In 2004, Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco won both the 1,500 and 5,000meter races, when the Olympic Games returned to their original nesting grounds in Athens. However, any soothsayer worth his entrails could have foretold, that for all his accomplishments within the stadium, the middle aged Moroccan was doomed to be dwarfed by a curly haired Greek that stood outside it. The striving figure of Pheidippides, a man who had run 150 miles in two days to deliver the news of the Greek victory over the Persians, stood as a reminder to all of the world that the past could not yet be sealed in a Ziploc bag and stored away, for it was still alive and breathing in the wind currents that blew in circles around the stadium, in the sighs that wafted through the spectators and in the songs that made their way over the medal podiums.   A living heart could not be immune to the efforts of Pheidippides.   After his historic run, it is said that Pheidippides uttered the words "We won". He then lay down and died. In his defense, 150 miles is a long distance. It is more than ten times the distance that I run on the Franklin Delano Roosevelt drive, when my boss and the New York weather are in a kind mood. However, on no occasion is a moment during my run as leaden with meaning as the Greek must have felt on that sun baked morning.

On 42nd street, a runner can gaze at the tall tower of the United Nations that looms over the fluttering flags of many nations come together for one avenue. The building is broad. But in a matter of minutes, its modern exterior and the sleek shadows they cast give way to the demands of the city. They melt into nothingness in the mind of the runner, who is already focused on the next conquest. This arrives on 38th Street, when he must turn left to leave the gridlock behind and join the sinuous river drive.   It is a captivating sight.   In his eagerness to be one with it, the runner is prepared to overlook the overpowering stench of the feces and urine emanating from the tunnel that joins city to the river. He even nods courteously at the SUVs that somehow don't go over him as he crosses the final patch of tarmac.

All this while, the river flows on, oblivious to the exertions of the runner. It has things to do. At times, it is in a hurry flowing faster than the traffic on the FDR. At others, it lies still in preparation, as if waiting for the sun to rise or set, so that it can become even more beautiful. At all times, it is constantly changing from one moment to another, at one place bearing sullenly the weight of an arrogant cruise ship, and at another gently propping the frail ego of a kayaker to make him feel like a conqueror. Following the river, the runner comes across a Chevron gas station and a venue for a solar powered music festival standing in perfect equanimity next to one another. The diligent runner moves past the first and quickly on to the other. However, the promise of a clean, sun filled world is short lived. Within moments, the path narrows sharply and he is forced to breathe from the exhaust pipes of cars that speed along the FDR. Luckily for the runner, this part of the journey is short lived. He emerges from this harrowing vision of a not so future world to emerge in the peaceful solitude that only trees and the birds that chirp in them can provide.

At this point in time, the runner will notice that the river has grown a little more distant from him, a state of affairs that is soon rectified when it condescends to show itself again as soon as he enters the soft running tracks by Houston street.   Eight concentric circles with eight cascading starting points mark off the 400meter laps that Hicham El Guerrouj covered in 2004. The runner cannot help feeling a bit like the agile Moroccan. He has now covered a distance of four miles. His mind is perfectly active striving to take the next step, and also alert, pausing to take a break before the next one. The runner is now unbeatable. Unconsciously, he blocks out the vision of all people that run faster than him. His attention is now focused only on the slower runners and   imaginary people that include the gold medal laden Moroccan, who smilingly waves him on. Round and Round. Round and Round. Round and round. Satisfaction.

The runner sends a pulse of encouragement to his knees and hits the harsh road again. He is now alone in the world, and every step furthers his loneliness. But he is not afraid. He revels in this newly found solitude, for if he is the only inhabitant of this new world, he is also its ruler. His mind is now vigilant, seeking new challenges, like a hungry pelican skirting the surface of a lake. He sees a road going uphill and follows it. His legs don't question his mind and the journey is made with ease.

At the end of the slope, the runner finds a stage, in front of which are rows upon rows of seats arranged in a convex manner. In the midst of the trees, the squirrels and the silence, the stage takes on a gravitas that makes it a fitting venue for tragedies of the grandest stature. Shakespeare would have applied for an American visa upon spotting this setting. The runner feels his mind go on to the stage, while his body runs across the gaps between the rows and rows of the seats. He becomes conscious of his duties as a spectator. He watches his mind enact itself on stage, and feels a tiredness come upon him. He begins to detach himself from the pettiness and idiocies being enacted in front of him.   As another great bard had once said, all the runner wants to do is, To watch you gamble in the stadium/And reassure myself anew, That you are not me, and I'm not you.

The journey begins again and culminates at the foot of the Brooklyn bridge, a structure that like every ripple in the river, allows ample room for contemplation. The runner reflects on how the chief architect of the bridge John A. Roebling had fallen fell prey to a crippling disease. He oversaw its construction for fourteen years without ever leaving his apartment using nothing more than a telescope. Even though Robeling recovered a little to the point where he was physically able to attend the opening ceremony held in his honor, he refused the invitation. He chose to observe   the proceedings from the very same window from which his vision had come to shape. The runner can understand why it was so. He begins his run back home.

He passes the same landmarks he had come across not very long ago. However, the stage, the courts, the running tracks, the pathway and the river have ceased to exist in the runner's consciousness, which itself has become an item of nothingness, as it has stopped functioning as a source of energy. The runner now draws upon the resources of another runner that lives deep inside him. This other runner is not a discerning man. His mind perceives the birds, the river and the trees as one. Barks begin to flow as ripples begin to chirp.

The runner fights his way through this collage of experiences and makes his way home. His journey has come to an end. Unlike the great Pheidippides, he does not utter the words, 'We won.' However, the runner does feel a sense of victory come over him. He feels his muscles tighten and scream for a stretching. He ignores their protestations. He lies down, closes his eyes and shuts out the world. He now realizes what the great Pheidippides felt -- that victory like death, is best enjoyed lying down, eyes closed from the rest of the world.

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© COPYRIGHT 2002-2012 Arun Krishnan