Wooden men

  • Saturday, February 18, 2012
  • 0


My renaissance continues. I go happily into the mild rain and I run. I run better than the last three times, there is a hint of returning stamina and I feel a little more fluid, more Kenyan, less carthorse.
I crest a rise and hear on coming voices. Three male runners burst out of the tree's and rain, just like the magnificent seven except there are only three and they are on foot. They have on their serious runner, don't f*ck with me faces and as they split left and right to pass me I raise my hand, smile and say hi. They don't break stride. They don't bend their faces into a smiley return greeting. I don't exist, they cut me dead and leave me bleeding on the trail.
Next is a bloke in his thirties, built like a rugby player and plugged into an iPod. He is not dressed for the weather and is soaked. He has his I'm-only-happy-when-I'm-suffering face. Again I smile and again I'm ignored, no eye contact, no acknowledgement I am there, nada.
I run on and behold, another rain lovin' runner. This ones a racing snake, he has the coal lump eyes of an assassin, a whip cord build and groovy navy tights. At least with this guy there is a flicker of something in his eyes as he passes. Or maybe he has bad wind. A few minutes later I come across rugby guy again, he continues to suffer and has gone a nasty shade of red. I hurry past before I am forced to perform CPR.

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