A week of weakness kept me from going running, and by the end of my confinement I was as jittery as any addict deprived of his fix. I was freed by the combination of a warming trend in the outside climate and a decline in my own internal temperatures.

My current favorite route takes me through the National Zoo. I'm not a huge fan of zoos; despite the laudable environmental goals most have now embraced, they remain depressing places of imprisonment. Still, the zoo in the early morning is vaguely goofy and magical, the stuff of Paul Simon tunes and offbeat short films. A couple camels, decked out in enormous Rastafarian coats, calmly turn their heads and watch me as I huff past their enclosure. Prairie dogs pop out of holes and vanish in an astonishing living inspiration for a Whack-a-Mole game.

The National Zoo recently received two new Giant Pandas, whose arrival was greeted with the kind of frenzied adoration you might expect to see during the second coming of Jesus. My sister refers to this kind of wildlife as "charismatic megafauna" -- large-size endangered species lucky enough to be cute and thus receive widespread public support. The Zoo paid China $10 million for the privilege of housing the pandas for ten years. By this, we can cynically assume that the presence of the pandas will mean over $1 million in increased annual revenue for the zoo, in the form of commemorative panda products and enhanced fundraising efforts. People just love pandas. This helps explain why virtually everyone has lauded the Zoo's decision to spend this kind of money on a couple wayward mammals, while children in the same city attend schools without enough textbooks to go around. People love pandas.

The first day the pandas were on public display, the Washington Post actually had a special section all about them. A couple days later, I decided to venture through the Zoo on an afternoon run. The area in front of the panda enclosure was crowded, but a little patience got me a reasonable spot along the rail. The two large creatures sat on their fat duffs and munched bamboo. I had to admit that their exaggerated markings made them strangely teddy-bearlike, but were they unique and fascinating enough to merit this kind of attention? Or was this some kind of consensual mass hysteria, a bestial Beatlemania?

A couple weeks later I again ventured over to the panda area on a midday run. It was chilly, and my thin insulated running outfit made me seem like an alien in the heavily layered crowd. There were fewer people present, but still more than at any other area I'd seen. This time, the two pandas were far more animated: tussling, rolling about, and climbing the downed trees in their large enclosure before tumbling back to earth on each other. The crowd watched them intently, laughing uproariously every time they cuffed and rolled over each other playfully. After a little while, I noticed that the "playfulness" repeatedly was instigated when the male attempted to sniff the female's genitalia. His insistent snuffling was often met with a cute smack by his companion, and the wacky goings-on would start again. I waited for some precocious kid to ask a quivering parent why this was so, but no little curious voices piped up. The pandas continued their antics, and laughter flowed through the crowd.

Today I avoided the whole panda area and took a roundabout path that brought me past the flamingos. The late-day sun shone cold through bare branches overhead. The only other people on the path were a mom crouched down by her kid's stroller, both watching the birds dip their periscope heads into the muddy water in search of food. The flamingos' color stood out perversely under the colorless sky and comatose trees. They were close enough to touch through the mesh barrier. The mom and child were so entranced by the birds' proximity that I worried they might not hear me coming and be frightened at my sudden appearance. I stopped short and walked up to the birds' enclosure.

The three of us watched the birds for a short while in silence. The mother was beautiful. She had none of the conventional sameness that is our cultural measure of attractiveness, but as she talked quietly to her child I found myself surreptitiously watching her. Everything seemed awfully nostalgic for a moment, a graylight day full of bundled-up children having joyous experiences they will grow up to forget. All the people we pass and never get to know.

She stood, and still talking to her child she wheeled the stroller off down the darkening path. I remained and watched the birds for a while longer before resuming my run.

Flamingos feed by sucking in water and then expelling it through filters in their beaks. Their dramatic color comes from chemical compounds in the tiny crustaceans they eat. If their diet changes, they will lose their vivid orange hue. The Zoo feeds them pellets with dietary supplements to keep them brightly colored.

I sprint across the Taft Bridge, high above the valley formed by Rock Creek. By the time I reach the end of the span and slow to a normal run, I am heaving with exhaustion. I want to be tired. I don't want to wish later that I'd stayed out longer.