Ghost Of Yesterday

The morning mist clung to the riverbank, swirling around Elvis’ ankles like wispy phantoms as he breathed a heavy puff out in white clouds, mirroring the fog, but they tasted different, of iron and disappointment. He glanced at his watch, the red numbers mocked him. Same pace, same time. Three months had gone by now that he was stuck in the same frustrating plateau, his personal best taunted him like a distant mirage. Oh, Elvis loved running! The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the earth, the wind whipping through his hair, the feeling of his body pushing its limits, all of it had been a symphony of pure joy. Only now, each stride felt like dragging a lead weight, each inhale a rasping reminder of his stagnation.

His training log which was once a testament to his relentless progress, was now a graveyard of dashed hopes. Squiggly lines on his watch represented his pace remained stubbornly horizontal, refusing to budge. He’d tried everything! New routines, fancy gear, even a questionable stint with chia seeds. Nothing seemed to work. Disappointed, he slumped onto a weathered bench, the river gurgled in the background like a mocking chorus. Doubt gnawed at him. Was he a one-hit wonder, a shooting star that had already flamed out? Was this all he was capable of?

Just then, a frail figure shuffled past, hunched over like a bent bow. He wore mismatched clothes and sported a mop of white hair that defied gravity as the winds blew. His eyes though, glinted like polished stones and held a spark of quiet determination.

The old man reached the bench and settled with a sigh, his weathered hands gripping a gnarled walking stick. Elvis watched him closely with a piqued curiosity.

“Rough morning, son?” the old man rasped, his voice like dry leaves rustling.

Elvis hesitated for a bit and then eventually blurted out his frustration: the plateau, the disappointment, the fear of fading into mediocrity.

The old man listened patiently, a knowing smile played on his lips. When he finished, the old man chuckled, like wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. “You chase the ghost of yesterday, son,” he said, tapping his stick on the ground. “You run against a shadow, not yourself.”

Elvis frowned. “What do you mean?”

The old man gestured at the river. “See that current? It never stays the same. Sometimes it rages, a torrent of whitewater and it sometimes whispers, barely a trickle. But it’s always moving, always changing.”

He leaned closer, his gaze piercing.

“Your running is like that river, son. It ebbs and flows. There will be storms and droughts, but the water keeps flowing. You just have to find your own rhythm, your own current!”

Elvis contemplated the old man’s words. The river was ever-changing, ever-adapting. Maybe his frustration was because he clung on to a rigid idea of progress, a static image of himself as a runner.

“So, what should I do?” he asked, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. The old man smiled, a crinkling map of wisdom.

“Run for the joy, son. Not the numbers. Run for the wind in your hair, the sun on your skin, the earth beneath your feet. That’s where you’ll find your current again.”

Elvis turned to thank him, but the old man was gone. The path stretched empty where he’d stood, the breeze whispered through the leaves as if carrying away his echo.

A few weeks later when Elvis crouched into his starting position for a race that he had long anticipated. Everything outside his immediate line of sight dissolved into a blur of motion. His focus became a laser beam, slicing through the noise and the fading murmurs. Every stride for the past few weeks had chiseled this moment into existence. The starting gun echoed like a thunderclap against the tense silence. With a surge of adrenaline, he exploded forward and the world reduced to a pair of pounding feet, burning lungs, and the intoxicating finish line calling him from the distance.

A Few hundred meters into the run, and he found himself struggling to keep pace, yet again! His lungs felt like bellows, each breath a desperate rasp against the searing air. His legs, heaved like leaden weights as he stumbled over the cracked pavement. “Negative splits, positive splits,” a mocking voice echoed in his head as he glanced at his watch to see his running pace. He slammed his wrist against the screen, silencing the digital taunts.

A memory resurfaced, that of a frail voice whispering amidst the rustle of leaves: “Run for the Joy, son. Run as your heart sings.”

The music in his headphones shifted, pulsing with a rhythmic beat that mirrored the frantic thumping in his chest. He shut his eyes, letting the melody flood him, washing away the pain, the self-doubt, the weight of expectations. His feet no longer tripped. They moved in perfect harmony with the music, each stride a beat on the pavement drum. He neither cared how fast he was running nor if he was pushing or coasting. He was running for the joy, running for the melody that had snagged his heart and wouldn’t let go.

That day, Elvis didn’t chase his old times. He ran for the feel of the cool air on his face, the rhythmic thud of his heart, the sun painting his world in golden hues. He ran for the simple joy of movement, of being one with his body and the path beneath him.

And as he ran, he felt a shift. Not in his pace, not yet. But, a shift in his spirit. The weight lifted, replaced by a quiet hum of acceptance. He was on his own path, his own river, flowing at its own pace. And that, he realized, was enough.

The plateau might still be there, but he no longer felt trapped. He was a runner and not a statistical figure. And he would keep running, not for the ghost of yesterday, but for the promise of tomorrow, a tomorrow where the joy of the run was the only finish line he needed.

As he broke through the finish line, he wasn’t greeted by cheering crowds or flashing cameras. But in the quiet embrace of the sunrise, he felt a new strength bloom within him. It wasn’t the muscle-burning power of exertion, but the quiet tenacity of acceptance. The plateau, that once loomed like an insurmountable wall, had shrunk to a distant pebble on his path. His gaze, no longer downcast, reached towards the horizon, a vast expanse painted with the promise of endless possibilities, each step a brushstroke on his own personal masterpiece. Sweat trickled down his face as he walked towards a refreshment stand that promised cool electrolytes for his parched throat. Yet, his mind snagged on a memory from weeks past-the old man’s wink, the enigmatic words, the baffling disappearance, “was it all real?” he wondered. Or was it a mirage conjured by the relentless sun?

The data might have indicated a personal best, had he not turned off his watch in the throes of rediscovering his own tempo. It could have been a new high watermark on his personal river. But the true victory wasn’t reflected in the numbers. It was in the quiet hum of acceptance that resonated within him. Elvis grabbed a cup of electrolytes and parched his throat with the cool liquid that served as a refreshing counterpoint to the heat of exertion. He took a long drink, the taste a reminder of the simple pleasures found in the journey, not just the destination. He would keep running, each stride a testament to his own unique rhythm, a testament to the joy of simply being a runner.

What if it was indeed his personal best? A bittersweet afterthought lingered, but one that held no power over him anymore. The joy of running-that was his finish line now.