The Runner

I am the runner. I glide down the street with ease, elbows slightly bent, arms swinging rhythmically. I nod and smile at neighbours as they admire my even stride. My legs, long and slim, strong but not overly muscled, pump up and down. Smooth, tanned skin glows with the exertion. Sockless feet, clad only in white canvas shoes scarcely touch down as I cover more ground. I turn and enter the park, race across the fields, up and down the paths, sailing over logs, splashing through puddles. My white shoes, incredibly, still white. Bees escort me as I power up a hill clothed in daisies and red clover. The miles fall behind me. I’m not even breathing hard. Looking down I can see the muscles in my thighs rippling with each movement. My long hair streams behind me, floating on the air, in slow motion waves, like in a movie. I open my eyes and stare at the dull white ceiling. The foam barricades that keep my legs straight and still come away. I manoeuvre, inch by inch, and finally, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. The walker is there. In my reclining chair exhausted, I close my eyes, and once again, I am the runner. Based on a dream I had after the double hip replacement surgery June 2007.