There’s often a point that comes towards the end of a hard run when, whether due to exhaustion, endorphins or olitronic space-rays, the mind starts to wander into strange and mildly entertaining territories.
For instance, it was during such a phase a few weeks ago that I gave serious thought to buying a penguin.
But the most recent moment of almost-post-run oddness came as I was winding down from last fridays 10-miler. As I approached the final straight, the sun having just made a welcome appearance for the day, I glanced to my right and saw a field of cows. Nothing new there. I’ve seen cows on several occasions; that’s just the kind of globe-trotting playboy lifestyle I’ve led I guess.
And then I waved at one.
Now, I should make it clear that this wasn’t some “hey, I’m such a zany wacky guy for waving at a cow” type wave. It wasn’t even the sort you’d offer as a cheery greeting to a bicycling vicar. No, it was simply a wave that half-grunted “alright mate” and then went about it’s day.
But the wave wasn’t where it got odd. It didn’t really get weird until my new bovine chum gave me a look. A look that said “why’s he waving at me? Doesn’t he know I’m a cow?”
PS: I’ve realised that these last couple of posts have been less about running and more about the ramblings of someone with far too much time on their hands. Thing is, I’ve also realised that in less than 6 days I’ll be attempting my first ever half-marathon, so I’m guessing that normal service will be resumed soon enough with talk of pace, carb-loading, negative splits and several other running terms that I pretend to understand.
In the meantime, here’s a picture of a cow…