My alarm clock went off, jolting me up. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and yawned my way out of bed. 5.15am, I stepped into my living room and galloped a glass of water, which tasted, yuck, bitter on my tongue, but served to mop the sleep out of my eyes.
It was still very dark outside and drizzling. I decided to do a couple of press-ups to warm myself up a bit while giving the frightening darkness outside time to subsidize a little. 5.30am, I stepped into the cold. Except for the pitter-patter of rain on the road, it was very quiet –a sharp contrast to my boyhood times when at this time of morn delightful cock-a-doodle-doos and the music of birds in the nearby trees could be heard all over the village.
As I increased pace, the jog became enjoyable, my chest felt free, and the dewy breeze felt like kisses of love all over my face. I was now so in the groove that had it not been for the rhythm of my footfalls on the hard wet tarmac I would have thought myself a flying eagle!
The chapatti maker was missing at his stall outside Shalom Bar and Restaurant, and the two men I often bypass conversing pushing large cans of milk on bicycles on Kasubi hill were nowhere to be seen. So the road was kind of deserted but it felt good that I had endured; that not even the rain had stopped me.
As I consumed Kasubi hill, one of the dim street lights suddenly splattered its radiant beam on the runner, making me feel like a victorious pugilist after a fierce bout in the ring. It’s at the top of the hill that I made my u-turn. The freedom and peace I felt made me want to sit there, right in the middle of the road with my sweaty and gasping self, and call the love of my life to tell her about the amazing, almost indescribable secrets of lone predawn jogs when everyone is still savouring the joys of fitful slumber.
Back at my crib, myriad words flashed beautifully through my mind like the colours of the rainbow, and I briskly entered a long entry in my diary about morning jogs being the best balm to the depression that comes with the economic recession my country’s experiencing.
 |
| the road was deserted |
As I increased pace, the jog became enjoyable, my chest felt free, and the dewy breeze felt like kisses of love all over my face. I was now so in the groove that had it not been for the rhythm of my footfalls on the hard wet tarmac I would have thought myself a flying eagle!
The chapatti maker was missing at his stall outside Shalom Bar and Restaurant, and the two men I often bypass conversing pushing large cans of milk on bicycles on Kasubi hill were nowhere to be seen. So the road was kind of deserted but it felt good that I had endured; that not even the rain had stopped me.
As I consumed Kasubi hill, one of the dim street lights suddenly splattered its radiant beam on the runner, making me feel like a victorious pugilist after a fierce bout in the ring. It’s at the top of the hill that I made my u-turn. The freedom and peace I felt made me want to sit there, right in the middle of the road with my sweaty and gasping self, and call the love of my life to tell her about the amazing, almost indescribable secrets of lone predawn jogs when everyone is still savouring the joys of fitful slumber.
Back at my crib, myriad words flashed beautifully through my mind like the colours of the rainbow, and I briskly entered a long entry in my diary about morning jogs being the best balm to the depression that comes with the economic recession my country’s experiencing.
No comments:
Post a Comment