometres on a running machine is about as exciting as watching an odometer click over.

At the other end of the spectrum, Honolulu, I realized I had forgotten what space feels like after years of living in London, and this particular space is filled with smells of damp loam, Pacific salt, frangipani, wet neoprene, board wax, sun screen lotion, and sweat. An ambient soundtrack of mechanical growling was provided by US Air Force cargo planes taking off and landing, in tune with growling grey skies. It was embarrassing to have to confess to an Hawai'ian that I didn't know it was the rainy season, hence the amount of sweat (nor that the volcanoes were on another island). Just as well it's a reverse time zone to the UK. Wide awake at 5am meant I may as well get up, put on my running gear and get out for a long run while it was still cool. And no need to worry about being alone at that time. The streets and main roads along the coast were full of joggers and cyclists throwing themselves up Diamond Head before sunrise.

It is a sign of Hawai'i's status as a desirable retirement home that it was a mass of brown, soft, leathery flesh that I joined. Going at a slow pace, we pottered past a memorial service on the Honolulu promenade where the homeless waited for the crowds to arrive so they could begin their day's survival. Birdlife, cardinal red and pointy-headed, accompanied the route, while my angry toe became angrier in the heat, and all the time upwards towards the crest of the old volcano that marks too much of my childhood television. I had an uncontrollable urge to yell '5-0' or 'book 'em Danno' every time I ran by a police car. I ineptly attempted to find one dollar for the entrance fee to the Park by patting my pocketless outfit, but the ranger eventually lent it to me. It's worth the climb for the view and the admiring looks of Japanese tourists who jumped out of the way as I sweated past.

The theme of hills continued in San Francisco recently. San Fran joggers must be world champions at hill running with some streets sloping up to 31.5%. Running here is an exercise in masochistic calf work out. It is also a city marked by: 

1. cheeriness as fellow joggers acknowledge the loveliness of the day; 
2. elastic distances as the ocean moves beyond actual map coordinates (it’s those hills); 
3. clouds of marijuana at eight in the morning; 
4. homeless people camping in all available parks and crevices of this high tech, digital city.

That same mix of despair and optimism marked out what is now my favourite jogging track: Venice Beach. Another early start required to beat the prescient heat of a spring day, and along the beach the crowds started to gather for a collective paean to the outdoor life of California: volleyball and basketball courts, gymnastics pitches, muscle beach gym.

I wondered at first why Venice Beach was called a freak show, but then realised I'd mistakenly jogged to Santa Monica (turning right instead of left). Heading back along the promenade there was at some point a momentary crossing of an event horizon and then tumbling head-long into wonderland dodging every conceivable form of mobility: bicycles pimped with luminous wheels, skates and skate boards of all sizes and varieties propelled by human and dog, both wearing sunglasses, hoverboards, segways, other joggers, surfers, artists, musicians and the muscle bound. Past cafés, synagogues, medicinal marijuana, sunglasses, and knickers with slogans like ‘It’s not going to spank itself’ writ large across the arse. Down to the pier where the fishers try their luck in momentary respite, and then back into it again as noise and light and all the other shards of dysmorphia propelled my legs along the sandy boardwalk. Two hours of moving bliss.

Outside the cities, there have been many assorted hills, desert and deserted roads jogged along, skirting trailer parks with invisible dogs and people in search of a life off-grid. There was an aborted attempt to have a run in the high Sierra until I spotted the helpful signs warning of mountains lions’ taste for solo joggers. Running away from home may be occasionally inconvenient, even slightly mortifying at times, but it is always inevitably a slow engagement with the life of a place.