Run Fat Boy, Run!

I went for a run the other day, two runs indeed and it’s been quite some time since I’ve done that. This time last year I couldn’t walk (or sleep, or do much but complain about the gout and painfully whisk at the flies with a zebra-tail duster whilst I shouted at the houseboy for fresh daiquiri). Then I was on a stick and of late I’ve been walking again. The other morning then and early enough to greet bakers getting up and murderers going to bed when walking I started to run. I used to run in school, but in school then there were blackboards and a teacher that drank gin in a teacup, so it’s been a while. That morning it was brief run but I went later to the nearest town, always half-flooded Stilbourne and there sought out a running shoe, even two.

Well I’m not sure if the fashion is very early or we’re just very late but the last time I’d seen a shoe like it the thing had been upon a Spice Girl. Silver with yellow decoration I was forced to ask ‘Is there perhaps something a little more masculine?’

There was it seemed, not.

I still ran home, only three miles with a half mile warm down and I felt great although I felt great in plimsolls. They’re not called plimsolls but they’re what I wear in the sun and let me tell you, they might have been cutting edge in 1920 but so were cinder tracks (and smoking cured bullet wounds). I will look again, another time, but soon I hope because with such shoes I fear that forgetting my shorts I shall be forced to go for a run in my pants.

I thought also to run in company and there is a starters club. I see them sometimes. The slimmest of them looks to be Baron Harkonnen, and he can cheat, what all that flying about on his suspensors. But who knows and soon the fells of Tolly Maw may shake to the flap of our plimsolls. The Baron Harkonnen, Friar Tuck, Mr, Pickwick – and I.