NOvember

[Sweder]

After a long working day and an evening hurridly catching up with e-mails, I reached a crossroads. Go to the pub, eat food, drink beer and feel dreadful about adding even more flubber since P2P, or go for a run. As the sun sank below the Melbourne skyline I realised there was no choice at all.

Half an hour later I'm on the fabled Tan Track, the cinder trail sweeping around Queen's Park and alongside the lazy Yarra River. There are plenty of folk about. Plodders, walkers, lovers, runners, dawdlers and i-pod meanderers, wobbling about across the running line. I chuff along, heavy tread pounding loose gravel.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.

A flying pony-tail bobbles past, owner all tight white lycra and honed, tanned shoulders, elbows set to jaunty, feet high-kicking as she bounds away. I sigh, feeling even heavier. I put a bit more into it but that dreadful lumbering sounds as laboured and slow as ever. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Less people now. The foliage to my right is thick and colourful. I'm not wearing headphones so pick up the sound of following footsteps. Almost perfectly in time with my own, they belong to a big beast. Loud and solid, like a large hammer smashing into sand. I need no further prod. I set my sail and push hard, meeting a long incline at a decent clip. He's still there or there abouts (I've decided it's a he based on nothing more than the larger women on the trail are all walking). Damn. I push again, determined not to give the satisfaction of a backward glance. We crest the hill and I heave for breath. The night air is clammy, hard to suck down, but I see the path drop, curving away around the hedgerow, so I give it the gun once more. Take that, night stalker!

But he does. He pours it on, closer than ever. Bloody hell.
Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH.

I'm all but done. My shirt swims in hot sweat, legs and glutes scream for mercy. I'll let him past. I spy a water fountain ahead, use this as my 'excuse' for slowing. He slows with me. Now I have to look. I slow to a walk and turn my head ... but there's no-one there. I squint into the half-light to catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows. Nothing. Bemused, I start to jog. He's back! I spin round. But of course, he's not there. He is me. I am he. The pathside plants have given dull reflection of my footfall, chased me round this track like a frightened rabbit with nothing more than echoes.

I pad home, pushing hard, embarassed. The last half mile, bobbing and weaving through shiny, happy Southbank revellers, in well under four minutes. Nightowls make way for the sweaty man as he dashes back to his lair, shirt stained dark, face beet-red, bleary eyes set on the near-distance and the cool pint on offer just beyond.

5.9 miles, hard.