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We all walk past each other daily making passers-by of one another. Most people you pass by are instantly forgotten unless an unusual thing happens.
Well, life is mostly mundane and nothing ever happens. Those who run past us are also mostly ignored. Can we call them runners-by?
About 36 years ago, a guy ran past me at Yaba Bus stop in Lagos. Someone started shouting, ‘Ole, Ole!!’ and they were not speaking Spanish. However, the bus stop was soon transformed into a bull-fighting arena with a mad crowd displaying a blood lust that a self-respecting Dracula would be proud of.
The ‘runners-by’ did well in the circumstances. A fractured skull and a pint of blood loss were inflicted before the police rescued him.
I went out running a few mornings ago in the cold and naturally I had a hoodie on to protect myself from the elements. As I approached a cash point, a lady looked over her shoulders and froze like she was about to get mugged. I ran past and didn’t look back. It was a bit annoying. I felt like asking her how many muggers she knew who woke up early to run two miles before mugging their victims while wearing gloves and shorts? For someone who does not steal for a living, it feels odd to feel the suspicious eyes of the fearful on you as they hold tight to their £30.
I went on to think about the people who have passed me by as I passed them by. Over the years a few patterns have emerged but, the most people I run past are instantly forgotten. I usually have my mind on the most important thing on any run which is watching the floor for dog poo and uneven pavements.
I once tripped on a pavement slab and went flying forward. Luckily I converted the fall into a roly-poly and stood up instantly and kept on running. A few seconds later I looked around to see if anybody had watched me fall. I felt so embarrassed. I also once stepped on poo and it was a big hassle for I ran indoors and went to almost every room before noticing a smell. On discovering the offensive article under my running shoes, I was flooded with guilt for bringing a stench into the family home. Next, I had to go on all fours sniffing out the poo and washing the carpet with antiseptics lest hookworms, roundworms or any detestable worms find their way into the gut of family members (I have noticed some family members pick up their biscuits from the carpet and eat in the past).
These passers-by with dogs cause all the problems. They go walking with their pets and let them poo where they like. Surely, Apple should come up with an App or something to warn us of any ‘in-coming’.
Why do ‘ganja’ smokers take their drug-walks along my running route? Usually after a mile or so, my breathing rate is more than doubled and that is when these guys turn up. They don’t fit the usual stereotype so there is no way of knowing who they are and crossing the road in preventive action. You run past this normal looking guy and next you are breathing his leftovers. These ganja guys and pooing-dog owners should all clear off to their own park where they can do what they like.
Some people own very dangerous breeds of dogs and occasionally you see these dogs on a leash about a mile long. How does that protect you? I usually cross the road once I see any dog to avoid stories that touch the heart such as rabies.
Some people fancy themselves as comedians and shout out jokes as you go past.
“You are meant to be running mate,” one old guy said.
“I used to be able to do this”.
“Quicker, quicker”.
The cars can be a problem. Some people drive out of their drive way a bit fast so one needs to be on the look-out. Some runners then hoot their horns when they drive past fellow runners and give them the thumbs-up sign as a way of encouraging the weary amateur. When I first started running on the streets, I thought these passing cars were giving me racial abuse and the hand gestures were obscene. It was months later while driving that I saw a fellow road user hoot the horn for a passing runner and the proverbial Kobo dropped.
Running past the pub in summer is always dramatic. “You should be here,” they shout out.
Some people do fancy themselves as psychologists. They have no couch but just look you up and down and from their frowns you know your diagnosis. Running in the pouring rain or heavy snow brings out the “this psychotic man will soon be down with pneumonia” expression.
Those who you have run past on three consecutive mornings give you the “black man with OCD” look.
When I suddenly start laughing upon hearing a joke off my iPod they take a step back and give the “this one is really crazy” look.
There are people who stop you to ask for directions. Ha!!! You then have to undo your hoodie, remove the gloves, and earphones to answer such enquires. Why can’t they find someone walking?
A guy at a bus stop once stopped me and asked for money. I was so angry he made me break my stride. “I don’t run with money,” I said and continued running. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. What if I was the only passer-by that could help him?
I thought of going back so we could run to my house for cash but then he would know where I lived. He could be a psychotic killer, who knows?
I made my mind up. As soon as I got home, I grabbed some money and drove back to the bus stop. I walked over and handed him the money. It felt good. I could hear a loud shout from some unseen observers shouting, ‘Olé! Olé! Olé!’
