Running and the Sea

Readers: My dad suggested I make one of my blogs into a short story. I thought it was a good idea. I didn't choose the one he suggested, but another one that I had not yet posted. Your comments welcome. Ari

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I can almost feel it; the sensation of slipping into open water after a run, refreshing and invigorating my sweaty and overheated body on a summer day. I wonder if it is a dream; I try to conjure up the actual experience. I can’t think of one; I’ve never lived close enough to open water that would have given me this opportunity. Even on runs during family summer vacation weeks at Orleans on Cape Cod, or at summer weekends at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where I was a frequent 5 kilometer racer on Sunday mornings, I can’t remember ever running to the beach and jumping in the water to cool down. I never was a beach runner. But as I run along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, a pedestrian walk that curves around the beach front that hugs the Mediterranean, that is all I can think of.

Only in Nice for two months, I have already spent many afternoons on the beach and in the sea: stretching out my bright yellow towel on the rocks, carefully taking off my shorts and t-shirt, and then carefully treading across the varieties of small stones that make up the beach as I head to the sea. My first experience in the Mediterranean was one of pure joy; the salinity made me euphoric: I could float! Stretched out on my back, flexing my newly-toned abdominal muscles, I could lie there in the rolling waves for minutes upon minutes. And the water was comfortable; not freezing, like the Atlantic I remembered from the Cape beaches, but refreshing, and swimmable.

The origin of the water sensation came to me. Only open in the summertime, in the States I had made frequent use of my condominium’s outdoor pool after my Saturday bike rides over the past two years. Hot and dirty from several hours in the northern Virginia country roads and sun, I would head to my room, pull off my bike shorts and running top (never did buy a proper biking shirt), and pull on my black one piece Lands End suit over my sweaty body. I would pack up my small beach bag with my sunglasses, suntan lotion, cellphone, and iPod, wrap a beach sarong around my hips, slip on my flip flops and head down to the pool on the first floor of the building.

Ahh, it felt great as I slipped into the cool water (there were never quite enough hours of sunlight to truly warm the water in the pool, enclosed on three sides by the walls of the condo building), my tired legs invigorated as I did laps across the small, rectangular, 40-foot pool in its child-safe three feet of water. But my arms longed to stretch, and the pool length was enough to satisfy this longing (perhaps 12 strokes across in one breath), and its smooth water felt wonderful on my thighs and calves. After 10 minutes of crawl, breast and side strokes, I would ease onto one of the beach lounge chairs by the side of the pool, positioned to catch the sun’s rays, smooth lotion on my legs and arms, and exhale as I enjoyed the pleasures of physical exhaustion.

I wanted that feeling again. After a month of running along the Promenade, mesmerized by the view, I decided I wanted to finish a long run and jump into the cool waters of the Mediterranean. The sea, flickering in the sunlight, beckoned.

Mechanics. I couldn’t quite figure out the mechanics of finishing a run and jumping in the water. Beautiful in concept but awkward in execution. How would I get home? Run home for ten minutes through the streets of Nice, dripping from the sea? How about bringing a suit or extra clothes to the water before I headed out on my run? But where to leave them? The Promenade was a very public place; an open beach; hotels and restaurants with sidewalk tables lining the drive along the sea. This idea did not seem practical.

It was a Sunday morning. Actually, it was no longer morning. I had slept in that day, just making it to church on time, deciding as I lay there in bed, not wanting to get up, that the run of the day could come after lunch. It was a beautiful day on the Cote d’Azur, 72 degrees, sunny and clear, with a slight wind. In my shorts and t-shirt I ran west, toward the airport, intending to keep my run flat and easy. But instead, as I approached the airport, I veered off the Promenade and the water toward the neighborhoods. I was feeling good; decided to extend this run a bit. Inspired to try and run to my friend’s office building in a section of town called St. Augustin; I had previously checked out the map, figured it was not that far away. It was my target. Up and over the train tracks that cut through the city; up a winding road whose steep wall revealed a cemetery high on the hill. On a Sunday morning, there was little traffic, and no other runners. At the top of the hill, I found the office building, turned around and headed back toward the sea.

It was a long run for me; I could tell. The run to the end of the Promenade was about 40 minutes; the added run up the hill past the cemetery had added at least 15 minutes, I calculated conservatively. Two months ago, my usual run was 30 minutes, once or twice a week. But being a former marathoner, my body seemed to remember how to do long runs. I was easing back into that rhythm. On the way back to the Promenade, I took different roads, exploring more of the city I now called home. But the sea beckoned and I circled back to the expanse of sky that covered the water. As my feet clicked along the pink tarmac, I stared at the sea, and the mountains rising up behind the city. My chest swelled with a love for this new place I called home.

I was hot. Cool thoughts flooded my brain. I really wanted to be in the water.

Ten minutes left to my run. Figure out how to do this.

Yes, I would do it. I ran to the pink-domed Hotel Negresco, my landmark on the Promenade signaling where I would turn north into the city streets and head toward my home. But instead of turning left, I turned right, and headed down one of the many stone stairs that led down to the pebbly beach. I walked out across the stones in my new LiveStrong Nike running shoes. The beach was not crowded on this October Sunday afternoon. It was early October, no longer the end of the summer; it was autumn. The only folks still on the beach were tourists from Italy, or Germany, or colder climes, determined to make sure that they had had a beach experience in Nice. It was 1:30; lunchtime, or getting there. The Promenade overlooking the beach, typically crowded with runners and bikers and walkers of all types, would be deserted soon.

I walked to the water’s edge and sat down. I unlaced my shoes, took them off, and peeled off my damp socks, laid them next to the shoes on the sand. Took my house keys out of my pockets (one in each pocket) and slipped them into one of the shoes. I pulled off my t-shirt and laid it out on the rocks beside me. Then made a quick decision, and pulled off my running bra too. Stood up and walked tenderly over the shifting pebbles three feet to the water. A gentle lapping of waves onto the beach, but enough of a wave to make me unsteady – a little anxious to get into the water and not be conspicuous with my naked torso – I knelt down and eased into the water.

The refreshing sensation of slipping into open water after a run, invigorating my sweaty and overheated body. It was no longer a dream.