I like pink. There. I said it out loud under the blasé anonymity that the internet provides. Why do I like it? Well, for starters my mama thinks I carry it like no other man. And being the mama’s boy that I am, how could i disagree. I do believe that some men can pull off pink quite well and I am part of that rare metrosexual breed. Not the sort that goes in for a boyzilian, mind. That kind of pain is only reserved for the bravest of souls for which I have neither the desire nor tolerance . But I do like a little dash of color. Especially in New York. Every inhabitant of this city abides by a color code and that color is black. Black oversized sweaters, black skinny pants, black boots, black everything. I quite like this ensemble on girls. But for myself I reserve a little respite of brightness in the gloom of fabric that covers mine own skin. A little pocket-square here, a trim of bright threads there. And bright pink running shoes.

I have grown to be quite fond of them. They are an abiding protection to my feet. Taking all the brunt of my body-weight as my foot strikes the ground with a thud. The absence of reverberations a welcome realization that all the fancy faux-science bullshit that nike claimed in making the shoe has a bearing of truth to it. In that moment all is forgotten about that silent soldier in South Asia who knitted these FlyknitTM for hours on end for mere pittance. I get to enjoy the fruits for his labor for hundred times the price. And what joy it is.

Running long distance is an exercise of solitude. You step on to the blue track with a 360 degree view of the skyline. Its curves ever enticing, straight lines beguiling. I tend to get lost during these runs. Since I run on a track its easier to just let your mind wander as the moribund route repeats itself in a loop. My vivid imagination takes over and it paints pretty pictures with strokes provided by whatever tune is on my iPod. From the poetical mastery of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s afreen to the populist cacophony of Daddy Yankee’s pegalo. I treat them all as equals and build up my little idealist worlds. My legs, all the while churning like engine pistons and corroding ever so gently in the process. My heart, sinking and soaring at the same time. I run till the dull pain starts to sear through my knees. And just like that an hour of going round in circles has come to pass. While I am none the wiser in the process, my soul is a sea of calm.