Beach Runner
this is my love letter to running. I used to do it so much that I overdid it (repetitive strain injuries)…
My stride never breaks, barefoot and blue bottle busting, as I bolt along the Indian Ocean, circling it, as if it were a sleeping soul to be awoken and tamed.
I call myself a marathon-man, though I have never seen the movie, nor have I ever ran such a distance. From lighthouse to deep dunes - I trek and train upon this beach, ever appreciative of the treasure that is its setting sun.
Tonight I am late. My attempts to avoid the heat are sensible if anything, but today I am tired. Too tired to even bathe in the warm, golden glow of a sun-kissed horizon. But not tired enough to forgo this ritualistic treading through the wet sand, on the high tide highway.
Before my pace can even peak, this sandy setting quickly becomes a pale, milky black, moonlit night. I am alone along a stretch of wind and chasing water. My legs rhythmically throb and tense as I feel the addictive acid linger and build within each of my muscles as I step. By night this day-oasis is a salty swamp of seaweed and scum. The sand is a velvety blue grain, and the tidal puddles are the glue that gathers the slick kelp and the army of ivory cuttlefish remains. Ghost crabs scramble to escape my inevitable approach, scurrying back into their bullet hole homes, which big toes avoid.
This is the gusting glory - the stench of victors from a day seized. Against the grains and against the wind. The collective evenings of kilometres accumulated into this absolute sensory experience. I am the creeping tide - three metres forward, two metres back, and again until the beach is conquered. I am the push and pull of the shifting wind, moving sand dunes like enormous, rolling snails. When that gorgeous, glowing sun is set - I still carry on. Your day ends with the day, and I’m just getting warmed up.
This is my mantra as I fly along the shoreline. There is not another soul in sight, for the entire 10km stretch, from point to point. The dog walkers have all gone, the swimmers and the surfers have retreated back to their cars, and the sunseekers are either napping at home or hiding in the dunes to witness the end of another day. It is like they are cultists, worshipping the glowing, orbiting orb and the life it gives. The sunseekers are young, tanned and blonde, uncomfortable in a sweater. They are energised in the hot daylight, and thank our burning star by watching as it falls from the sky each and every time.
I am of another kind, and my beach runs are a celebration of the dying light. The day makes me drowsy and ill, it burns away at my sickly skin. I always feel like I am in my element as the final streaks of pink, orange, and red, sink away from the clouds, drowning upon the horizon. But tonight I missed much of that, alone with the moon, as I spring about the sand in a careful zig-zag, to avoid stepping on any sharp objects or creatures that might be tucked away under the patchy mounds of seaweed.
I feel colder than usual. My toes are numb against the sand. Have I become so fit that my regular pace is no longer a strain on my body? Or does this slight chill signal the end of a summer? Are the warm nights finally behind me? The volume of the ocean is deafening. In the quiet of the evening - the crashing waves overwhelm the sleepy sounds of the seemingly far away town. The wind drops. It was a white noise that I had become accustomed to, a relaxing static to clear out my mind of stressing thoughts. The waves sound like a wall of water moving in closer. My legs don’t slow, but my attention is scattered, irritated for an instant. The white, reflective glow of the moon emanates out of the small pools of water as I pass them by. I turn my head to confirm these luminous sights, second-guessing myself, as the shimmering water seems to slowly rise from the puddles, in the form of a mist.
I remind myself that I am tired. It is late, my eyes are adjusting to the peculiar light of the night, which happens to be playing tricks on me.
My stride remains steady, my legs thankfully have a mind of their own. Nothing can stop me from marching forwards when I’m in my routine. After putting myself at ease by quickly scanning my surroundings, I turn my head to face forwards again.
Something flashes in my peripheral vision. It is large enough to startle me, and I stagger, almost tripping over a small change of elevation in the sand. I manage to catch myself though, and I finally slow down to a light jog before stopping in my tracks. I realise how out of breath I am, I can barely hear my own heavy breathing over the scream of the violent waves. Taking the opportunity to catch my breath, I peer up and down the stretch of beach as far as my eyes can manage.
‘What the hell was that?’
The beach is still completely empty. I am the lone runner, chasing the changing tide. The strange white glow of those puddles in the sand has disappeared. I breathe deeply as the gentle tongue of the water licks at my toes, egging me to carry on.
I do.
I move faster at night. I can feel it. I am gliding along the skim of shallow water. I am focused, my will is pure.
My eyes open and close. Again. Again.
My peripheral vision shines. I am tired but I do not tire.
I am the moonlight runner, along the crescent shore.
The shimmer in my vision overwhelms me. Yet I still sense my stable stride.
Eyes close.
I dip in the pale water and disappear in the yell of the wave break.
I have become the lone, luminous figure. I will forever run until I am met with light.