Training for a marathon in Damascus will prove to be much more difficult than expected. As I live in the old City, the streets are too narrow and windy to constitute a good run. Gyms are expensive and it costs to enter the stadium (wherever it may be). Instead, K. and I run in the Mujahareen neighbourhood where she lives. Despite being a conservative Muslim area, our frantic sports does little to distract anyone. The mountain is steep and the cobbled streets webbed at odd angles. Interval training has become sprints up hundreds of stone steps followed by only a second of rest before another stretch. For the 65-minute run this week, we decided to conquer the top of the mountain. Unfortunately, the streets are carved in mazes and we find ourself, at one point, scrambling up the bare sand and rock face. One slip and a long painful tumble to cobbled stone. We finally climbed over a low-hanging stone wall onto smooth tarmac. To our left, a small juice cafe hanging over the city – an endless landscape of smog, minarets, beige-washed buildings in the distance. On the way back down, we cling to a sewer pipe and sit back on our heels covering 20 long meters of dust.
