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Early on Sunday, the centre of Bengaluru will be drowned out by the sound of feet slapping down roads normally surging with traffic. The course of the TCS World 10K run, in its tenth edition, will have its own hubbub -- a group of drummers will be pounding out a beat, bystanders and race stewards will be applauding. It is the elite athletes' faces and names that fill the local newspapers in the lead-up to what is now an annual festival in the city's and country's running calendar. But I like to think that the TCS 10K's cult status must surely come from the massed ranks who follow the Elites at a respectful distance. They race, we run. Or rather, in my case, ran. Only once in the 2011 TCS 10K as runner No. 1426, finishing in 67-ish minutes, 13th among over-40 women. But you didn't need to keep slicing and dicing categories. I thought I'd won anyway. The TCS World 10K was my first 10K, and immediately drew me into the vast community of amateur runners. We took off about half an hour after the Elites -- or rather make that 40 minutes, given that it took 10 minutes to reach the start line. As we wheezed our way towards the 2km mark, a clutch of Elites sailed past in the opposite direction, heading for the finish, their smooth, grooved, gravity-free strides barely touching the road. Their sight transcended technical perfection or times clocked. To the amateur this was being invited to runners' heaven and watching the angels on the move. Them and us sharing the same space separated only by a road divider. Unreal. For a slow starter in her 40s, the 10K was a personal kind of race. Not the macho half-marathon, never mind the big daddy 42km itself. I deeply admire people who compete in both, but it seems like far too much time to be inside your own head. The 10K was respectable, doable, but all the same a serious distance. Something to aim for. The number 10 is beguiling in so many ways: it is perfection in gymnastics, it is Maradona's number, Tendulkar's number and, wonderfully, a distance within reach. Over the last decade India's running community has grown blindingly fast; there appear to be weekend races and runs held in every corner of the country, at all times of day and night, featuring varied demographics, landscapes, altitudes. Amateurs are now offered a rash of running groups, an ultramarathon of coaching tips and a flood of information. People respond to running differently -- from a shared bonding of extended physical limits and show-off suffering. Or the fundamental truth of running as a solitary activity, an athletic meditation of body and mind. I took to the latter. My running partners were a mobile phone with stopwatch plus an iPod with music. (The multitasking smartphone is a miracle.) My running coach was a website called Cool Running's Couch to 5K programme, which offered distances in miles but helpfully across time as well. Once 5km was reached, the next task was completing the 6.6km circuit around the gorgeously lush Jahapanah City Forest in New Delhi. Then, turning it into 7km. From 7k to 10km was simple -- complete the circuit, head to the shrine of Jalaluddin Chishti and around a corner till you hit the kid's park.  Every city marathon has its social fun runs (TCS 10K's is called Majja Run) over 5km or 7 km; they pull in huge numbers, and it takes ages to jostle your way to your own space and private uninterrupted running corridor. In the 10K, rarely do runners turn up just for a lark, unless they are the disgustingly young who tear off early and leave you alone. Among the biggest joys of a 10K was being able to high-five and acknowledge strangers or egg someone fading along; when you're on the road with hundreds, it doesn't take much to activate the energy. ("Come on come on, almost there, see, girls are going so easily," always works). The TCS 10K got me hooked, I dreamt of competing in the 12K Kaveri Trail Marathon, and wondered whether this was how people got sucked into the half-marathon. The 2012 Auroville 10km in late 2012 was the only other formal 10K I've run in and still dream about. In truth, like an obsessive compulsive, the weekend before the actual race, I ran for 70 minutes just to check if the legs and lungs still had the mileage. The Auroville offered the full marathon, the 21km and the 10K with a small field. There was less polish (no, you weren't getting timing chips tied into your laces or SMS messages at the end), but it was much more personal. Running at dawn through the forests of Auroville, the sound of birds and again, the pattering slap of feet on a gentle mud track on the side of the road. No sponsors banners, no whistles, little noise. A cyclone had destroyed an earlier minutely-calibrated and scanned route and the new route, we were told, may require you to run more than 10km. It was better not to use any fancy gizmo on your wrist, just follow the signs and keep running till you see the finish. The race stewards went around on bicycles to ensure no one got lost in the woods, the routes were colour-coded with markers; 15 minutes into the run, if you go past a sign that said 5km, don't get excited, that's not your race, you laggard. When you finished, kids ran over and garlanded you with a small memento and handed you a glass of lime juice. A massage, breakfast and T-shirt were complementary. How could you not want to return? I ran wherever and whenever I could. Not races, but for exercise, discovery and exploration. When I travelled, I tried to make it part of my routine, and witness the day break over a different part of the world. A grand boast: morning in Addis Ababa, starting the run outside a café owned by the great Haile Gebrselassie (their other Emperor), jogging down a slope as two lithe Ethiopians sprinted up hill. Hearing bemused locals call out like they do to every madcap on the road, "run, run." In a Noida park, putting in miles before the Auroville 10K, some local youths went, "Arre, budhiya daud rahi hai" (The old woman is running) and cackled among themselves. By the time I came around the 3km circuit for the third time, they watched in silence as I went past, waving at them. I'd promised myself one more shot at the Bangalore 10K this year and another attempt at Auroville 10K before I turned 50, which will happen pretty soon. In March, however, a knee locked and age knocked. Loudly. Early-stage osteoarthritis, running career goodbye. There are other cardio options of course -- walking, cycling, swimming. But they're not running. My friend Deckline offered practical solace. In real life, he said, when would we need to actually run 10K? The maximum distance, he reckons, is 500m. "Out of a burning building." True. But this Sunday, when the 10K begins in Bangalore, I'll think about them waiting, the first-time runners, the amateurs, the above-40s and wish them their exhausted exhilaration. Enjoy it as much as you can. Because even when you have to quit cold turkey, running is an addiction you cannot kick.
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