Pounding the pavement

9pm. Hot. Humid. Sitting in the dark watching season one of 30 Rock. Restless. We decide to go for a run. This is our new resolution, the beginning of another get fit campaign. We dust off shorts, lace up creaky sneaks and take the stairs to the ground floor. We strike out along West 15th towards the Hudson.

The street is busy. Countless men in khaki shorts, pastel tank tops and leather sandals walking fluffy yappy dogs. Women sitting on stoops whispering into their mobile phones. Older couples strolling hand in hand after dinner. Other joggers glancing at us as they run past. Rollerbladers with headphones on cruising down the middle of the road. Delivery guys on bikes - no helmuts!- trying to make good time, plastic bags of food swinging from their handlebars.

We hit 7th Ave and the traffic light is against us so we turn up towards 16th. Past the over-priced flashy Chelsea furniture store, past a dark lit restaurant with its glass walls retracted, heaving with margarita ("A good source of vitamin c") sipping diners.

We make another turn towards the river and jog past the Maritime Hotel, where tinted window cars are idling and clutches of glamazons are hailing cabs. We skip through cabs at the lights and run past another dog walker and through what will be our first of three clouds of ganga smoke for the evening.

Crossing the Westside Hwy we finally feel the cool breath of the Hudson. The lights of Jersey City twinkle on the water. It is relatively quiet and the lapping of the dirty river is almost soothing. We turn south and head for the avenue of pink rose bushes masking the stink of the local garbage truck depot. There are walkers, runners, rollerbladers, couples strolling, bikers, skateboarders all passing silently, whirs of feet and wheels.

We're sweaty now, clamming up. We don't talk, we concentrate on breathing, we're absorbing the smells and sights and sounds. We spy a stretch of grass and we know we'll take a break for some sit ups and stuff.

We slow down and flop onto the grass. There's a guy there sitting in lotus position, his eyes closed, palms turned upwards on his knees, in his own world. There's a homeless person sleeping on cardboard with a sleeping bag draped over his torso and his luggage stacked neatly at his head. We sit between them and start to do our exercises, counting quietly.

My legs are stiffening already. We decide to head back. We cross the highway and are in the West Village, jogging on uneven cobble stones down treelined streets. Al fresco diners chatter as we run past. The aroma of pizza fills the street and I roll my eyes. We zig zag through the named streets: we're off the grid now and the roads go in every direction. The streets are cosier, quainter, dominated by brownstones and neat terrace houses, older style apartment buildings. Our eyes are busy roaming and dreaming.

We cut back to 15th and I can see our building at the next avenue. We're dripping now. Thirsty. My knees hurt and I wonder how stiff I'll feel tomorrow or whether my back will protest that night. We cross the lights and stop to pant in front of our building. Pedestrians glance at us as we loiter, huffing, shiny, preparing to go up to our little apartment and blast the a/c.