8

Running

“I don't run for pleasure, nor for sport, nor even to stay in shape.

I run to stay alive.”

I run like my father ran in one-foot-high snow, on the hot sand of the desert, and then in the woods, to escape bullets, bombs, and reprisals, in short, to stay alive.

I've been running since I was in my mother's belly, she also ran to escape bombs, bullets, violence and rapes, to find a piece of bread, to stay alive.

When you are forced to live that way, running is not enjoyable, is not a sport, nor healthy, it does not make you feel good.

I run because that's what my father taught me since I was a child.

I run to get there before my brothers, I run to check what they are doing, I run to show him that one day I will be his worthy successor as the head of the company.

“I don't run for pleasure, nor for sport, nor even to stay in shape.

I run to stay alive.”

I run even when I sleep, when I dream.

And I wake up sweaty and tired, like after a marathon.

I dream that the finish line is there, even if I can’t see it.

I dream that I never arrive.

Sometimes I dream that I stop to catch my breath, bent on my knees, my head bowed, watching sweat drops gathering on the tip of my nose.

I'm afraid I won't be able to straighten up and run again.

I'm terrified I won't be able to stop this nightmare.

And I wake up scared by the worst omen.

I run to work to check on employees, to check on production, to meet with customers.

I also run home to check on my wife, not because I don't trust her.

To check on those children who will take my place one day.

And that pushes me to run more, I can't help it.

I also run on weekends: marathons, half marathons, and cross-countries. I’m a competition fanatic.

I also run on holidays, I go where there are the longest races, the longest marathons, such as the hundred-miles and longer.

“I don't run for pleasure, nor for sport, nor even to stay in shape.

I run to stay alive.”

And I wake up suddenly, I’m lying on the couch, sweaty and tired as if I have been really running all this time.

The nightmare has come true.

Now, my marathon is trying to walk around a table, clinging to the arms of the physiotherapist who makes me sit at the end of each side, my forehead streaked with cold sweat.

Now, I run while watching television, sitting on the sofa unable to get up.

I do everything over the phone, but I find myself drenched in sweat, like in an endless uphill run.

Doctors call it postural orthostatic hypotension, but they don’t know how to cure it, at least not as I would like to.

It seems that my heart refuses to run making me fall to the ground after only a few steps. A pre-stroke automatic protection system.

...

Extract from the book “We Cannot Escape from Ourselves”.