I have started running again, much to my own delight. I was out on the common at 10 this morning, basking in the warm sunshine and my own sense of superiority, happy as a clam that I was neither crippled by foot pain nor suffering the ill-effects of a haemaglobin level stuck somewhere between 5 and fuck all.
It occurred to me as I bounded along that just as the population of London delineates itself into tribes - the Trendies of Dalston, the Yummy Mummies of Stoke Newington, the Poor People of Tower Hamlets - the running world is also comprised of a number of different sub-sects, creating its own little microcosm. I have identified them thus:
The Pros
You have to get up early to see a genuine Pro. Easily recognisable by their attire: expensive lycra, sports sunglasses and niche brand trainers. Sometimes they wear hats. They run faster than you, and look more determined; running is not exercise - it is a way of life. Get out of their way and don't try and make eye contact - to a Pro, you are just a blur.
The Sex Runners
Usually girls with the odd Italian bloke thrown in, Sex Runners are not running for sport, they are barely running for exercise; their primary goal is to be admired. They run quite slowly for maximum exposure, speaking of which...Sex Runners wear as little as possible, claiming "heat exhaustion", even in November. Think skimpy crop tops, bright hot pants and a full face of make-up, topped and tailed by impossibly swishy hair and suspiciously clean trainers. Don't try and compete: their abs are better than yours will ever be, and they know it.
Fit Dads
Maybe the red wine is finally catching up with him, or he swears the 22 year-old intern sniggered as he huffed to first base at the annual office rounders match, but Fit Dad is determined to get back in shape. You can't help but admire him as he plods along, wearing a pair of shorts bought circa 1987 and an expression of pure agony, his hair askew, his cheeks maroon, for he has a noble purpose: Sports Day is coming up, and he'll be dammed if he lets little Barney down in the Dad's race. Give Fit Dad a smile as he ambles past and it'll give him the boost he needs to make it home.
The Deep Thinker
Notable for the lack of an iPod. Whereas most of us need The Prodigy pounding in our ears to block out the pounding in our thighs, Deep Thinkers like to feel at one with their surroundings. Running is their therapy, an opportunity to ponder and reflect and decide what they'll have for dinner. Their music is the birdsong and the hum of the traffic and they are seemingly immune to the inherent ennui of running, stoically forging ahead when lesser mortals would have headed home to watch the tennis and eat toast.
The Hotties
The reason any of us run. Catch the eye of a Hottie as you jog past each other for a high that will last the rest of the day. He's way out of you league - but you're running too! You instantly have a connection and he'll certainly be impressed by your commitment, and maybe your arse. Snag your foot on an errant tree root and watch the Hottie pace it back to scoop you up - he's public school and has the manners to prove it. If the strong jaw doesn't give it away, spot a Hottie by his uni football t-shirt and tousled hair. Don't be put off by the sweating - the pheromone rush will make you heady.
So where do I fit in? I think I'm probably in a mongrol sub-class of my own. I'm not the fastest, nor the fittest; my trainers are bespoke Asics but my shorts were on sale in the kids section of H&M. This morning, I dabbled at being a Sex Runner, briefly, when the hot sun forced me to roll up my top and bare my stomach, but I un-furled it to find it was streaked with fake tan...sexy fail (I sprinted home). I think I am just grateful to be running at all, grateful that, despite being on dialysis, my body isn't a complete and utter car-crash. Running makes me happy, and even if it didn't, the Chilli Heatwave Doritos aren't going to burn off themselves.
It occurred to me as I bounded along that just as the population of London delineates itself into tribes - the Trendies of Dalston, the Yummy Mummies of Stoke Newington, the Poor People of Tower Hamlets - the running world is also comprised of a number of different sub-sects, creating its own little microcosm. I have identified them thus:
The Pros
You have to get up early to see a genuine Pro. Easily recognisable by their attire: expensive lycra, sports sunglasses and niche brand trainers. Sometimes they wear hats. They run faster than you, and look more determined; running is not exercise - it is a way of life. Get out of their way and don't try and make eye contact - to a Pro, you are just a blur.
The Sex Runners
Usually girls with the odd Italian bloke thrown in, Sex Runners are not running for sport, they are barely running for exercise; their primary goal is to be admired. They run quite slowly for maximum exposure, speaking of which...Sex Runners wear as little as possible, claiming "heat exhaustion", even in November. Think skimpy crop tops, bright hot pants and a full face of make-up, topped and tailed by impossibly swishy hair and suspiciously clean trainers. Don't try and compete: their abs are better than yours will ever be, and they know it.
Fit Dads
Maybe the red wine is finally catching up with him, or he swears the 22 year-old intern sniggered as he huffed to first base at the annual office rounders match, but Fit Dad is determined to get back in shape. You can't help but admire him as he plods along, wearing a pair of shorts bought circa 1987 and an expression of pure agony, his hair askew, his cheeks maroon, for he has a noble purpose: Sports Day is coming up, and he'll be dammed if he lets little Barney down in the Dad's race. Give Fit Dad a smile as he ambles past and it'll give him the boost he needs to make it home.
The Deep Thinker
Notable for the lack of an iPod. Whereas most of us need The Prodigy pounding in our ears to block out the pounding in our thighs, Deep Thinkers like to feel at one with their surroundings. Running is their therapy, an opportunity to ponder and reflect and decide what they'll have for dinner. Their music is the birdsong and the hum of the traffic and they are seemingly immune to the inherent ennui of running, stoically forging ahead when lesser mortals would have headed home to watch the tennis and eat toast.
The Hotties
The reason any of us run. Catch the eye of a Hottie as you jog past each other for a high that will last the rest of the day. He's way out of you league - but you're running too! You instantly have a connection and he'll certainly be impressed by your commitment, and maybe your arse. Snag your foot on an errant tree root and watch the Hottie pace it back to scoop you up - he's public school and has the manners to prove it. If the strong jaw doesn't give it away, spot a Hottie by his uni football t-shirt and tousled hair. Don't be put off by the sweating - the pheromone rush will make you heady.
So where do I fit in? I think I'm probably in a mongrol sub-class of my own. I'm not the fastest, nor the fittest; my trainers are bespoke Asics but my shorts were on sale in the kids section of H&M. This morning, I dabbled at being a Sex Runner, briefly, when the hot sun forced me to roll up my top and bare my stomach, but I un-furled it to find it was streaked with fake tan...sexy fail (I sprinted home). I think I am just grateful to be running at all, grateful that, despite being on dialysis, my body isn't a complete and utter car-crash. Running makes me happy, and even if it didn't, the Chilli Heatwave Doritos aren't going to burn off themselves.
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