Conversation passed around like a joint at Woodstock

Sabina arrives for our Sunday run on one of those English bicycles, black steel frame, three speed gears and a wire basket on the front. Jerry ran. he is wearing union jack shorts that make anarchists reach for their cigarette lighters. he has new shoes. zen ken qualifies for free bus travel but comes in his slinky black BMW. there are less of us than usual, the elites are away in wales racing the train. we confer. how far do we run? more crucial, how fast. several runners have hang overs. for a while i run behind zen ken and Sabina, they both flow when they run, zen more so, it may be because he is a Buddhist/wiry/naturally gifted. either way it inspires. Sunday runs are normally loquacious affairs, conversation passed around like a joint at Woodstock but today hang overs and humidity mean a lot of grunting and farting instead. for most of the run i run at the back with Jerry, normal for me but unusual for him, we speak of his recent holiday in Montreal, Canada where he was bitten by canuck insects and rained on whilst exploring their trails, as well as his next 24 hour ultra next week end. his wife is not happy, he runs to much and spends too much on shoes. his running gear smells in the boot of the car when he forgets it there for two weeks. i nod, grunt and laugh. i silently wonder how much credibility he has in his shorts, he silently wonders how much credibility i have in my vibrams. because we are old friends and anti social buggers we slide off the back of the group and run for home, when i get there my gps tells me i’ve run 12 miles.

This is not Jerry. He looks nothing like this and neither do his shorts.