The Sun In My Stride

As featured in issue 33 of Like The Wind magazine - available at www.likethewindmagazine.com

I’m shuffling around in the darkness at 4.55am, desperately trying to be quiet as my wife and toddler sleep in the other room but the ‘open plan’ aspect of the apartment is attempting to sabotage the stealth. The lighter mornings have finally arrived back home in the UK but the temperature still necessitates gloves and perhaps a hat, so I’m excited to donning just a vest and short shorts as a minute line of sunlight slips through the gap around the blinds.  

I ease the door shut behind me whilst keeping the handle held down so as not to emit an audible ‘click’ - near silence - exit successful - and turn to step into the blissful morning sunsh…., no wait, it’s not sunlight, but the lamps lighting the path of the complex. 

I look above to be met with a solid shade of black. Where’s the bloody sun?

I’d neglected to research what time the sun rises in the Canaries but, being an idiot, I guess I just assumed it’d be about the same time. 

We’re in Lanzarote for our first family holiday since pre-covid. We’re not an overly cultured family and have opted for an all-inclusive Canaries resort as opposed to a chalet in the south of France. I’m a simple man and I like simple things. My wife and I were fortunate to holiday quite often in our first years together, we were always more fond of experiences rather than ‘stuff’, but the last few years of life - new offspring and a global medical crisis, had seen a temporary hold on such excursions. 

I love to travel and see new (often warmer) places but can’t declare myself to have ever been ‘travelling’ - my adventures being more city or beach-based rather than spent sporting a backpack and a holistic, free spirit. I’m not against UK ‘staycations’ but the current demand for such dictates domestic breaks now often eclipse the levy of a foreign equivalent, and the prospect of capturing the same quota of my beloved Vitamin D is substantially less likely. Again, I’m not bashing the Great British holiday - it’s just personal preference, each to their own.

Working in a Primary School I’d happily go away every half term if practicalities, and more significantly, finances, would allow. My wife, whilst appreciative of my wish to wander,  is somewhat more realistic and thankfully counteracts my eagerness to holiday with a much greater degree of reality and sensibility - maybe she’s right and we should actually get the boiler fixed or address the subsidence, rather than spend the cash on a(nother) weekend away. 

Yet even she agreed we deserved this one - we work hard, could fortunately afford it, and were certain our youngest daughter, now three years, would adore everything a warm-weather break could provide. 

In the hierarchy of ‘things that make me happy’, running on holiday is up there with the very best of them. Some enjoy a trail through the depths of the rainforest, or a climb to the peak of a glacier, but those sunshine shrouded seafront saunters are a particularly enchanting personal indulgence. The seductive blend of exercise and sunshine - hormonal harmony as serotonin and endorphins collide - presents a utopia I’m yet to encounter whilst running on domestic soil.

A serious injury, well documented in my ‘LikeTheWind’ contributions previously, had decimated running endeavours on our past two holidays abroad, something which bothered me far more than it perhaps should have, given just being abroad with my family should have been enough. I vividly recall playing on the beach with my eldest daughter, now 13 and disinterested in building sandcastles with her greying father, and suffering a bolt of disproportionately excessive envy as two pensioners jogged along the promenade - as though purposely sauntering past purely to personally insult me.

But this time I was fit, in relatively good shape, and had every intention of exploiting the conditioning in my long-harboured quest for sun-soaked miles, even if the copious articles of running attire meant we’d incur the cost of an extra suitcase with the airline.

Many of the places we’ve visited, mostly within Europe, appear to enjoy a much greater investment in exercise-related infrastructure than here in the UK - health and wellbeing prioritised, a recognition and appreciation of the positive role exercise has to the benefit of the population, which in turn I imagine impacts favourably on a nation’s health system. 

A past favourite was the Mallorcan resort of Can Pastilla in Majorca, an easy commute and generally financially favourable, where we spent several trips making full use of the purpose built cycle/pedestrian path, segregated from motor vehicles, that runs along the coast into the capital city of Palma. Our base here in Lanzarote enjoys a similar asset, created perhaps with the island’s Ironman affiliation in mind, ensuring folk can go about their exercise in a safe and serenely scenic manner.

Having the term ‘beachfront’ in a hotel’s arsenal appears to grant the application of a handsome premium on the price, regardless of the actual standard of accommodation or amenities. Ours is set back, 200ish metres from the sea (translate: £200 cheaper), and I trot the downhill path to the seafront. It’s our first morning, and having spent the preceding day’s travelling consuming somewhat less-than-nutritious fare, I’ll be keeping it nice and gentle this morning whilst I gather my bearings.

Behind the hotel, in the opposite direction, lies a vast landscape of dusty trails heading out in every direction, up hills and small mountains. They’ll be conquered in the coming days, perhaps once I establish the hours of daylight, I’ve no intention of going up there in the darkness.

5.15am and there isn’t a soul to be seen, nor still the slightest sniff of a sunrise. But for the sound of the waves and wind - an absolute silence. Soft street lights illuminate a pristine tarmac path running parallel with the seafront, as though it was laid just yesterday, bollards separating the stretch from any traffic, not that there is any around. 

Maybe a vest was the wrong choice as, despite the 17c temperature, the wind is making it a little chilly. I’m 2KM in, in addition to my GPS there’s handy distance markers dotted along the seafront, the small things make the biggest difference - visual enticement. I’d looked up prospective routes before we’d left and saw the path stretches for miles out past the airport, and headed in that direction.

My stride length has increased a little as I begin to loosen up, most runs begin like this, though the favourable climate appears more of a limb lubricant than slogging around in the -4c Winter of North Yorkshire. Palm trees sporadically line the wall between the sand and sidewalk, cliched and synonymous they may be with such a location, but still aesthetically pleasing. 

“You run on holiday? Don’t you just relax?” It’s quite the opposite, Running affords the opportunity to derive even greater pleasure from an already enjoyable venture and makes training almost a novelty as the surroundings are so new and alluring. “Nah, I’d prefer to nail the free lager and lie-in” - the appeal of the all-inclusive isn't (for me) the unlimited booze and desserts - though it certainly doesn’t hurt - but more so the freely available abundance of meat, seafood and salad, the quantity and quality of which would cost me a second mortgage to consume at home. Plus the lingering aroma of cooking cod probably wouldn’t be overly endearing to my vegetarian wife. 

But for the odd granite cloud the sky is still a blanket of black, and any fellow pavement inhabitants have yet to appear, but my internal thermostat has risen a notch as it now appears the singlet was a perfectly suitable choice after all. I’ve been out for an hour and the streetlights presenting the path have become more infrequent in the approach to the runways of the airport. Their infrequency turns to complete absence as (I assume) the flight path necessitates total darkness during nighttime hours (?) and so I turn 180 to avoid running an unlit stretch I’ve never ventured previously. Again, that pilgrimage could wait.

I reach an area more built up than our own - a greater cluster of neon-clad bars, stores and hotels - a heartier nightlife scene than our quaint, family resort but that suits me just fine. I could no longer hack those days even if I wanted to. There’s still no-one to be seen and I’m taken aback, yet comforted, at the trust shown by the open-fronted establishments lining the street, presumably left unlocked and open to the cleaning staff in an act which would be incomprehensible back home. 

I’m so invested in, and distracted by, my new environment that my watch sounds and I’ve covered a further five miles without realising it, and with an ease I’d certainly not anticipated. 

I feel really content. There’s a lot to be said for contentment.

During the full grip of the pandemic, when travel to lands afar was forbidden, even the slightest expression of longing to get away was considered distasteful when so many were suffering. It was a valid point. But must an appreciation of one’s health have to be exclusive, and thus to the detriment of an ambition or aspiration? Unfortunately I don’t possess the necessary moral or ethical intellect to dissect the matter further, but regardless - there was an uncertainty that foreign travel would ever make a return, and that sat a little uneasy with me.

Every few minutes I pass an outdoor gym equipment or playground - neither with any sign of graffiti, rust or neglect - another illustration of the investment in physical (and in turn, emotional) wellbeing - immaculate in condition and upkeep. I ponder the significance of good health and recall the injury - 18 months of infuriating frustration, running prohibited on two holidays - first world problems I appreciate, yet there still festered an indignation as fellow runners glided past on those balmy mornings. Brisk walks just didn’t quite cut it - for starters it took a lot longer to get anywhere, I had longed to move like they did and now finally had the opportunity to do so. 

A wave of gratitude sweeps across me, as though I’ve just realised something, a grand epiphany, yet have no idea what it is. Undetected, the shore to my left has shifted in distinction - vague shades of turquoise and gold replacing the inky tones of just a few minutes prior. Sporadic birdsong drowns out the waves and the occasional sign of life appears with the new dawn - shopkeepers, staff, citizens, emerge to begin their day.        

I glance to the side - the surface of the Atlantic sparkles and I feel the warmth on my shoulders like an embrace from an old ally, it’s uniquely uplifting.

I’m so caught up and seduced by the romance of the moment that I’m completely oblivious of the faint shadow that has emerged beneath my feet, or that the street lights have powered down. I’m only marginally more aware that I’m moving at a far greater pace than I’d initially planned or anticipated, yet the level of exertion appears no different from my first steps out of the hotel lobby.

I commonly find longer, easy runs somewhat of a toil, assumingly attributable to their being of lesser stimulation than their faster/harder counterparts, but it appears the aura of the my surroundings and environment have aroused the furnace within - everything is loose, fluid and as though the eternal promise of the Canary Islands had been the missing ingredient - I find myself in a full effortless flow.

The graft of all those Winters slogging around in the cold, snow, wind and rain have finally come to fruition - the here and now is simply euphoric and I’ve perceptively reached some wonderful enhanced state of presence -  engulfed in a cascade of elation - a state that I simply cannot, despite previous best efforts, consciously reach - the flow so desperately sought in a race yet so often proves elusive. 

I’ve longed for this moment, this feeling, for so long and am doing everything I can to wholeheartedly embrace and absorb it. In the distance I see the ascent back to the hotel and the figurative finish line to the morning’s endeavour, and begin to increase my cadence. I feel the strain on my lungs and limbs, working in tandem with the sun on my back, as if to release, to cleanse, to squeeze every last possible ounce of purity from the opportunity before allowing myself to ease off the gas.

I slow to a stop atop the stone steps descending to the beach, the horizon now fully in view, and squint over my shoulder back towards the light. My shadow now cuts a perfect contrast against the sandy asphalt ahead of me.

My assumption of sunrise was around two hours off -  It’s 7am and the full, intense radiation of the sun instantly warms my cheeks and in turn - my heart, the glow for which I’d longed for years finally on my skin. 

Better late than never.