Russia
rapid motion through space elates one. -James Joyce
Part Three: Run!
In April, the snow finally began to melt. Local residents emerged from tiny apartments, populating the local parks and gardens and squares when it was still too cold to be comfortable. Art-lovers meandered through the Mikhailovsky Gardens, admiring the handsome façade of the Russian Museum. Mars Field -- traditionally the military parade grounds -- became parade grounds for flirty young girls and nervy boys. The lime trees in the formal Summer Gardens began to bud, adding a touch of green to the fountains and pavilions that had been bare for months.
I longed to take my exercise outdoors, but the thaw was a gradual process. Like an archaeological excavation, each day uncovered a new layer of the winter's history: sleds that were left outside during a storm in February; vodka bottles thrown out after the New Year celebrations; gloves that had been lost since December. The ground was finally visible by the month's end, so I decided to lace up my running shoes and take them for a spin in Tauride Gardens.
Catherine the Great had built the fabulous baroque palace for Grigory Potemkin, a famed general and one of her many lovers. Once the romping grounds of the tsarina, the palace gardens had since become – in true Soviet style -- a park for the people. I thought the tree-lined dirt paths crisscrossing the landscaped park and circling a picturesque pond would make an ideal setting for my triathlon training.
It is an understatement to say that a runner on the street or in the park is an unfamiliar sight in Russia. Even the act of wearing running shorts is bound to attract stares -- ironic in this country where women in midsummer wear little more than lacy undergarments and a pair of heels. A German friend had recounted tales of her jogging adventures in St Petersburg. When she ran past some teenage boys sitting on a park bench drinking beer, they were so amused that they chased after her, poking and taunting. Finally, they could not keep up with her, so they just threw their empty bottles at her. My friend was so distraught that she ran straight home. With this harrowing tale in mind, I arrived at Tauride Gardens in my spandex tights and running shoes, prepared but wary.
A sign on the gate declared that the park was closed for prosushka, or “a thorough drying out”. How appropriate, I thought, this whole country needs a prosushka. But I could see a few folks wandering around inside, most of them pushing baby strollers or, yes, drinking beer.
A park worker sat lackadaisically near the gate and opened it to allow patrons to exit. He would not let me enter. “The park is closed.”
“How did all these people get inside if the park is closed?” I questioned.
“They went in through the entrance on Paradnaya Street,” he said matter-of-factly, pointing across the way.
Another group of people left and he locked the gate behind them. “The park is closed but the other entrance is open?” He did not seem to notice the inherent contradiction.
I trotted a half-mile down the sidewalk and around the corner to see for myself. Sure enough, mothers with children, teenagers with beers, workers with tools – everybody was walking freely in and out of the park. I established a jogging route around the perimeter of the park. I picked up my pace as I ran past ungainly groups of teenage boys clustered on the benches. But they just strummed their guitars and sang their raucous songs, having a ball and paying me no heed. I was also wary of the workers, who could at any moment tire of all these people interfering with their work on the park and expel us. But they also ignored me, concentrating on laying sod and planting flowers.
Kids climbed on the playground while their mothers observed. Artists captured in watercolor the palace’s reflection in the pond. Lovers embraced underneath the trees. The sun shone down on the people and-- despite their defiance of the proposed prosushka-- dried out their park. After a week or two, emboldened by my success, I took to the streets. I dodged the jovial youths spilling out of sidewalk cafes and wizened women selling produce from their stalls. They stared, but they got out of my way. I cruised past tsars’ grandiose palaces, Lenin’s revolutionary haunts and Dostoevsky’s inspiring canals, exploring St. Petersburg by sneaker.
* * *
At the end of my time in Russia, I was pleased with my training progress. The wrath of the swimming pool babushka had abated as I established my place as a regular in the lanes. My sprints around the city increased in number so I was confident I could outrun any drunken teenager or angry worker. I would have liked to spend more time at Planet Fitness – on the bikes and in the whirlpool – but my friend was out of free guest passes, and I felt fortunate even for my brief stint as one of the beautiful people.
During my last week in Russia, I paid a final visit to the swimming pool. I was wistful as I watched the kids competing in breath-holding contests and women doing sidestroke. I spent a few minutes stretching, partly hoping they would leave the lane, partly hoping, for old times’ sake, that they would not.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my nemesis, the steely-eyed babushka, heading my way. I wondered what crime I might be guilty of. “What are you doing?” she queried. I explained in the most pleasant voice I could muster that I needed to stretch before commencing my workout.
Her face softened. “You are a sportswoman?” Intrigued, she started questioning me about what kinds of workouts I did and what I was training for. She wanted to know all about the triathlon circuit – who organized such events and who competed. This cold, scary woman who had been the source of nightmares became warm, friendly, and downright enthusiastic about my triathlon prospects.
Before I knew it, she was yelling at the old folks and young kids in lane two. “This lane is closed now,” she bellowed. “Move into another lane.” The swimmers looked around in confusion, but crowded into the other lanes without protest.
The babushka turned to me and smiled. “Lane two is yours."
Mara Vorhees is a writer and photographer who blogs about food, music and adventure around the world.She has written guidebooks about Belize, Brazil, Costa Rica, Morocco, New England and Russia for Lonely Planet. She has participated in sprint and Olympic-distance triathlons around New England. Click here to read more about Mara.
