I Only Run to Read

When I lived in Boston, I was a runner. I’d drive out to one of the suburbs like Framingham or Natick, park at a commuter rail station, and then run into Copley along the Marathon route. On those beautiful, clear days, I’d hit the road with only my iPod and a few dollars, excited to have the sun in my face, my pigtails bobbing in the wind, and hours and hours of stories ahead of me. I chose easy, fast reads to keep my pace, books where the narrators were as important as the plot: A Widow for One Year, Angela’s Ashes, The Lovely Bones. I once cried as I ran when I got to the end of an Anita Shreve novel.

The miles and the books would fly by, and I’d cross the proverbial finish line well-read and sweaty. Then I’d have a drink at The Pour House and take the train back to my car. It was perfect.

Now that I live in New York City, my relationship with audiobooks has suffered. I don’t really run anymore: I’m not really built for it, and neither are our streets. I’ve started going to Bikram, and don’t have a gym membership. As I’ve gotten better jobs, I can’t listen to books as much while I work. I still listen on the subway sometimes, but it’s often so loud and disruptive that it’s usually just easier to read a regular book. I even used to listen when cleaning, but then I got an iPhone and it doesn’t clip to my pajamas. Excuses, excuses.

But I miss my audiobooks, and this weekend I am going to reintroduce myself to my Audible account. I am going to dig out my iPod Nano (because it’s light and has a clip), and load it with a dozen good books. I am going to listen to all kinds of trashy British shopping novels. And maybe, just maybe, I will take the train out to Coney Island and run home.