Running

(OR: How I Came to Discover Tangier as the Ultimate Running City)

When arrived in Tangier, I had just completed the Seattle Marathon, my first. I didn't plan on doing any running here (or, perhaps, anywhere, ever), because I thought that it would be too crowded, too busy, and too incongruous. In Tangier, I had rarely seen anyone exercising outside of the gym. In fact, I think that I've never even seen a Moroccan man wearing shorts!

So, for the first month in Morocco, I didn't do any running (OK, actually no exercise at all). We signed up for a gym membership (the infamous CLUB OMNI-SPORT), and Kate faithfully went. Each day, I invented new and elaborate excuses to stay home. Finally, by the time mid-January rolled around, I knew that I needed to do something. My baguette consumption had reached near-epic proportions, and I was also just getting a little stir-crazy. That's when I realized that the Marrakech Marathon would coincide with our visit to the south of Morocco. I signed up for the half-marathon three weeks ahead of time and this finally pushed me out the door, running shoes laced up. I was counting on a short burst of training, along with a lot of stored miles from the marathon, to see me through.

My first run was basically what I feared--lots of cars, crowded streets, and strange looks from pedestrians. I've been taking inordinate pride in beginning to blend in a little more; Knowing where I'm going in the city, disguised behind a Moroccan mustache, and dressed up a bit more than usual, I sometimes don't get noticed as anything more than another Tanjawi headed somewhere. Running blew my cover, big time.

However, I stuck with it (the thought of exploding in a half-marathon helped spur me on), and I quickly discovered some tweaks that made running in Tangier more agreeable. The first one was strictly geographical. About a mile from our house, the Route de la Plage Mercala winds along the water, providing stunning views, as well as a far less crowded venue for running. Many days, lots of folks are out on this stretch of road, walking or running.

Not a bad place to go for a jog.

Similarly, I realized that, at least on the long runs, one gets out of the city amazingly quickly. In just five miles of running, you can go from crowded streets, full cafes and bustling market stalls to wide, streets and forested hillsides.

Yes, that is a sign warning to watch out for wild pigs!

The other tweak that helped me realize that Tangier is an amazing running city has just been a mental shift--to accept a little incongruity. After all, one of the main draws to Tangier for the authors that I'm studying has been the city's acceptance of eccentricity. Who cares if I put on short-shorts and jog through a food market every once in a while? Most of the Moroccan seem to shrug it off. The funniest reaction is from the guys at the churro stand near my house. Each morning as they're setting up their food stall, they notice me jog by, the picture of virtuousness. Then, three hours later, I buy a huge quantity of their incredibly delicious, unhealthy churros. Two steps forward, one step back.

These guys have some hard questions about the overall health plan.

Rediscovering running has also led to lots of positive interactions with people. Because I'm already exercising, bystanders are incredibly willing to enlist me in physical tasks. I've helped put a couch on top of a grand taxi for transport, and pushed an overloaded cart up a hill, just like a warm weather version of the training montage in Rocky IV.

All of this training culminated in the Marrakech Marathon at the end of January. I was shocked by how many runners participated--there were 6000 runners in the half-marathon alone! At the start line, I seemed to be the only one without a smart phone, selfie stick, and hydration pack. A moving moment passed before the gun went off, when a giant Moroccan flag was unfurled, and a huge cheer rose from the crowd.

In the courtyard of the riad in Marrakech.

The half-marathon followed a beautiful route into the heart of the new city, through two gardens, and then along the ramparts of the old city back to the finish line. The mix of languages during the race was amazing--cries of "Bon Courage!" and "Saha!" were heard in equal number. At one point, a Moroccan runner turned around, raised his hands in the universal "raise the roof" motion, and, with a hearty "Allahu Akbar!" encouraged those following behind.

What will remain for me, though, is a moment towards the end of the race. It had gotten hot, and I was in pain. I stopped at the last aid station, 5 kilometers before the finish. At aid stations, rather than dispensing unpalatable Gu Energy Gels, they simply offered tangerines, which you peeled and enjoyed as you ran. I grabbed two, eating them at a fast walk. I looked around at my fellow runners, and at the spectators who lined the course, the colors vibrant in the sunlight. Just then, I moved--blessedly--from sun to shade, and happened to look down. The ground was completely covered in crushed, fragrant orange peels discarded by faster runners, like a magic carpet that would carry me to the finish.