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Skrevet av Ursa Minora den 24 august 2011 klokken 21:18

I'm an easygoing person, dealing with my personal matters a bit at a time. I like doing things in my own tempo, taking things at a slow phase. Still, I'm quite easily irritated, and one of the things that irritate me the most is joggers, always trying to get from A to B as fast as possible, but without puffing out anything harmful to the environment. They are trying to save the world, a bit at a time, but it won't work. Not at all. Also, running is got to be the most boring activity in the world.

In all honesty, I can't see how millions, or maybe even billions, of people can stand to run every day. I can't stand running. Getting sweaty and exhausted, it's just not my thing. I do enjoy peaceful walks in the woods once in a while, but every time I walk past a runner, or a power hiker, I feel sick. Not only because of the horrible stench they produce, but also because of their tight, revealing sports wear.

I do not take pleasure in watching the immensely perceptible contour of a middle aged man with a poor body and legs so hairy, it could be classified as pelt. Nevertheless, he does take pleasure in showing off his somewhat below average body to the public, as he runs along, with his tight shorts and pink sports jacket, which seems to originate from the eighties. Of course, he is listening to music. The whole world is constantly listening to music these days. Whether it's on an iPod, iPhone, iPad or iPlump, it's always a tune playing in ones ears. Some people can't live without music constantly terrorizing them, which is quite an impressive feat, as most of the ear plugs used for listening is as unpleasant as trying to force screws into ones ears.

One thing I've noticed numerous times with these joggers is that they never stop to rest. At least, that's what I thought for some time. A couple of weeks back, I made an extraordinary discovery: Joggers only run when you watch them. This after observing the horribly ugly jogger in pink, I found it impressive that seemingly anyone can run without ever dropping. If he could do it, who couldn't? What I now have discovered, having strolled in the forest once more, wondering about this, is that they can't be running when they don't think anyone's watching. I guess they all are being forced out into the rain by their wives, tired of being told that they are plump and such things, and have to run of their extra weight. I have yet to have this hypothesis confirmed, but as with the light in the refrigerator, I find it improbable that they will run when there is no audience. Runners are all about showbiz.

What is almost as annoying as stinky, puffing runners with attention sickness is the arrogant, so called sport strollers. They are in many ways just like the running joggers, strutting around in tight sporty clothing and listening to their fancy music players. They've got the whole syndrome, only missing the cardio. Often they come as a pair, a lovey-dovey couple, in matching costumes, looking rather much as performers at a carnival. They come along in a slightly faster phase than you, thinking of themselves as sportsmen. Walking is clearly a gentleman's sport, because there is no score to beat or any way to win. It's duller than golf, and that's a fairly grand accomplishment.

As I wrote earlier, these running menaces, as I've come to think of them, think they are saving the world. By letting the car stay at home a couple of days a week, they are preventing excess carbon dioxide to poop the party and destroy the ozone layer. Fair enough, let's say the joggers are saints; a holy beacon of light in an otherwise messed up world. Inspired by them are the scum of all traffic; the cyclists. The horror of spring they are, claming to have every right a car has, if it is in the road, and saying it should be treated as a dismounted human if it is on the sidewalk. When driving in the road, they keep a steady phase of about fifteen km/h, while blocking of all traffic, creating a line of cars behind them. When among mere mortals, they are rushing along, without caring about their fellow human beings. A collision can't hurt them; they've got their trusty helmet of hope. But the collision can hurt me, all I've got is hair on my head, and according to my heritage, it will disappear during my thirties, which then will render my head helpless against the hard, merciless asphalt. And collisionwise I've been to close for comfort some times already.

What they all have in common, the cyclists, joggers and hikers, is that they all tend to glare at me. Their iPods, with all its applications and functionalities can't be too interesting after all. As I walk, either to get to my grandmother or the convenience store, it seems I have quite a fascinating face. I try to entertain the curious people pretending to get exercise, by whistling, snapping my finger and maybe even perform a dance move, or such a thing. Yet, I get no other response, than their eyes locked on target, and their heads turning to look at me, as they walk past me. Their inability to show feelings, despise my musical performance and other efforts to make them smile, makes me pity them.

Even though I can't stand the healthy, sporty bastards that is the joggers and the rest of the pack, I can't help speculate; will I ever dress up in a ridiculous costume, with "new, brilliant breathing tech", or will I forever be subject to the cyclists torment? Will I always be a dancing bear, dancing for the hikers' amusement? Maybe one day in the future, I'll put on a pair of running shoes and puff along uphill. Probably not, but one may never say never, unless it is to quote that one specific saying.