Do I wear the shorts, or do the shorts wear me?

When I studied abroad here nearly three years ago (Ack, I'm getting old.), perhaps one of the most difficult things to adjust to was the lack of outlets for regular exercise. I am certainly not an avid exerciser. My relationship with fitness ebbs and flows, but I find physical activity, particularly jogging, soothing in times of stress. I'd grown accustomed to the plethora of fitness centers and jogging paths in America, and knew that if I ever wanted to go for a job in shorts and a tank top I would hardly garner a second look.

I quickly learned that my favorite form of stress relief would not be easy to undertake in Morocco. Living with a host family that watched me with the same hawk's eye they applied to their actual daughters, it would have been completely unacceptable (hashuma, even) to jog around the streets of Rabat willy-nilly, even if I wore my loosest yoga pants and a baggy shirt. I tried to satiate myself by doing crunches and Yoga in my bedroom, but it just wasn't the same.

When I found out I would be returning to Morocco for 15 months, I realized I needed an exercise game plan. I bought Jillian Michael's "Cardio Kickbox" (You may know her as the pint-sized task master from "The Biggest Loser") and a Pilates DVD on Half.com, and packed some modest exercise clothes just in case I found a good place to workout. The combination of Jillian, Pilates, and a pilfered Yoga DVD (all practiced in my bedroom) kept me sane for awhile (Jillian in particular proved to be a worthy adversary), but after a few months the routines had become rote and my enthusiasm was lacking.

One day, when my legs were itching for a jog and I was feeling particularly bold, I decided to take it to the streets. The mean streets of Fes. I wore yoga pants, a long-sleeved tee-shirt, and sunglasses. I was armed with my iPod, cranked loud enough to avoid most of the street harassment I knew was coming. My house was in the medina, so I walked through the narrow alleys until I emerged near the post office, a building that marks the border between the medina and the Ville Nouvelle.

And then I was off.

I felt like I was playing a game of human frogger as I dodged taxis, city buses, giant tour buses, pedestrians, bicycles, and donkeys in the crowded Batha square. Once I made it out of the congested area, it was easier to enjoy myself. I relaxed into my stride and lost myself in my soundtrack of horrible 90s pop music. I made my way towards the Ville Nouvelle, and then turned onto a dirt path that I realized later was in fact a path used by donkeys, horses, and other livestock to reach the local animal hospital. After awhile, I looped back, dodged traffic at Batha once again, and then made the 3 quick turns that took me to my house.

Tired, sweaty, but filled with endorphins, I assessed my run: It was a long way from the wooded paths and pristine air I was used to in America, but it could have been worse. While the air was far from clean, the street harassment wasn't as bad as I was expecting, although I did feel all eyes on me as I passed cafes and bus stops. Despite the minor inconveniences, It was worth it to keep it up, I decided.

In the following months, I ran a few times a week, and learned that some times of the day are better than others. My two regular routes passed large schools, and so if I attempted to run as class was getting out I found myself caught in a sea of secondary students. People continued to stare, but I attributed it to the complete absense of joggers in Fes, not to any overt hostility towards me. I remained self-conscious, but this mostly mainifested itself in my desire to run really fast. If people were going to stare, I could at least hussle so I wouldn't embaress myself more than I already was.

When I moved to Rabat two months ago, I immediately learned about two wonderful jogging opportunities. One was the beach sidewalk across from my apartment. Largely frequented by male soccer players, there are also families strolling and the occasional jogger. The upside? It's free. The downside? The air is dirty, cars honk, and it's possible to zone out and find yourself in a less than desireable area. The other find was the glorious Hilton garden. A large park filled with Eucalyptis trees, joggers of all shapes and sizes, and frolicing families, it is truly an anomaly in Morocco: A place where outdoor fitness isn't just tolerated, it's encouraged. The air is clean and I rarely get the dreaded "elevator eyes" as I trot around the 2.1 mile loop. The only downside was that it was a little far away from my apartment, so it was a 3 dollar taxi ride each way.

Nevertheless, I ran most of the time at the Hilton garden. My roommate Stephanie and my friend Kate also ran there, making the taxi costs more managable. And when Steph and I moved to an apartment much closer to the garden a few weeks ago, I found myself there nearly every day. I continue to be happily surprised by the garden's varied patrons: Everyone from what I can only assume is some sort of track team, decked out in red and green spandex and flying around the path, to elderly women in jelabas strolling leisurely and chatting with their friends.

Spring has sprung in Rabat. With warmer weather comes a need for a "less is more" approach to workout gear. I learned this the hard way when I nearly passed out doing my regular laps a few weeks ago. (Don't worry, the Moroccan track team was there to help me and offer me water.) The culprit? My baggy black yoga pants. I decided it was time to invest in some decently modest running shorts, so I made a trip to the market, where I purchesed a pair of bright red men's soccer shorts for 5 dollars. Lightweight and comfy, they hang to my knees but can be rolled up to a more American length easily. Even though I don't feel particularly self-conscious when I wear them in the garden, I do feel pressure to run faster because of them. As in, "Oh, if she's silly enough to wear those ridiculous shorts, she must be really fast." I'm not, but I still look pretty rad in my shorts, I have to say.

This weekend, I ran in a road race here in Rabat, my first race in almost 5 years. It was an 8-km (5 miles? I think?) run through the streets of Rabat with 20,000 participants in total. The cool part? It was a women's-only race sponsered largely by the government, and many of the participants were schoolgirls who had never run a race before. Some came from towns 14 hours away. The pre-race crowd was absolutely crazy- All of us packed together, pushing and shoving, waving Moroccan flags, and anticipating the starting gun. If you've ever had a sardine-like experience at a Middle Eastern bank or train station, imagine that and times it by about twenty. It's a small miracle nobody was trampled to death when the gun went off. The run itself was difficult but fun. I stayed with a group of younger girls for most of the race, and, as we approached the end, I was grabbed on either hand by the girls as we sprinted towards the finish line. Our final time? A decently respectable 47 minutes.

I didn't expect to re-discover my love of jogging while I was in Morocco, but it's been a wonderful way to take some time away from my books, Arabic dictionary, and computer and clear my head. I only wish I could be back in Cape Elizabeth for the Beach to Beacon this year! Maybe I'd be able to actually run it instead of eating bagels and cheering people on.