Nothing says health more than inhaling gas car fumes while jogging, running, brisk walking in our beloved hexagonal bricked microcosmic city. My lifestyle New Balances were not made for marathons and neither am I but here I am in the dark of dawn on our campus preparing to document this run. My emotional support Labubu hangs by my thrifted jorts as I drag my feet along the roads we drive on while escaping the Subang vicinity. Three sleeping dogs lay gently heaving by the side of the two car wide lane, a ruckusless Rock Cafe, orange cones splitting a single Sunway lane into two slinking down a single street. Two crows peck each other on a power line and avert my gaze and attention to the simulation-like lurch of the lane ahead of me, flanked by factory outlets. 

I study the route that’s been forwarded many times through whatsapp and has the integrity of a deep fried meme and I make sense of this asymmetrical U shaped route. And really, I make no sense of it. 

“Are you with the college?” 

I bump into a lady shutting the driver’s door of her perodua. 

“Are you running? 

“Oh I’m just volunteering”

“You stay safe alright?”

It sort of dawns on me that this weaved charity walk of sorts is but an attempt at health. Like that one electronic juicer that simply pressed juice out of a BB-8 esque machine (look up:“Juicero”); this run was paper mache’d off a paper city. Not to dunk, unlike the dunktank across the astroturf on Monash campus for groups of friends to volunteer their friends for and aim at the canvas behind the target. Not to dunk the organisers at all, truly. It is unfortunately just difficult. Difficult to structure health around an infrastructure that detriments the citizens. Piercing, a whistle slits through my infrastructural critique and a synthetic t-shirt sea of yellow and orange swift past me.

Knees buckling,

Sweat bands yet to be soaked 

Nikes, Asics, wired earphones, bluetooth headphones 

Phones in hand, or cradled in an arm band

Some run, most walk. 

In my blue shirt I’m almost an initial goalpost for these orange shirted runners to anchor their sense of selves to. I’m not even holding a camera, most walk, many a plastic rucksack slaps the backs of these runners, almost like a cheer to keep going.

The 5km runners sputter like cars off their runners high, they’ve been running in loops and the “U” didn’t make sense to them either. Upon cheekbones chiseled and moving disdain dresses them like the 7:44 sun. Someone blasts Taylor Swift off their phone, a snickering motorcyclist crosses our path– opposite– my orange Labubu spectates the stream of orange passing besides my spectator’s pace, smatterings of conversations pass me by.

Exhausted from running– or perhaps, walking– we determine what comes first, celebrating the Malaysian independence day while staying ignorant of injustice and unceasing challenges that plagues our people, or the inaccessibility of healthcare that our government refuses to acknowledge and streamline. This event– despite its flaws– provided a net benefit. The gaggle of runners and their donations provided financial support directly channeled into the conserving of human life. It champions the fundamental yearning of healthcare that supports children when millions of taxpayer money are dumped and sewn into the pockets of corrupt leaders and unjust platforms. The Malaysian characteristic that you derive from this event is the charity that went to the Children Cancer Association of Malaysia. 

At 7:56 am the yellow shirts have finished running. Apparently, I nearly stepped onto two crow carcasses. Yellow and orange shirts dangle from sticks held by sun scorched volunteers like effigies. Mandatory congratulations pat the runners on their back and a loudspeaker delivers muffled congratulations. 

How long even is a kilometre anyways. Big day for step counters and apple watch users. Well, wrapped up at 11:46am, bright and early.

 

Selamat Hari Merdeka to the children of Malaysia. 

18,715 steps | 662 words 

written by Celeste Sia

Photographers Sheng Jie, Rida, Jin Yi