His foot hits the tarmac with a satisfying thud, the sinews of his thigh tightly knit with the impact. The other foot precedes it and the cycle continues. Practice and mistakes have taught him that he needs to pace himself, not too slow and not too fast either. After all he’s just warming up. His race is with himself, and the sun. Which is lazily nestled between in the dark clouds, knowing it will have to rise soon.
The runner owns the road, spread before him like a sheet of fine oiled leather, the shine a deceptive mirage. He picks up pace, his body catching up with his legs, hands pumping the air and his heart thudding with joy. The sun has decided that it cannot laze any longer and readies itself to make its daily appearance. The dark clouds begin lightening.
Beads of sweat trickle down his temple and back. His hands and legs are clammy but the thrill running brings don’t let him notice any of it. He’s beaten the sun yet again, is his only thought as the dark sky starts turning into gold.
The runner’s feet move in rhythm. He knows the bend in the road ahead is the marker for him to up his speed. His body turns a smooth arc as his feet fly off the ground.
The road is empty, trees and shrubs washed clean by the monsoons standing sentinel to see him pass them by yet again.
What are the thoughts running through the mind of the runner. What is he running away from? Or what is he running towards?