You remember your first time, right? Everyone does. That grand départ into the unknown, the bewildering, clean-sheeted novelty of it all. That initial feeling of hesitation. The lingering trepidation. Then, bang, that’s all behind you. You’re away. You’ve found your feet, you’ve hit your stride. Pulse quickening, limbs loosening, excitement mounting. But your senses are where the real action is taking place. They’re off the charts, flying high. Everything is pinging and buzzing, brimming and popping. You’re alert, you’re alive, you’re there, in the zone, on the mark, nearing your peak. Yes, everyone remembers their first time.
And that was how it was for me. Just the other day. A new arrival in Porto, hitting the Portuguese city’s cobbled streets for my first morning jog. Out of the door I headed, a Day 1 novice, a Portugal virgin, my runners fresh from the suitcase, an EasyJet crick still in my neck. I had a tourist map for guidance, full of colourful squiggles and mall-shaped blobs. Pretty, but useless. In no time, I was completely disorientated. Was it left at the bottom of Avenida do Aliados or straight on? Did I go over the Luís 1 bridge or below it? I ditched the map. I’d follow my nose instead, I resolved … and my eyes … and, who knows, maybe even my toes.
The hour that followed was intoxicating. Utterly so. For 60 whole minutes, the world around transformed into something palpitating and enlivened. Everything looked brighter, sharper-edged, more given to meaning, perhaps even to magic. Above, the blue of the sky looked bluer than I ever thought possible. Below, the waters of the Douro river glistened brilliantly as though flirting with the sun. As I jogged, the urban landscape seemed to be shouting out, clamouring for my attention. Every bit of it. Pavements declaring their narrowness; roads announcing their cobbliness; riverbanks proclaiming their steepness. Every section of the run had its song, every step its specific note.
A week on and I can still close my eyes and retrace my route from start to finish, every inch of it. Spotting Porto’s wood-panelled tourist tram for the first time and wondering if I could outpace it (I couldn’t). Catching my first glimpse of the city’s magnificent Palácio de Cristal as it poked from a cliff high above. The sight of urban anglers idling by their rods and tackle boxes; of the old men with their playing cards and collegial smiles; of the aproned chef cooking fresh sardines on a roadside barrel barbecue. The whole run, cinematically sequenced. From the neat row of palms to the wave-washed lighthouse, to the seabirds in the shallows, to the river-front flats and their washing-line balconies. All of it I can picture, right up to the ghoulish mannequins in the windows opposite my apartment door.
Now I think back, the most memorable runs I’ve done are nearly all firsts. Like the forest path along the river Wharfe behind my sister-in-law’s new home, and the walls of Yorkshire stone that later saw me home. Or the blustery stretch along the riverfront in Copenhagen, where the icy rain stung my face. Or the winding uphill slog to the Mirador el Calvario above the Nicaraguan town of Matagalpa, dogs on my heels the whole way. Or the dawn outing along Delhi’s Rajpath, with the sun rising above India Gate. Not all took place in romantic destinations by any means. I vividly recall a recent run along a main road in Sheffield, mostly due to the sheer tarmacked drabness of it all. Or the laps of a small north London park that I once endured as an alternative to the terraced streets around my host’s home.
Science has set out to explain the cognitive and sensory impact of running a new route in an unfamiliar landscape. The writer, academic and amateur runner Vybarr Cregan-Reid offers an erudite review of the latest literature on the subject in his excellent book Footnotes. At the crux of the first-run phenomenon is a process called neurogenesis: basically, the creation of extra brain cells while running. These new neurons occur in the hippocampus, the section of the brain involved in memory formation and spatial navigation. The result isn’t the acquisition of more knowledge or a higher IQ, says Cregan-Reid: “Rather, it gives you the mental equivalent of a sharpened pencil and a clean sheet of paper.”
Neurogenesis remains contentious in scientific circles, with some arguing it can actually displace early memories. But I rather like a corroborating theory put forward by Cregan-Reid: that the sharp clarity of the first-run experience is actually evolutionary in origin. Early humans used to run down their larger prey, chasing them over many miles until they eventually ran out of steam (or, more accurately, overheated). But chasing your prey over long distances can easily lead the runner into unknown territory. So the brain goes into overdrive, recording landmarks and other visual clues to ensure the hunter finds his way home again. Heightened sensorial stimuli, meanwhile, fuse emotions to these mental markers, thus enhancing their memorability. (Which, incidentally, is why treadmill runs all blur into one: because they’re so dull and samey.)
Because first runs are so joyous, it’s always tempting to repeat them. I can feel the banks of the Douro calling me back even now. In truth, most regular runners end up repeating the same three or four routes over and over again. It’s inevitable. Unless you live or work on the edge of a national park, your options from the front door are probably limited. Once that first run becomes the second or third or 10th or 15th, it inevitably looses its sparkle. Repetition and routine – the twin death knells of excitement – begin to kick in. Such runs begin to feel functional as well as (or instead of) fun.
What results is not a wonderful unique one-off memory, but a tapestry-like amalgam built up from running the same route again and again. The sensation is not electrifying, for sure. More warm and cosy. So thinks Richard Askwith, at least. In his latest book, Running Free, he observes how picturing favourite old routes in your mind’s eye can take you back to the respective periods of your past when you used to run those routes. “[It’s] as if I were about to wake up from a strange dream about the future and re-enter the world that I lived in then,” he writes. It’s a lovely thought, plus it genuinely works (go on, try it).
By definition, there can only be one first time. It’s unique and special and to be treasured, but it’s not the end of the road. I’ve since tried a few alternative routes in Porto. Yet that first was definitely the best. It’s won my heart. Cloud my memory as it may, I can no longer fight the temptation to go back for more. It’s simple: I’m smitten.
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