The book was ostensibly an autobiography about an accomplished academic’s life, but it was really about running
A couple of days after Pesach last year, it hit me. Covid was still here. The run-up to Pesach had been a shock of adrenaline: make Pesach happen… whatever… however… don’t organize the whole house, sweep the floors, cover the kitchen, people are dying, fighting for breath.
We thought we’d be redeemed that first Seder night, blasted out of our current Mitzrayim; or the seventh day, like Krias Yam Suf. But now it was half a week after Pesach, and Covid was lingering like an unwelcome guest.
No work, no shopping, no going out, the government pronounced, unless you’re exercising.
I worked, I logged my hours, I was productive. I didn’t exercise; it wasn’t my thing. There was a part of me that looked condescendingly at the joggers outside my window and thought: What, where, why? I have things to do.
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