I'm in the middle of a holiday I've always wanted--a few carefree weeks in this greatest of cities. Of course, Mr. Miles never takes a holiday--that's just one of the rules. So my mission has been to incorporate my avocation into my vacation, which has been occasionally challenging, usually pleasurable and always edifying.

First, Romans are not the most physically vigorous of populations. Maybe it's all the pizza and pasta, although you'd be hard-pressed to find a chubby native. Maybe it's the ubiquitous ruins, the sense of decay and ultimate pointlessness of a runner's daily labor. Or maybe it's the fact that most Romans simply would rather have a smoke.

I don't know. But Romans on the run are few; moreover, most seem to plod along no faster than nine minutes per mile. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) And is it just me, or do Italians look funny when they run?

While Romans are always on the cutting edge of fashion, sporting snazzy silk ties, fine linen jackets, pumps and dress shoes just for strolling around before dinner, they seem caught up in that antiquity stuff when it comes to their choice in running apparel.

Surely Diocletian did better than today's Roman runners, who typically wear baggy gray sweat pants, a cotton T-shirt (or two) and tatty canvas shoes. These guys look as if they rooted through my brother's closet to find those high-top socks and obscenely short shorts. Their sole concession to athletic fashion is odd: sunglasses. But rather than a sleek pair of Oakleys, Romans favor oversized numbers that look like they've been borrowed from Sophia Loren.

Foreigners are easily recognizable (and much maligned) for walking the streets in running shoes. But we also wear proper footgear when it counts. Perhaps running shoes are less critical than a Coolmax top, or mama mia, lycra tights. Attired thusly while running, all I lacked was a sign saying, "Kick me, I'm a tourist."

Today, of course, Rome is a paradise for tourists, with centuries, indeed millennia, of history at practically every intersection. I try not to be ashamed of my transient status, particularly when running in baggy shorts and a roadrace T-shirt. And while I revel in the black-and-white footage of Abebe Bikela running barefoot over cobblestone streets near the Coliseum in the 1960 Olympics, I don't attempt to emulate the great Ethiopian by charging boldly through the heart of the city. Crossing the street under the best of circumstances here is always a game of chicken against bus drivers, cars, and motorcyclists--a game that runners are bound to lose if they play often enough.

So if I choose a city route for my run, it's very early on the weekend; even then, it's an easy pace, on narrow sidewalks and crowded streets, a run more for sightseeing than an honest workout. Most days, however, I stick to the large parks, like the Borghese Gardens or the grounds of the Villa Doria Pamphili near the Vatican on and over the Janiculum Hill. There, particularly in the expansive Doria Pamphili, one can loop contentedly for hours.

But the Borghese offers more in the way of sights. And I'm not talking only about the spectacular city vistas from the Pincio Hill. Catholicism isn't the only religion practiced in Rome. These guys and girls are also into making out, and most of them worship among the ruins and pines of the Borghese. The novices start out adjacent to the park on the Spanish Steps, teasing, flirting, and holding hands. After about five minutes of that, they move up the steps and into the Borghese.

I'll admit to being more than a little distracted when I've chanced upon a couple intertwined in the grass or upon a bench. And it's not so much voyeuristic instincts as my scientific curiosity: Haven't they heard of AIDS and STD? More importantly, how can they be that close and still have clothes on?

The Doria Pamphili is removed from downtown. Lovers who rendezvous there tend to be older and apparently made specific efforts to leave the city, work, or other responsibilities. Theirs, too, is a more guilty and self-conscious embrace compared to the free love practiced in the Borghese.

Maybe I should concentrate more on my training than on the social and interpersonal minutiae of Italian culture. But one of the primary reasons I'm here is to immerse myself in all things Roman. Certainly not to spy on the amorous denizens of the parks, but to try to understand a people and culture with attitudes and mores so different from our own. In some way short of having one of those Italian babes give me lessons first hand--or maybe not.