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ED'S NOTE:

It is my first run of the year, and I am humbled. On this Sunday morning, at sunrise, I smell only dewy earth, with no choking fumes and not a white BMW in sight. I share the streets with blue-collar workers on the commute and white-collar cyclists from the Parks. A little further on, a pack from a local running club strides by at a pace I will be unable to emulate till at least May.

I push on. I turn the corner and am forced to soldier past that coffee shop I had hoped was open for a quick chug of water and a double espresso before climbing the 1.5km incline home. A family — I count potentially five generations — all evidently fitter than me, glide up that hill, literally laughing, while the Gen Z in the group clutches a mobile speaker blasting a vaguely familiar pop/trap tune. By the time I reach the top they have already gone into the local garage, bought five identical Powerades and are standing outside, still laughing. I am dying. The legs rendered lead. How can so much damage happen over one month, one in which I was relatively active — swam, walked, threw some weights around?

Running, for me, has always been unforgiving, as a rule, but especially if I am inconsistent. I have been inconsistent for much of my running life. And so, I didn’t do much running in December. I have never chosen any sport with running as the main event, the thing was always just unavoidable in the pursuit of other interests — football, cricket, long jump, triple jump, rugby, and tennis. I added running to my mix of activities late in the day, with the goal being: fit enough to run 3-5km at a competitive pace, an ability that would be invaluable in, say, a civil war or zombie apocalypse.

I never chose running for fun, and after so many years of a stop-start running regimen, I am still not confident enough to call myself a runner. I have seen all the marketing and read all the articles to the contrary, but being a “runner” is laden with expectations about 42km long, double that between Maritzburg and Durbs. It’s a big deal, something to be plotted and built, and that is perhaps why I am yet to experience the runner’s high. I tackle running like an urgent problem: solve it, all of it, now, where a gradual approach would be far more effective.

As with all things long term, one shouldn’t on day one want to outrun the neighbourhood Sonja Laxtons, giving death stares as they breeze past you on a climb. One will crash, as I inevitably do. What I should be doing more of is enjoying the fresh air, gently easing myself in, and seeing how that goes for a while, every other day, every week. This is the same approach I am employing in other matters of self-improvement. It is impossible, in one year, to — as I envisaged in November 2022 as I set my goals for this year — quit sugar, alcohol, procrastination, over-thinking, saturated fats, refined carbs, oversharing, missing workouts, picking at my cuticles, and doubting my intuition. I will have to line them up systematically over the next few years. So, in November, I will revisit this list and see which bad habits I have been able to shake.

Personally, I am rooting for the procrastination. If not, we’ll try again next year. Right now, I am just easing into things — despite the ever-menacing to-do lists. With less self-inflicted anxiety about getting kilometres into the legs and adopting the mythical morning routines of unnamed millionaires, I can unleash my slower, gentler era, as the kids would urge. Now all I need is a concrete house, surrounded by greenery, with an impossibly blue pool on the slopes of Steenberg.