To whom it may concern,
There’s nothing I love more after a full week than a good run.
I run my stresses away and it clears my head.
In the winter months I tend to run on a treadmill in the gym.
But today the sun was out and I thought it would be lovely to run outside again.
So this afternoon I put on my trainers and started to run through my North London surroundings. My first outdoor run of the year. It felt great. My headphones were pumping out loud hip hop and my feet were pounding on the pavement again.
It was a nice change to take in the pretty sights of trees and enjoy the space around me, rather than plodding along on a treadmill in one spot for an hour. I was in the zone planning a long indulgent run to Alexandra Palace and back.
As I hit Crouch End I realised I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a presence next to me. Jogging alongside me was a twat in a linen suit and deck shoes. I appeared to have collected him from the pub I’d just passed. He looked very pleased with himself plodding along with his twatty floppy Hugh-Grant-hair bobbing up and down. He had horn-rimmed glasses and a handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket. Twat.
Suddenly two more twats appeared. For fuck’s sake. I never had this problem in Brixton. We remained running side by side. I sped up and so did they. I was no longer in my happy place. I felt the anger rising in me. I felt stressed and like I was being mocked. I did not want to run along with blokes who looked like cast members from Made In Chelsea. So I pulled off my headphones.
“Do you guys find this funny?” I asked them. We were still running along.
“We’re just racing you,” said one of the twats with a stupid snigger.
The other two guffawed at his “hilarious” remark.
I stopped running. And so did they. I looked behind us and their mates had spilled onto the road to gawp at us further up the road.
I felt humiliated.
Before I could stop myself, I lost my temper.
“Was your conversation that boring that the best, most hilarious thing you could think to do with your time was come and gate crash my run? I was happily minding my own business. It’s not very funny is it? It was never funny. And never will be funny. Also – if you’re going to go for a run you really all should be wearing socks. Or you’ll get blisters. Now, stop being bell ends, go back to the pub and bore your mates some more. And buy some bloody socks.”
I then called them all a very rude word (sorry mum), put my headphones on and diverted my run down a side road.
But I felt drained. I didn’t want to run anymore. My run was ruined.
I walked home feeling very upset and more stressed than I was before.
So, this is an open letter to all the twats out there who think it’s funny to run alongside joggers.
Don’t be a dick.