When I go for a run I follow the same route, more or less. I have two versions, a short and a long, which is the same as the short but a bit longer. They are circular, spill onto the Heath, and involve some moderate ups and downs. I don’t necessarily always stick to the same side of the road but I enjoy the familiarity of my tracks. It’s ritualistic. I look out for certain things: the zombiefied shop dummy propped up on a roof terrace overlooking the zebra crossing; the house of someone I know; a particular garden that I like. I don’t really push myself. I stop a few times to stretch, admire the view, blow my nose or take off my hat.
That’s just me. The other day I was talking to a friend who has recently taken up running. She is loving it and has already overtaken me in distance and frequency. I asked her whether she too follows the same route. The answer, to my surprise, was no. Not just no, but never. She always goes somewhere new. And she never stops.
‘Then I’ve got to find my way back again’.
Her answer stopped me in my tracks. What is it, I wonder, that stops me from doing the same? Surely not thoughts of the big bad wolf.
Ariadne Birnberg 