Finding Momentum

I’ve been run­ning for the past week or so, despite my grandma’s protests (“you’ll catch a cold”). It used to be eas­ier with the jet lag, when I’d get up at 5am and stare at the wall and catch myself won­der­ing where exactly I was.

It’s been gen­er­ally driz­zly here for the past week or so, which is a bless­ing and a curse. I’ve felt self-conscious since arriv­ing, notic­ing that nobody here runs, and I won­der if I’m being too aggres­sive, push­ing too fast when I dodge the passers­bys. I’ve decided there is no bet­ter feel­ing than run­ning with the rain slip­ping off your skin, hot breath hov­er­ing between your chest and your shirt while dodg­ing cars and scoot­ers and dis­ap­prov­ing old ladies. It’s a pow­er­ful feel­ing, and a very liv­ing thing to be doing.

—

Everything’s con­crete here, and my knees are feel­ing it. It’s not like it used to be, when my dad would run bare­foot on the banks of the Xin­dian River in his boy­hood home­town. Nowa­days the whole deal is paved over with asphalt and tile and bas­ket­ball courts, a ver­i­ta­ble con­crete jungle.

“Let’s go see the river” my Dad announces one day. On the day we are to go, pre­ced­ing events yawn and bil­low and sud­denly we can’t work the visit in.

One morn­ing I decide to visit any­ways and head out early, step­ping out into bril­liant sun­light (it’s been rain­ing the whole week). I’m tak­ing the roads, out behind fuz­houshan park, down keelung road, past trea­sure hill and on out to the bike paths by the river. It’s exhaust­ing, and an hour later I’m there. The river is mud­dled, unin­spir­ing; it cuts a wide swath and lies flat and unper­turbed (life­less, I decide). Cars and city noise roar over bridges, express­ways. Con­crete frames the land­scape, creep­ing into the banks of the river and damming its tributaries.

I try to imag­ine my dad as a kid again, play­ing bare­foot in glassy waters and catch­ing fish in a care­free Huck­le­berry Finn–esque exis­tence. Maybe I’m in the wrong place. Maybe he lived in an alter­nate space, time, and river­bank where the fac­to­ries and sky­scrap­ers haven’t yet grown and his toes sink into moist earth. What­ever it is, the sun is in my eyes and I want to go home.