Karin and I are just back from our semi-annual evening run. Literally — we just staggered in the door, and after grabbing a glass of ice cold water, I’ve now plunkered myself down in front of my lame computer to write — and also to cool down.
I say semi-annual because we don’t go out nearly as often as we should. I figure three or four times a week would be good. It’s been two or three. Usually two. The problem is this neighborhood. It’s not vey inspiring for your average jogger. When I was living in the heart of uptown Vancouver, going for a trot around my locale was great. The streets were alive. The houses were vibrant. No matter when or where you went within a twenty block radius you were certain to encounter other people jogging, sporting, or otherwise out and about enjoying the city — day or night, rain or shine.
Tonight, the only action on the streets around our apartment was the SUV that rolled by us, and the little Asian couple picking up their dog’s droppings from someone’s yard.
Of course it’s after nine o’clock at night, and it’s starting to get dark. At other times of the day I’ve admittedly seen much more activity. However, this suburban jungle just doesn’t call to me as a place that I crave to go running. I do it out of obligation: out of that placid knowledge that I should — to keep in shape or some other vague motivation.
When I was in the city, I used to walk home and eagerly anticipate my runs. Now I dread them. It’s funny how a location can have that effect on you.