Training for a 1000+K run in Tehran traffic is like playing foosball blindfolded. You never know when you’ll make contact. Traffic is afflicted with permanent rush hour syndrome. With the exception of about 221pm to 3:04pm, the streets are packed with cars, oversized trucks, motorcycles heading into oncoming traffic with babies on board, short highpitched honkig (like the Roadrunner), small trucks carrying 9 times their weight (reminding me of worker ants), civilians crossing everywhere at will, and a brilliantly gauged combo of fine-tuned alertness, optimistic momentum, and well mannered agitation.

It is as if gargantuan cherubs above are playing toy cars and trucks all day. It’s a remarkable sight from a hilltop. And I think in many ways, it is a fine accomplishment for mankind. Sheer method in sheer madness. I remember pausing on a hill one day mid-run, ( feeling like Ponce-De-Leon must have felt when passing the tip of Gibralter), and acknowledging the supersensible beauty of the traffic in motion. Like I’ve found a treasure and I don’t know how to take with me. The scene may hold answers for eschatology.

Anyway, this obese avalanche in slow motion pours right through to well decorated traffic circles every .5-1 mile (often sporting statues or waterworks), where miraculously no one gets killed every 2 seconds. There are signs and traffic rules in this country but they’re treated the same way children are treated (too petty to be worthy of genuine appraisal). Intersections are replete with traffic cops in shiny outfitys fashioning whistles and fancy caps that remind me of highschool graduation. Perhaps I should refer to them as catalogue models. Their outfits are well crafted pieces of fashion with a variety of adornments, like medievel sailor-meets- professional male escort. I think their power doesn’t fully rest in the arena of traffic guidance, but rather in a sort of modeling prowess, as if they’re posing for a Nordstrom catalogue all the time. Perhaps this is also why they’re often ignored. Everyone secretly knows what they’re up to.

I used to go out on my 2.5 hr morning run around 430am when I had jetlag the first few days. It didn’t feel like running in a tailpipe. However, when my sleeping schedule somewhat normalized, about 2 days ago, I was forced into tailpipe mode. And since the streets have been packed with shoppers and dwellers due to the holiday season pre-take off to the north, I find myself jogging through traffic often. And in many spots, its gridlocked toy car cherub land. I prefer to run up hills and in oncoming traffic in such condition in order to utilize the positive energy of the masses . I’m running a marathon and my supporters are all in parked cars waiting for me to pass, staring, smiling, pointing. I can witness all the variety of facial expressions in cars, get the occasional highfive, and hear responses such as “what a maniac!” or “look at this moron, is he on meth?” or “What’s this silly kid doing” or “Look, a jogging idiot!” or “How come this man’s really sweaty and is he having a heart attack, Mom? Is he going to die Mom? Just eat your popcorn” or “Check out those calves. Yummy!” or “That guy looks like an Iranian Bond!” or “That man’s training for something huge” or “I can’t wait to run a portion of Iran with him!.” Well, sometimes, you may have auditory hallucinations when running up hills after 2 hours at 4 thousand feet. I mean, it’s a possibility.

So far in all my runs, I’ve only noticed one other guy running. And that was around 5am a few days back. He had gloves on and a thick Russian beanie. I never saw him again. There have been no other runners, with the exception of the occasional boy in sandals running joyously with a snickers in his hand. I sometimes run with an iPod, though this can add an extra element of risk when on such packed streets. Normally, I stay to the right of traffic, but often, when inspired by songs such as (The Verve’s Bittersweet symphony) , I will actually run in the middle of the road. Not for long though. ButI feel remarkably safe, because I trust the level awareness and quality of cognizance Iranian drivers are capable of, constantly scanning and on-point for potential conflict.

When in the middle of the road, I often am running faster than traffic is moving and it offers me a sense of superiority over Manufactured Speed . I feel like an Enkidu or a Nebuchadnezzar, larger than life, scanning crowded streets, and among toy cars that cant keep up. Sure, there is a bit of car dodging and avoiding side mirrors, protruding sofas, four year olds, but this is all necessary for the training. Afterall, I have a country to run shortly.

And this sort of maneuvering heightens my mental acuity and will prove useful when the body is pushed to the extreme by mid-run. Watching one of the seasoned cabbies, I wondered if anyone has ever performed a CAT scan or MRI on Iranians while driving and compared it to an American driver. Perhaps certain parts of the brain become permanently altered due to such conditions. This may shed light on the vast soci-cultural differences and dichotomies between the west and Iranians. It’s a possibility.

During mid-run yesterday, I noticed a small boy hiding behind a parked Paykan (a small light toy-like car manufactured in Iran and prevalent). He was crying and held a box filled with small matchboxes. I noticed him then ran by. But then felt a sudden feeling of neglect. I didn’t want to, but I hit the pause on Nora Jones and turned around and approached him. He tried to hide further underneath the car.

“Whats’s going on? Why so sad”

He started to cry a little harder:

“iofhdioff fhwhwiuheu”

“What?”

“jfv8igjei mother dijwoiwfiohf matches oiwdffih angry”

He was a bit drunk off crying. I put my hand on his little shoulder and dropped my eyes onto the concrete. He was probably 7. I sat there for a bit.

Soon, his sobbing became intermittent crying. His hands were like farmers hands. Workers hands.

“I can’t go back home. I haven’t sold enough for the last day and my mom is going to be really angry.”

He was selling matches. In Iran, many young children sell small items like matches, gum, Hafez fortune poems (equal to fortune cookies), pens, etc.

I didn’t have any cash in my pocket. “Look, what if she yells. You did the best you could do, right? .”

“It doesn’t matter. She gets really angry.”

“You want me to come over and face her with you?”

“No NO NO. Its ok. Its ok.”

I didn’t know how to help the little guy so I told him to meet me down the hill at the mosque in a few hours and I’d give him some Iranian quid. This was about the fourth time I’ve witnessed such a situation in my life, and everytime it was in Iran. Boy less than 10 afraid to go home because he hasn’t made enough money for his family.