When I jog, I notice this and that and that and this. I see the same couple in matching jogging suits (in inclement weather) who manage to carry on in deep conversations as they lope past me. Everyone lopes past me. But there are the others, coming in the opposite direction too. Half-naked men running in packs, whooshing past me without talking, intense males, mostly in their thirties who make it all look so natural and elegant and fast.  And then there’s me. I’m not putting myself above it all. Oh no. I am just as describable. Except that I tend to lay low, usually run alone. Occasionally, however, I will come across another jogger (as opposed to a runner; there is a difference) who seem to lay even lower.  And this happened on the spring of my fiftieth year.

That’s a long time to wait for someone lower.