My morning run

Ever since reading Born to Run on our passage between Puerto Escondido and Topolobampo, I’ve wanted to excavate my running shoes from the bottom of the shoe bin, lace them up, and kick up my heels. Since we’re staying put (at a marina no less), this was the perfect time for me to take up running, even if I might not be able to make a permanent habit of it.

I love rediscovering things that I used to love; things that
at some point in the past couldn’t elbow their way into my life, despite the
fact that they make me supremely happy. Fortunately there are a lot of things
that make me really happy and it wasn’t like there was some cavernous,
depressing void when I stopped running regularly. But still…

Aside from the sweet rush of endorphins in the morning, I
enjoy seeing the morning unfold. I enjoy the cadence, the choreography of morning
routines.

When I leave the marina in the morning I greet the guys
from the night shift and cross the highway to the main street that runs through
town.

Mama hens hurry their chicks from one pile of refuse to
another, brushing away the dirt, searching furiously for something edible. The
sound of roosters, welcoming the day, ricochet around town, each cock battling
to have the last word on the matter.

Women sweep their front stoops and the sidewalk in front of
their houses, pausing as I pass so the dust doesn’t settle on me.

Taxi drivers begin to congregate beneath the CD tree,
reading their newspapers and drinking their coffee.

Children in crisp, white uniforms emerge from the callejones (walking paths) on the hill, ready for school.

The men paving the last dirt road in Topo, connecting the
center of town to the malecon, stop their work, gaze up at me with confusion in
their eyes. In the most chipper voice I can muster between breaths I greet them
with a “buenos dias.” They smile, nod their head, respond in kind and resume their
work.

Fishermen shove their pangas into the water from the shore
where they’ve been beached during the night, leaving serpentine wakes in the
bay. The freighters, resting at the docks look grossly misplaced set against
the backdrop of this small fishing town.

I climb my first hill to the Ohuira Bay development where
dogs, always on their guard, bound towards me with great conviction. I slow
down, turn around to face them and walk slowly backwards. The security guard
ambles out of his shack to get them under control and waves at me apologetically.

Following a trail of fresh goat turds down the hill, I can see the
man and his herd grazing the sparse vegetation below. The goats are thin, the
man is thinner.

The smokestack for the thermoelectric plant, which rises out
of the hillside, belches a greenish hued smoke. The entire complex is
surrounded by electrified fence and razor wire. Men fish beneath “Fishing Prohibited” signs on the canal that feeds the thermoelectric plant. They don’t look up from the water as I pass behind them to peer into their buckets, which are not yet full.

As I climb the next hill, a slow cavalcade of federalis inch up the hill, gripping their machine guns. When they pass me, they loosen their grip to give me the thumbs up. The man in the front seat points to his muscles and then points to me and smiles. I appreciate the gesture even though I’m not sure it’s well deserved at such a sluggish pace.

An older man walks swiftly in the
opposite direction, his arms swinging back and forth with oversized weights. We
exchange greetings, his silver capped front tooth catching the sun and
illuminating his smile. Both of us are clearly high on endorphins.

At the top of the hill two guards in a tower with guns slung nonchalantly over their shoulders, stop mid-sentence to watch me stride past. I wave and they respond with furled brows, clearly perplexed by my presence.

Truckloads of men, traveling to work, whoop, holler and wave
as they drive by. In the distance I can hear the roar of laughter over the sound of
the petulant engine. Something tells me I was the butt of their joke.

A young man with neon orange running shoes, passes me with
ease. His strides are short, quick, light, making it look effortless. I quicken
my pace but he’s out of sight in a short time and I slow back down.

In the neighborhood of small one-room houses on the
outskirts of town, a group of neighbors gather on a Sunday to help their friend
finish construction on his humble home.

I’m clearly a spectacle on my morning run. Everyone stops,
however briefly, trying to make sense of this strange sight – a tall, white girl running through their neighborhood. Anyone who knows
even a couple words of English, shouts it at me as I pass. Good morning! Hello! How are you! Good day! I am very good! Nice job!
Okay! Let’s go! I laugh and wave.

The sun is starting along its arc and even though it’s early, not even 7:30, I can feel its heat. The perfect way to greet a day.

*** I just heard news of the tragic events at the Boston Marathon finish line. Having recently finished this post about the joy of running, it hit me pretty hard. My heart goes out to all of those who suffered loss of life, limb or loved ones yesterday. Please consider making a donation to the Amputee Coalition, an organization that is reaching out to victims of the bombings.