Wish You Were (Running) Here
At a time when our movements have been severely restricted, Paul Duncan’s snapshots of life through the runner’s lens reconnect us with the world beyond our local pavements and remind us of the better times around the corner
In a time of uncertainty, one man reconnects with the wider world
As someone who makes a living working the coasts of countries far from my young family, I know a little about isolation. I’ve pounded treadmills mid-Atlantic, run sprints up and down empty access roads in Florida and dodged refuse trucks in dusty Dubai shipyards. Running has helped to keep me (relatively) stable and (passingly) sane through some fairly lonely times. But, more than that, it’s given me a way to become immediately, and sometimes surprisingly, familiar with places that I, like most, would never otherwise have seen. With billions of people currently unable to freely explore the world – on the run or otherwise – I wanted to share some of my simple observations about the colourful variety of our planet and its engaging array of people. I went for many runs, in many places. And this is what I saw.Naples, Italy
SEPTEMBER 2016 I went for a run along the Naples roadside and this is what I saw: a man on a scooter with a mobile phone buckled to the side of his head by the chinstrap of his helmet. No one else looked at him. I think this is a thing.
A bus driver, stopped in bumper-tobumper traffic, on his phone. Everyone in this traffic jam, which I ran counter to, was on their phones. The majority of vehicles had multiple-generation families in them. The most common expression among them was resignation. But not the defeated kind. The accepting kind. The enduring kind.
Naples is dirty. And it’s rundown. And attractive. Running here is chaotic because there aren’t many pavements and there are a lot of drivers who don’t give a damn about the rules. Runs are mostly coastal, and alternate between abandoned industrial areas and busy beach towns, where you have to weave between golden-brown kids carrying fluorescent, inflatable beach toys; busy roadside bars; cars parked touching each other; stands selling roasted corn; and small, resigned dogs. But not resigned in the defeated way. Running here is hot and dirty. And great.
St. Lucia
DECEMBER 2016 I went for a run in St Lucia this morning and this is what I saw: a truck that may once have been red, with large clouds of black smoke issuing from it in time to its gear shifts. Travelling slowly in the afternoon traffic, its passing made the locals pull their shirts up over their noses. The driver smoked a cigarette out of the window and didn’t look down.
A torrential rain that fell only at the top of one steep hill and made rivers that cut channels down the sides of the road. A man ran beside me for a little while, trying to get to shelter. We were neck and neck up to a porch, where he broke away.
A beaming section of rainbow in a green valley that I don’t know the name of, and am unlikely to ever find out.
A brightly coloured bird I was later told was probably a warbler. It was roughly the size and shape of a fig, and it lay undisturbed on the muddy roadside shoulder, its eyes closed.
Stray dogs that worked together.
A man in a worn shirt opening coconuts with short, steep chops of a machete, selling them briskly to the afternoon drivers. He gave me enthusiastic encouragement.
Bermuda
JUNE 2017 I went for a run today in Bermuda and this is what I saw: an older man at the top of a hill who was manning a table under a tent, selling fruit and, possibly, shade. When I stopped to check that I was on the right road, he seemed surprised, but nodded. When I returned a while later, having gotten lost, he looked much less surprised, but, again, kindly nodded.
Smartly dressed people wearing shiny brown loafers and driving scooters. Casually dressed people wearing flip-flops and driving luxury cars.
A rush hour that started precisely at 5pm, lasted exactly 15 minutes and in which attendance appeared compulsory.
Fleets of hardy little boats; the small, over-built kind of island craft that come complete with their own sets of stories and sit with those stories, and wait quietly at night on their moorings, bobbing their bows as they remember.
Newport, Rhode Island, US
JULY 2017 I went for a run in Newport this morning and this is what I saw: a pick-up truck parked in front of a small, brick firehouse, a piece of two-by-two strapped to one corner of its tailgate, from which hung a large American flag. It was the size of the flags people wear on their shoulders when they’re on a victory lap after winning something, or are wrapping themselves in an idea they hold dear.
First beach, Second beach and Third beach, in that order and so named, in the straight-up, no-frills New England way. The latter two beaches were full of large men with broad shoulders and wearing flat-brimmed baseball hats, paddling stand-up surfboards in the crisp, early morning light. They called to each other, like deeply voiced herons in the shallows, all upright and deliberate.
A man driving an old Honda Civic down a quiet, bucolic street of tended mansions, whose backyards are really their front, running as they do down to the shores of the Atlantic. Newspapers arced elegantly out of his car as he drove along, sliding •
Running has helped to keep me (relatively) stable and (passingly) sane through some fairly lonely times
I saw a beautiful park. Its trees were vast, sprawl-limbed, multiplegeneration storm-survivors
to rest on the corners of the manicured lawns and against wrought-iron gates. The man kept going at a steady pace, a hole in his exhaust announcing that the weekend paper had arrived.
A small, elderly lady, running. She was wearing lipstick, large sunglasses and sensible running shoes, and would have been sweating had she not looked like she was from the era where women glowed when they exercised.
Savannah, Georgia, US
OCTOBER 2017 I went for a run today in Savannah and this is what I saw: an old city. It was low, and built among the trees – or maybe the trees had been planted among the buildings; it doesn’t matter any more, no one remembers. Houses with high porches and intriguing side doors mounted low in the walls beneath. Storefronts with towering glass windows that reflected the looming storm clouds high above. Puddles everywhere, as the streets and sidewalks bent to the will of the entangled roots that twist beneath this city.
I saw a beautiful park. Its trees were vast, sprawl-limbed, multiple-generation storm-survivors. Somehow, they held time. I imagine that, when one finally comes down in a hurricane, everyone turns out and stands around reminiscing while city workers chainsaw the fallen megaflora into manageable pieces. People will talk fondly about all the times they sat under that particular tree, or their grandparents did, or, quite possibly, their grandparents’ grandparents. Trees like this would be sorely missed.
I saw the storm clouds gathering and cut back through the city, making time through the thick air that smells like the river even when you can’t see it. The uneven sidewalks led to rough cobblestones that led to the boat. I arrived as the sky opened. Large drops fell in a torrent on this old town, and its trees and its river.
I saw that this was the way it had been in this town for a very long time. And I saw that it was lovely.
Lake Sincoe, Canada
JULY 2018 I went for a run today across the land south of Ontario’s Lake Simcoe and this is what I saw: rolling corn fields giving way to a new golf course and marina.
I saw a house with a small, officiallooking sign on it, written in the font of a city by-law notice. It said: ‘All dogs and liberals must be leashed when coming on this property.’ On my way back I made a point of cutting far onto their lawn. Unleashed.
Two hundred metres on from that house there was a small neighbourhood restaurant. It too had a sign, this one a letter board. It said: ‘A mind is like a parachute. It only works if it’s open.’
Bonifacio, Corsica
JUNE 2019 I went for a run in Corsica this morning and this is what I saw: a couple walking two great danes down a narrow pavement, the dogs so large they seemed to be walking the people, which was confirmed by a friendly canine nod as I ran past, and a look that said, ‘People, eh? If you don’t walk ‘em, they’ll ruin the furniture.’
Bright, open, Mediterranean-breezegroomed space. Empty roads. Low-lying shrubs. And dry noises in the underbrush, like the sounds of cascading pebbles, as lizards broke for the shadows.
An entourage of old VW Beetles, driving down a dusty road on a clear, windy, Sunday morning in June. All different colours, some of them had luggage racks with old suitcases strapped to them. They moved slowly, their windows open, and seemed to be from another time, one in which people were smaller and less hurried.
A side road that didn’t lead straight down, which I took; it led me past old stone houses as quiet as the rocks they were made of. An older woman in a patterned bathrobe walked out of one house, carrying a lawn chair, a coffee and a newspaper under one arm. She was headed towards an especially sunny corner of her yard and I envied her because it was perfect.
Kent, England
APRIL 2020 I went for a run today and this is what I saw: a quiet village clustered along a road that was full of loud birds and empty of cars.
An older man walking a dog and who was dressed mostly in beige, who warned me not to wear the road out. A woman hiking up a country lane, on the same side I was running down. I crossed over to the other
side of the road, and we smiled at each other across the space.
Further on, two teenagers stealing a kiss rendered illicit by the lockdown. The boy initiated it by leaning across the handlebars of a mountain bike. The girl responded with a brief peck, but not without first looking over her shoulder at the house up a drive behind her. They looked very guilty. Ah, these times, when kids kissing in the first blush of spring is a near-crime.
An older lady at the top of a steep hill, the last one that returns me up to our village, in this Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. I veered to the side as I approached her, not wanting to cut too closely to someone, especially not huffing and puffing as I was.
But she just looked at me, bright eyes, white hair, cheeks ruddy from the breeze blowing up the rise. ‘Impressive,’ she said, and grinned. Perhaps meaning my forced pace up the hill, which would have been kind. But she could just as easily have been speaking of everyone sitting in their respective homes over the long horizon that lay before her. Alone together, as the world holds its collective breath for longer than we ever have before. The boldest, most daring display of unity in human history: all the quiet separation.
Keep your gaze forward. We will run through each other’s streets again when this is behind us. And this is what we’ll see.