I run along the beach front, and faces become familiar after a couple of weeks: the anorexics, fatties, rugby players, professional runners, the gaggle of older woman. Mostly they're white people. There are black people who also run, but they’re usually in work clothes and trying to actually get somewhere quickly instead of just running for the sake of it, or to lose weight or the like. Some people walk their dogs, others sit on benches staring out over the sea. There’s a girl who jogs past me every single day with her dog tied around her waist and gum in her mouth. (Surely that’s a health risk?) A couple of perverts roam around, bums litter the tarmac.
Frilly Broekies (pants) is my favourite. She must be in her late forties and she runs every day. She runs far, I’ve tried to establish the length of her route but it’s much longer than I’m prepared to go and so it remains a mystery. Her outfit begets the name: a strappy little black top with matching black frilly broekies that just cover everything it’s supposed to. Her hair is a matching black bob, her eyes dark to boot. Her pants are incongruous with her age though and so she always stands out when she comes past. I never miss her.
My nemesis is a man we'll call The Destroyer. He's there at the same time as I am and so we compete. Most days he wins, but not for long my friends. I'm planning on taking him out. Just because he's eighty doesn't mean I should give him some kind of special treatment, not where I come from. I run like a maniac and then walk till I catch my breath, at which point I start running like mad again. The Destroyer keeps a steady pace but just keeps going and going and going, and so I will overtake him with speed when I’m running but sure as fuck, after a bit of walking there he will be, passing me again, driving me to drink. He's a machine I tell you. He never stops, but just you wait Mr Destroyer, just you wait...
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