I decided after the 8th repeat that I was going to indulge this odd craving and also drink water, a bit of water, not too much but probably more than usual, since it was hot, oh so very hot, the noxious blend of obscene midwestern heat and humidity that inspires you to forget you're sweating because the air feels like it's moist enough for everyone until you cross your arbitrarily marked finish line to the bemused silence of the imagined audience that really should be more impressed because it's my imagination, right, but hey at least they have high standards.
I thought about cadence and arm carriage and pace and shoes and that two of those things at least can be improved without spending money, and probably help a lot more anyway.
There was a child, a very young one but I'm terrible at guessing ages, walking with his parents, who would sprint after me every time I passed. He would maybe make it 20 meters or so and then he would sit and catch his breath and after a little while he took to waiting for me to come back around so that he would be fully rested. His parents tried to get him to stop but I said it was cool because kids should be fucking hyper.
He and I were the only ones there that seemed to have the slightest inclination for running, which is not to say that the track was empty, as it was in fact quite full, merely of walkers, and not one single other runner. I thought they looked miserable and they thought I looked miserable and should probably put on some pants. I thought that not wearing real pants in public was way better than wearing waist high jeans with a CD player clipped to the belt, which, I mean, still?
But it's all good. Deity of choice bless you, middle and old aged track walkers. We will never understand each other but we nonetheless have an understanding. We're just two undulates bipedaling around the safari, trying not to get eaten by a lion, or something like that.
But really, if I could pick, I would totally be a mountain goat.