Run days are good days. The alarm buzzes at 5:45am and I snap up soldier-quick, wash my face, down some granola bars and lotsa water. And I’m off.
After the first kilometer, my engine is running at optimum and with my iPod playing I am fucking flying. On Sundays especially, when the sun feels it should sleep in and there are no soccer moms in their MPVs on the road, my neighbourhood is the right kind of deserted. An entire housing estate vacated, streets cleared, children hushed because I want to run.
Then I feel a sharp stab of pain. Actually, the pain comes later. What I feel actually is surprise and shock and a blow to my head. I feel a whoosh and flying off into the distance is my assailant. A guided missile disguised in feathers and claws. A mafuckin' crow.
My shock turns to anger and I curse this winged spawn of Satan, this scavenger, and I swear to you if you try that again I'ma fucking kick yourohahmyGodhelpmeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalp!!!
And suddenly, I’m ok.
I’m alone again.
I am in fact, 2 full streets – approximately 700 metres – from the spot of the first attack.
It was as if I somehow managed to fold space, skipping the distance between point A and point B instantaneously. I have no memory of making the journey. And for some reason, my throat is sore.
What happened of course is the very essence of Occam’s Razor - the right explanation is mostly likely the obvious one:
That I shat my pants, ran for my life like a yellow bastard, screaming all the way.
Like a little girl.