The main course

Dr Fahim Chand | Monday September 8, 2025 15:49

Anticipation sharpens it: the crowd swelling with tension, the air thick with the possibility of triumph or heartbreak. In that charged moment, each racing heartbeat oxygen for the soul.

Discovery and even rivalry, sporting or otherwise, nourish well-being, reminding us that wonder still exists, waiting, even restless, for us to step inside and feel it ignite. And where better to test this truth than in the city itself.

The pulse hammered in this concrete jungle, a place where people looked human enough but carried the strangeness of a green sunrise at dawn. Temptation whispered from every alley and neon sign, but still the crowd surged, demanding relentless motion.

Eyes drilled forward, hungry for unseen destinations, shoulders colliding in choreography of indifference. Strange how loneliness thrives in the middle of a swarm.

The city’s roar with sirens, shouts, engines, rose like static, but the brain, stubborn and brilliant, tuned it out. In the frenzy, purpose cut through like a knife, proof of the mind’s brutal, beautiful resilience. We finally broke free of the swarm, shifting gears in our journey. Ayaan and I paused, scanning the frenzy around us.

Was this Elon Musk’s Martian capital? Stranger still, it was New York, the Big Apple, alive and unfiltered. Grand Central Station swallowed us; the escalator plunged us into its underworld. Tickets in hand, we entered a subway with a personality as fierce as its people; brash, bold, unapologetic.

The serpent train screeched in, swallowing another horde. Inside, we clung to steel poles, eavesdropping on conversations only Gotham could stage, with gritty accents punctuating stories with razor-edge rhythm.

Then the train slowed. A steel staircase loomed, crowned by the words 161st Street – The Bronx. Hearts raced. We surfaced, and there it was: Yankee Stadium, towering, timeless, the house Ruth built. A cathedral of dominance.

Twenty-seven titles etched into its aura, dwarfing all pretenders. The air itself seemed charged, heavy with history. This wasn’t just a ballpark. It was a throne room. We stepped inside, swallowed by fifty thousand New Yorkers. The atmosphere struck like déjà vu, awakening some ancient memory.

When the players poured onto the field, I thought instantly of Rome’s Colosseum, modern gladiators preparing for battle. Only tonight, the contest was the New York Yankees versus the Boston Red Sox, baseball’s fiercest rivalry, a saga written in sweat and spite.

The Yankees, swaggering, dominant, dubbed the “Evil Empire.” The Red Sox, always their eternal foil. Ayaan’s favourite team, though he wisely kept that allegiance quiet. To cheer for Boston here was to poke the lion in its own den.

The game roared on, heavy with history, every pitch another line in a century-old feud. By the final out, we had crossed a bucket-list threshold.

We spilled into the New York night, the current of the crowd carrying us toward Manhattan. The pace eased, the city’s buzz softened, though muscles twitched and thoughts still raced. Perhaps New Yorkers’ secret isn’t their skyline, but their stride, longevity by velocity.

Unlike my home in Botswana, New York thrums with urgency. Brains fire faster, feet move quicker, as if the entire city runs on double-speed. One wonders, does this kinetic mania come with perks? Everywhere you look, wrists flash with monitors tallying steps toward that mystical “10,000.”

But where did this commandment come from, and should it really be scripture? According to Vanderbilt researchers, it’s not the number of steps but rather the speed. A brisk 15-minute daily walk lowered premature death risk by nearly 20%, especially from heart disease.

Meanwhile, slow-motion walkers logging three hours daily shaved off only four percent. In New York, it seems, pace really is power. While New York dazzles me with its velocity, nothing soothes quite like the return to Botswana’s peace and quiet.

The stillness here feels medicinal, a natural antidote to cortisol overloads. It’s the best of both worlds: the city lends me speed, the savannah restores my calm.

And if I ever crave a dose of kinetic mania for cardiovascular good, the treadmill stands ready. Of course, Botswana occasionally provides its own “interval training” when a hungry stray dog decides I’m the main course.