I tried to pass it off as a mechanical dog

To the casual observer Jerry and I are exactly what we appear to be, two middle aged geezers who don't shave on the weekend.
I've been assisting Jerry with the creation of a route for the inaugural Shoreham 10K. This is mainly composed of running alongside him and grunting things like yes, fine and excellent idea Jerry at what I feel are appropriate moments. I also do a lot of listening to an awful lot of stuff.
The last time we were out on the trail however, I had a significant and important job. The previous afternoon he turned up at my house clutching a grubby black holdall exuding dark and ominous stains. I wondered if it concealed human body parts but instead Jerry whipped out a measuring wheel. Thus it fell to me to join him in Shoreham once more and it became my joy to take my turn running with the blasted thing while we checked the accuracy of the course. I promise you this; it is neither an object of beauty and neither is it designed for running. The bloody thing bounced, hopped and skidded around like a rabbit in a room full of foxes.
And then there were the looks we got from the dog walkers and hikers, the famous British reserve failing to deal with the sight of two grown men in grubby running tops and five toed shoes pushing a bright yellow wheel along with them. People's reactions ranged from incredulous to hysterical and downright curious. I have to admit it made a great conversation starter and icebreaker. Perhaps I should borrow it for the next party I get invited to.
I tried to pass it off as a mechanical dog but lacked the necessary insouciance to be convincing enough.

My feet and the mechanical dog.