He runs. Now he runs. And he dresses in pink. He runs, he runs, he runs.
He is dressed in pink. Through fields, forests, up and down long slow hills, the slap, slap, slap of his feet, the certain breath, his arms, legs, smoothly moving, he runs. In pink, in the pink, he moves through wood, and over grass, along waters, under skies, steady, steadily, the world wraparound, the earth definite, his breathing even.
And as the runner runs, he thinks, he thinks. For him it is the cadence, the sense, the even ever-flow footfall, the definition of tread, tread, tread, the very essence, his essence, his foot on grass, his foot on forest mulch, his feet crossing sand, his body going through, and on and on and on he runs, and thinks, and he runs and he thinks, and, because he is who he is, he is dressed in pink.
He is not fat, the runner.
Once he was fat and inside his head was fat and he dressed in grey or brown and he walked quietly, avoiding the open spaces, light. Then he jogged a little, ran a little, wore black tights, a blue shirt, gloves, a hat. Then he ran, the once, a little fast, he raced; and he was hot, uncomfortable. He was heavy with sweat, his clothes were too heavy. They were dark, close. They overwhelmed him, they took away his breath.
He bought running pants, longer ones, shorter ones, a pair lilac, cut away for the thighs to swish, a logo, a tick, the waistband straddling a definite, ever-flatter belly. One day he passed a window and saw a man, like someone in him, but taller, head high, the arms moving smoothly, even, and the man he saw was him and he was the man and he breathed one long breath deeper, looked out further and strode, the sun in his face, on his face, and he glistened, and knew it.
The next day he bought the pink singlets, the pink shorts. He bought the lightweight running shoes flashed with pink stripes, gold, and from then on he ran, always in pink. He was the runner in pink. He could be seen.
What is difficult is to remember the runner before he was the runner, particularly before he dressed in pink, before he ran and thought thoughts, ran, thought, before he ran and ran, and his thinking came, sailed on his heartbeat, flush with the country he traversed, the earth, the deep green of far off trees, a horizon, somewhere to go.
"I didn't always run." He will tell you, "I didn't always run." But you will find it impossible to believe, too hard to take on board, not conceivable, it's not likely. The runner in pink must always have been the runner in pink. You will suggest false modesty, an economy of truth, misinformation.
But the runner will insist. "Once I was fat," he will say, "Once I walked where people didn't see. Do not presume that what is now evident is that which has always been."
If he asks, "Do you run?" don't lie. He doesn't ask because he needs to know; he is merely being polite. He will know if you run, and he will know how much you run. He may not know how you dress (if you run) but he will know if you run. He will know. Tell him the truth.
Stop. Do you run? If you ran, would you wear pink? If you ran, would you see something far off, too far away, a dark possibility, something difficult, something possibly not possible, something impossible – would you see that, and with framed fingers pick it out, fix it, tighten your laces and set off, anyway?
The runner knows that getting there is just a bonus. He knows to run that way, to run with the head up (dress in pink) that's enough. Once he didn't. Once it would never have occurred to him.
