The cold morning air poured across my arms and legs, my breath billowing mist into the chaos around me. I had been training determinedly for some weeks after my rather embarrassing defeat to the girl in charcoal and white. As I pumped my legs up the hill, I reminded myself of the tension required to run—the tension borne by a relaxed mind imposing a disciplined rhythm upon itself. Each day I had composed myself diligently, stepping into my running shoes as if they were an extension of my body as an archer’s bow is an extension of his.
I had not yet seen her again after that fateful day. She was as a shrike with her sleek figure, curving effortlessly through the air, curious and intelligent. I imagined her to be a huntress, patient and mischievous; ready to leap into the fray with a gladness imprinted onto wild things.
By now the sweat was forming beads on my forehead and wetting my thick eyebrows. I was glad of having shaved my head, since the cool air softly caressed my scalp and served to refresh my motions as I summited the hill. The next leg of my run would take me through a dense bush filled with the heavy scent of life, somewhere in between rejuvenation and decay.