It’s odd I think, when you’re running along the footpath and there is a person walking towards you, and in spite of fair warning (let’s be honest, I’m not breaking any land speed records) they don’t share the way. I’m not that large, there is plenty of room for us both to pass – and I promise not to rub your arm with my sweaty one.
It’s also interesting to conduct a sociological study and assess which people acknowledge you and which ones don’t. Old ladies are a definite. They always give you an enthusiastic wave. Men are fifty-fifty - it depends who they’re with. Teenagers are almost a guaranteed no, like they’re embarrassed on your behalf, but fellow runners can boost that right up with a stride-timed nod of the head.
Gregory and I are both running these days, but I’m banned from his track. We go in different directions and at different times, meet back at the house and Gregory asks me what I thought of while I was out. Today I imagined I was an Olympic marathon runner (told you my visions are extreme) and decided what I needed was some good Russian classics to keep me company while I run. I think Mussorgsky’s Dawn on The Moscow River is the perfect starter piece. Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee will do for the sprints (which I haven’t attempted yet, but perhaps I will once I have the music) and nothing like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture to drag my arse up the hill to the finish line. I am humming the bit where they let the fireworks off on New Year’s Eve and can’t wait to take my new playlist for a test drive tomorrow…
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