Is he one of the horseman of the apocalypse?

 To spare the angels, Lot offers the mob
his virgin daughters and in the rubble
they wine him then explode Lot’s seed into life
Driving the copies on the wide road
face down in

(Denise Newman)

 Mob match (We are black, we are white, we are f*cking dynamite)

 This was the black and white team versus the virulent yellow team, a stream of living colour, a centipede of legs and elbows charging up the hill before being swallowed whole by the maw of the woods. There we are greeted by a huge black horse, the rider impassive and drooping a cigarette from his mouth. Is he one of the horseman of the apocalypse? Clint Eastwood? Lost? We will never know, we avoid his flat eyes and run past uncaring and disinterested. Up and up the rocky trail we go before veering sharply left along the fence line, left again then right and down past the hidden pond. We cross the clanging bridge over the brook and the trees regurgitate us. We are strung out now and panting in the humidity and heat, it's a switchback climb on tarmac before entering jubilee park to be harangued by Jerry in his union Jack shorts. Menace. On we run, back onto the suburban streets and downhill all the way to the finish. When we get there it seems to be raining mosquitoes, several runners are savagely bitten. I escape and run home through the woods with Rob.