Not thinking about anything is incredibly difficult.
There was time to kill and he killed a lot of time just looking out of the window. It was almost as good as reading. They often asked him what he was thinking about. He would mumble something by way of an answer but of course he had forgotten whatever it was, if there was anything.
He had just started to get into the flow. His heels had been making steady thudding contact with the bitumen for some time now. It took a while for all systems to reconcile themselves to the fact that this was a long run. Not like a short clumsy shuffling sprint to catch a bus. There was a point of transition, a cusp, at which the protests of his joints started to get muted and an inertial force took over. He was quite slow—it took him an hour to do nine kilometres—but that was OK by him.
He had gotten up early to run along the canal-side track which started near Jervois Road. There were a few others on the track but it wasn’t crowded yet. He loved it…