Running in circles

I got a text this afternoon asking if I wanted to go for a run, so I skipped merrily out of the office at 6:20, caromed down to the MTR, and then made a dash back through Causeway Bay to my flat, to change into some unflattering lycra and then run down to the track at Happy Valley.

Patrick was waiting for me. It was his rooftop that I'd been loitering on this past Friday night, and his boss's cheap Goldschlager substitute that I'd been drinking, so I suppose the run was some sort of penance for all that cheap cinnamon-schnapps-with-flakes-of-gold-painted-aluminium that I'd been forced to drink on Saturday night.
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/34395786

We took it quite gently round the track, only doing about 11 km/h.  It was a warm night, and I was tired from the day (funny how sitting at a desk can take it out of you), and even though I've been out of shape and not exercising properly in over a year, that runner's instinct takes hold.

If by "runner" you mean "Marshal Petain contemplating the defence of Verdun", and basically then it all comes down to the obstreperous attitude of ils ne passeront pas, which isn't very sociable or even particularly great for your ego, but probably does something for your heart by making you run harder every time anyone seems to be on the verge of overtaking you.

Suffice it to say that Patrick may have eleven years on me, but he doesn't have the strength of purpose that's granted to you along with an awful yellow vest and a pair of rather too-short shorts.  We did three laps around the track, and at the end I let him drink my Pocari Sweat.

It's a drink.

No, really, it's a drink, famous amongst all travellers to the Orient, and wholly unremarked upon by the people of Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan.  Although there may be much hilarity in England to the thought of a drink named after perspiration, it doesn't even seem interesting to people here.  It's just Pocari Sweat.  I half imagine you could simulate the confusion at British bewilderment by getting a bunch of Hong Kongers to go to the Tesco Express in Dean Street and start laughing at bottles of Lucozade, shouting "eurgh!  it's got Luke in it!  Gross!"

Well, I half imagine.  And the other half of me dreams that one day I'll be rich enough to pay for a troupe of Hong Kong performance artists to fly to London and annoy the locals by saying ridiculous things about energy drinks.


Went home, ate hummus, rehearsed.  Night night, everyone.