The Solo Workout

I stand at the railing of the empty grandstand. Sunlight glints off metal bleachers. I look out over the broad, blue expanse—featureless, if not for the sun, still low and benign at this hour.

Below me is the track, in brilliant blue to mimic the sky. Four hundred metres of geometric precision. Monumental, even when dwarfed by the sky above it. But not today. Today, the track is an old friend.

I study the familiar painted lines—patterns of white that mark hallowed ground. They reduce the complex world into eight simple ovals. Here and there, marks of yellow, red and green; arrows and distance markers; ready for an unknown future contest.

Stepping onto the pebbled surface, I begin the slow build into a crescendo of physical effort. Pattern is distilled to instinct after decades of repetition. The routine is part drama, part choreography—warmup to workout to cooldown.

I ease into it, clearing the rust, trusting the movement. Strides, leg swings. Then I find the instructions, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked into the pocket of my shorts. One last check to memorize today’s variation, a new puzzle to solve. My only teammate is a Timex Ironman, its buttons worn nearly unreadable after so many sessions, so many seasons.

I take a sip of water, then step to the mark and go. I visualize ideal form and accept that I will fall short. Stay tight to the lane marker, feel the synthetic surface compress under my stride. Use the watch to find the pace, then hold it. One more repeat, then another, until the set is done.

Anticipation builds with each slow walk to the line. As ever, the quick rhythmic beat of my stride takes over—the surest antidote to pain and the only way to silence the inner critic. I count the 400s down. Four, three, two. Only one to go.  

Next, the 200s. Notch the pace up once more. Fighting against fatigue, I tell myself to drive my tired arms to lead my legs. Ignore the burning in my calves. Let the building lactic acid be the reward for my effort.

Passing the steeplechase pit one last time, the workout resolves to the finish straight. One hundred metres. I straighten my form, look for the line and cross it with purpose.

It’s done—I’m done. Sweaty hands on still-quaking knees. Slowly, my head clears. My breath and heart rate settle into a quieter rhythm.

I look down at my trusty Asics—stationary for now—and I notice a hole, forming in the usual spot. The white lane lines curving away beneath me are the clouds absent from this morning’s brilliant sky.

Track and sky merge into one. I’m totally alone. The only sound, the hollow slap of a tennis ball against a distant wall, echoes my heartbeat.

With my mind as clear as the sky, my cooldown jog becomes a victory lap. Never mind that the grandstand is empty. The track is all mine. Not ready yet to leave this place, I jog another lap, then walk one more. The rising sun, warm on my face, is a gentle reminder from the world beyond.

Until next time, be well and BE FAST!