Caribbean Beat — March/April 2019 (#156)
A calendar of events; music, film, and book reviews; travel features; people profiles, and much more.
A calendar of events; music, film, and book reviews; travel features; people profiles, and much more.
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classic<br />
Running<br />
commentary<br />
James Hackett<br />
Kellie Magnus describes the soundtrack<br />
to a Kingston run <strong>—</strong> first published in our<br />
<strong>March</strong>/<strong>April</strong> 2006 issue<br />
Every great run has a soundtrack.<br />
When I first fell in love with running,<br />
it was scored by my favourite<br />
songs. In those pre-iPod days, I ran<br />
with a CD belt, so each run took on the<br />
mood of whatever album I grabbed<br />
on the way out the door. Saucy, tempo runs to Carlos<br />
Santana. Slow, contemplative runs to Monty Alexander.<br />
Speedwork to a medley of old funk jams.<br />
But then I decided to train for the New York City<br />
Triathlon, a road race with a strict no-music policy.<br />
I tuned in to a completely different soundtrack<br />
<strong>—</strong> the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, the<br />
rhythm of my own breathing.<br />
When I lived in Manhattan, my running<br />
soundtrack was mostly of my own making, save for<br />
the occasional honk of a car horn, the dreaded sound<br />
of a faster runner’s footsteps coming up behind me<br />
<strong>—</strong> or, worse, the shout of “On your left” as he or she<br />
went by. I ran mostly in Central Park or on the West<br />
Side Path, where my usual eight-minute-mile pace<br />
attracted no attention and gave me enough chances<br />
to yell my own gleeful “On your left.”<br />
Now I live and run in Kingston. And there’s a<br />
whole new soundtrack to get used to.<br />
“Yes, Fitness.”<br />
“Gwan through, Veronica.”<br />
“Lawd Jesus. Done now, man. You a go run off<br />
the good batty weh God give you.”<br />
I’m running laps in Kingston’s Emancipation<br />
Park when I realise the commentary is directed at<br />
me. I am not a morning person, and I hate to run<br />
on a treadmill. I like to run at night to purge the<br />
day’s drama from my body. And I like to run alone.<br />
If I could, I’d run on the street, but the first time I<br />
tried this, at dusk one evening, my intended long<br />
run turned into speedwork as a madman chased me<br />
down Constant Spring Road. That leaves me with<br />
Emancipation Park <strong>—</strong> a flat, paved, five-hundredmetre<br />
loop that stays open till 11 pm, and comes<br />
with ample lighting <strong>—</strong> and a pool of commentators<br />
who would do well on the European circuit.<br />
Most of my fellow park users turn out for a walk. Young couples stroll arm<br />
in arm. Groups of friends walk briskly. There are usually just a few joggers,<br />
and very few women run. I rarely hear threatening footsteps, but the commentary<br />
comes in a steady torrent. Respect, concern, even anger <strong>—</strong> the comments<br />
are as varied as the people who deliver them.<br />
“Looking good, my girl.”<br />
“Yow, da gyal yah can run.”<br />
“She nuh hah nuh man? If she did have a man, she wouldn’t a run so.”<br />
At first the commentary threw me off. I ran with a hat pulled low over my<br />
face, no matter how late it was, and I would slow down apologetically to pass<br />
walkers. Now that I’ve tuned in to it, I use it to gauge how well I’m doing. On<br />
a slow day, I attract no attention. On average days, I get a nod and a “Yes,<br />
Runner.” There’s a simplicity and an elegance to “Runner.” It used to be my<br />
favourite title until one fast Friday night, when I was upgraded to “Runnist.”<br />
I could go back to running with music, but I’ve grown accustomed to the<br />
unpredictability of my very own Greek chorus. Like the perfect dancehall<br />
song, their rapid-fire delivery and lyrical dexterity ride the rhythm of my<br />
breathing and footfalls. Sometimes I struggle to keep my form, as on a recent<br />
Sunday afternoon when I ran by a bridal party posing for pictures.<br />
Bridesmaid 1: She nuh know seh if she run so fast she a go tired.<br />
Bridesmaid 2: If you did do likkle a dat, you frock wouldn’ tight so.<br />
One evening during the World Championships I was running in a yellow<br />
tank and black shorts, a hastily borrowed green scrunchie in my hair. I ran by<br />
a group of elderly women walking.<br />
“Poor soul, she mussi never make the team.”<br />
Late one Monday night, I’m on mile seven of an eight-mile run when I hear<br />
footsteps. I look over my shoulder and see a blond man, mid-forties, bearing<br />
down on me. His gait and pace tell me he’s a runner. His presence in this park<br />
tells me he’s a tourist. I pull to the right to let him pass but as he goes by I<br />
change my mind and adjust my pace to stay just off his left shoulder.<br />
We pass a group of four men walking.<br />
“She keeping up with him.”<br />
I pass the tourist. He passes me. I stay off his shoulder. Three loops later,<br />
we pass the men in the same spot.<br />
“Stay with him, my girl.” It is whispered urgently, as though there were a<br />
stake in the outcome.<br />
A thousand metres later, I am still off the tourist’s shoulder. I am at the end of<br />
my planned run. I am tired. But I look up and see the group of men just ahead.<br />
I mutter “Left,” and pull by. Neither the tourist nor his legs answer.<br />
I sprint by the group.<br />
“Yes, my girl. Show him, yes.”<br />
“Show him seh is Jamaica him deh.” n<br />
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