Emil: A jog in the Tiergarten

It belonged to the man who died last year, just beside the lake. I thought at first it was a pair of discarded socks but on closer inspection I saw it was a white headband, used by joggers. He had keeled over whilst training for the Berlin Marathon. His wife was always telling him, not to push too hard, not to go overboard but he never listened. He wanted to win despite being over 65. Every day, he had completed sit-ups followed by press-ups followed by intensive running around the paths of the Tiergarten. Often he had felt pangs of pain in his chest but had cursed them aside in irritation. Later he had visualised the looks on the faces of his dissenters when he crossed the finishing line, victorious.

I picked it up, from beneath the Elderberry bush. It was dirtied, the skeletal frames of long dead leaves clung to the cotton fibres. I don’t know how I knew that he had died, it was before I had arrived in Berlin, I just knew, don’t ask why. Perhaps it had been the look on the old mans face, standing in the thicket a few feet away. An expression of sadness mixed with guilt.

“The heart had given way you see” he said, “too much cholesterol, filling the arteries over the years”. A slight whimsical smile briefly appeared.

It had been a sunny afternoon when it had happened. He had been running for nearly an hour and was about to head home, when his legs went from under him. Sprawled on the concrete path, dazed and confused, he had suddenly felt the terrible wrenching from within his body. Never before had he felt pain so bad. Minutes later he was convulsing, soon after that the windows of his eyes were drawn closed.

Somehow in the wretched throws of death, he had taken off the headband and tossed it to the side. Here it now was, in my hands.

“The wife always made sure that was worn, she said she didn’t want sweat pouring onto the carpet” said the old man in the thicket.

I was tired, the warm Spring air mixed with the long walk had brought on a mild back ache. There was a bench nearby but it was covered in bird shit and didn’t look inviting.

“May as well set off home” I said, “What do you want me to do with this?” holding up the headband.

The little sparrows were playing amongst the branches of the trees and rustling noises were coming from inside the bushes nearby, perhaps squirrels or rats. The old man in the thicket didn’t reply, he stared longingly towards the exit of the park, silent.

“No marathons for me” I said to myself, as I walked back along Altonaer Strasse, the thought of running for miles and miles and not even finishing in the top 100 certainly didn’t sound like my cup of tea. I had discarded the headband where I had found it ... after all, no point in taking it, not being a runner myself.

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Emil had been born in 1940, in the Rixdorf area of Berlin. In his younger days he had been a competent sportsman, narrowly missing selection for the 1964 Olympics Games. Later in life, partly as a result of not representing his country, then East Germany, he had let his health slip. For years his wife tried to cut down the cigarettes he smoked and the fatty foods he ate but to no avail until she had suggested regaining some fitness and self-esteem by entering the Berlin Marathon.
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(photo taken by Beaman)