I started my running in Oxford, past those dreaming spires, damp and ancient. My usual route took me through University Parks, rain or shine, round the back of Magdalene College, where the deer gather, and back home again to Bardwell Road. I would do about thirty minutes at a decent clip, most days. I had my companions in locomotion, pounding around the park. I recall a short Asian fellow, probably a graduate student in one of the harder sciences, pushing himself ridiculously hard, always with a look of absolute agony on his contorted face, short thick legs pummelling the ground. We'd nod respectfully at each other. I wasn't prepared to go that far, but it wasn't a leisurely jog for me; I ran close to my limit (although my Asian friend might disagree). I always speeded up at the end to extract the remaining reserves of energy. I inhaled that Oxford air, moist and peaty, deep into my heaving lungs. Afterwards I hit the weights for twenty minutes in my bedroom. I was the Wilde Runner in Physical Philosophy, among other dedications. Physical exertion was back in my life and hasn't left it since.

I continued my running in Manhattan, past glowering towers, brash, modern, closely packed – first when I was a visiting professor there in 1988, and later when I moved there permanently. From 1990 I lived on the Upper West Side, quite near the Hudson River, just off Broadway, wide and teeming. My typical run began at 86th Street and went up to Columbia University at 112th Street, along Riverside Drive, the Hudson at my shoulder.