About four months ago,
I watched from my window 
as a newly-married couple 
posed in its shade. 
I remember smiling to myself 
as they smiled for the camera,
embracing in its embrace; 
sunlight dancing through 
the branches, 
on which new leaves were sprouting; 
a celebration of spring 
and new beginnings. 

A mere two weeks ago, 
it was resplendent in yellow; 
some leaves swayed 
in the noticeably crisper breeze 
while others fell to the ground 
without a sound 
like autumnal snow. 

And yet now, 
a stump is all that remains; 
the only reminder of what once was. 
The sun shines on it still, 
but there is no more shade;
no hint of a shadow. 

How easily we destroy 
what we didn't even create. 
How we teach the heart to forget 
the things we used to know, 
and leave them- dusty, 
stripped of meaning,
like unwanted items 
on the shelves of shops that no-one visits.

Finding the pace

Exactly one week ago, most of my Sunday morning was spent running around Richmond for my first ever half-marathon. Why did I do this? Well, why not? After the twin 10k runs last year, 21k/13.1 miles seemed the next logical step (even though it was in fact hundreds of very painful steps). Besides, autumn is the perfect time of year for some otam (Sorry, silly Malayalam joke). 

The experience was actually rather enjoyable, and despite the morning-after being every bit as painful as I had expected, overall the signs were encouraging enough for me to entertain the hitherto ridiculous possibility of doing the full 42 km at some point in the not-too-distant future. 

One thing I did learn, and want to share, was the importance of pacing yourself. Since I hadn't done anywhere near a 21k run in training, I didn't really have a time-target. The only goals were to finish without stopping, and not keep my wife waiting too long at the finish line. Happily, I managed both, but not without the invaluable (and inadvertent) help of two gentlemen I came across along the way. 

After the first 2 or 3 k, the challenge was to try and keep a steady pace for the remainder of the run, while saving just enough in the tank for a little surge at the end. Because I wasn't really into the split-times or anything else remotely technical, I figured the best option was to find someone running a good pace and stick with them. The first few candidates I zeroed in on were either too fast or too slow (but mostly too fast) and I eventually ended up behind two runners running in tandem. 

My guess is that both these men were between 55 and 60, and each had a half-marathon finisher t-shirt on, so had done this at least once before. (One of the tees actually proclaimed '13.1 is my lucky number' which, personally, I thought was just showing off) Most importantly, they were going at what seemed like a steady, reasonable pace, and so I settled in just behind them and tagged along for the next 12-13 k. 

With about 5k to go, I thought I would try and pull ahead because, I naively thought, surely I could do better than a couple of 60 year olds. Pfft. Let this be a warning to you all: Pride comes before a Wall. In running terms, the Wall is the point at which near-total depletion of glycogen stores in the liver and muscles occurs, causing sudden fatigue and loss of energy. (I call it the Wailing Wall) 

I promptly slowed up, repositioned myself just behind them for the remainder of the run, and all went well until the last mile, when the two of them basically took off with the quiet confidence of runners who had been there, done this, and were wearing the t-shirts. 

So for the last mile, it fell to me to drag myself towards the finish, which I did, albeit in more jellyfish fashion than human. (13.1 was definitely not my lucky number, but then neither was 12, 11, 10, 9...) 

Still, I guess I made it in one piece and for this some thanks are in order. So- even though you don't have a clue who I am, and will most likely never read this, thank you, kind sirs. I couldn't have done it without you. I guess in a half-marathon, just as in life, who you're running with is just as important as what you're running for. 

Onwards/

Without getting too specific about my age, I estimated the other day that I've slept roughly 12,500 nights in a warm, comfortable bed (not counting those 10 nights when I bedded down on what felt like wet concrete during army camp at school). 12,500 nights, and I don't think I've really ever thanked God for a single one of those. 

I've always thought that no matter what sort of day you've had, getting into a warm bed at the end of it somehow makes it all seem at least bearable. A little rest, a little respite, before heading back out into the madness. I have found this to be true just as much in adulthood as in my childhood; indeed, there is something about sleeping that makes us all little children for a few hours (and not just if you sleep in the foetal position like I do).

And yet, for the past few weeks, as I've seen image after image of migrants, both kids and adults alike, sleeping in the streets, on railway tracks, in car parks and toilets, it occurred to me that some of them have probably never had a single night in a proper bed. 

So much to be grateful for. But tonight, I'm going to start with a warm bed.

It is possible that when I go out running tomorrow, a car will drive over a piece of stray debris which will come flying off the road and leave me blinded in one eye. 
Unlikely; but entirely possible. 

One of these days, all this music I'm piping through these snugly-fitting earphones will end giving me tinnitus, and every moment of quiet from then on will end up being a little battle against an ever-looming cloud of complete insanity. 
Far-fetched; but entirely possible. 

I could wake up in the middle of tonight in a cold sweat, think I'm having indigestion, but actually have a stroke that will render me a hollow shell. 
Dramatic; but entirely possible. 

If any of these were to happen, will everything I have done up until 2200 hrs GMT on the 3rd of September 2015 be enough to keep regret at bay for however long I have left on this beautiful planet? 

Your life is a window of opportunity. And it's smaller than you think.