My experience with 2024 Canara Bank 10K Run Bengaluru
It was a fun experience
The helpline number rang for the fifth time. No answer. I had signed up at the last minute, and some one told me I had to drive 24 km the day before, from Whitefield to Kanteerva stadium to get my bib.
No way I was doing that! I risked a last minute chaos of bib collection.
After years of running along Colorado's quiet mountain trails and New York's relentlessly gridded streets, Bangalore's beautiful chaos still takes some getting used to.
4:30 AM. Kanteerava Stadium emerged from the darkness, its distinctive shell-shaped roof reminding me of Brooklyn's Barclays Center, though here the pre-dawn air carried the scent of jasmine instead of hot dog vendors. Growing up in Kolkata, I'd seen my share of colonial architecture, but there's something different about experiencing it at dawn, on foot, as a runner.
The sea of blue-shirted runners gathering under the "COME TOGETHER AND TOGETHER WE CAN" banners brought back memories of BolderBoulder crowds, though here the signs alternated between English and Kannada, and here there was no one in Spiderman costumes running.
My bib number – 11276 – was quickly pinned to my Canara Bank jersey. The efficiency of the white tent operations rivaled any Colorado trail race expo, though the volunteers' "Banni, banni" (Come, come) carried the warmth I remembered from Kolkata's morning markets.
The 10K had started 10 mins before me. The trail was through the heart of the city.
As we entered Cubbon Park through its grand terracotta archways, I couldn't help but think of Central Park's sandstone entrances. But where New York's park celebrates Olmsted's designed wilderness, Cubbon Park's classical gates with their bilingual "Sri Chamarajendra Park" signage spoke of a different colonial legacy, one I recognized from my childhood visits to Kolkata's Victoria Memorial. The black and gold gates opened onto a path that could have been in any of my three former homes – as manicured as Central Park, as historic as Kolkata's Maidan, yet with an elevation that reminded me of Denver's City Park.
The State Central Library appeared like a vision from my Kolkata childhood – its salmon-pink facade glowing in the dawn light could have been a cousin to the Writer's Building. Yet the perfectly maintained rose gardens stretching before it rivaled any I'd seen in Colorado's Botanic Gardens. The building's curved dome and rhythmic arched windows created the kind of graceful backdrop I'd missed during my years running past Manhattan's glass towers.
The contrast between old and new Bangalore reminded me of all my running cities. Like Boulder's trails giving way to tech campuses, or Kolkata's Victorian buildings sharing space with street food vendors, or New York's constant dialogue between its past and future. Here was the library's colonial grandeur with its classical columns, and there was Kanteerava Stadium's modern arched roof, as contemporary as any Denver sports complex.
Running through the morning mist (so different from Colorado's dry air, yet familiar from Kolkata's winters), I passed other runners who, like me, probably carried their own city memories. The ornate green and white iron fencing around the library grounds could have been transplanted from Kolkata's Park Street, though the runners stretching against it wore tech gear that would be at home in Boulder.
At the finish line, the solid brass medal felt familiar – I've collected them from races across three continents now – but the small sapling given to finishers was uniquely Bangalore. In New York, they give you a foil wrap; in Colorado, maybe a craft beer; in Kolkata, perhaps a sweet. But here they give you a future tree, a living piece of the Garden City to nurture.
Standing near the registration tent post-race, watching the morning light play on my finisher's medal, I thought about how running lets us see the souls of cities. I'd seen New York wake up during morning runs along the East River, watched Boulder's Flatirons turn pink during dawn trail runs, and heard Kolkata's first temple bells during early jogs through Rabindra Sarobar. Now Bangalore was showing me its heart: the colonial buildings bathed in morning light, thousands of runners in blue shirts moving as one beneath ancient trees, and that small plant in my hands – a promise of roots in my newest running city.
Next time, I'll know what to expect: the graceful arches of the library building that echo Kolkata's colonial architecture, the park gates that remind me of Central Park with a South Indian twist, the stadium's sweeping roof lines that could belong in any modern city but somehow feel perfectly at home here. Each city I've run in has taught me something: New York showed me how to navigate crowds, Colorado taught me to respect elevation, Kolkata gave me an appreciation for history. Now Bangalore was teaching me how all these elements could coexist in one perfect morning run.
As I drove home, my medal caught the light and the sapling's leaves swayed gently on the passenger seat. After running through four cities across two continents, I'd found that the best runs are the ones that feel both familiar and foreign, where every city you've ever run through somehow shows up in the morning light of somewhere new.