I WANT TO TELL YOU about my mate Jean. That’s Jean in French, pronounced ‘Zharn’; not Jean as in ‘jean-pant’. In fact, his full name is Jean-Pierre, even more French, but he’s a lot more boerewors than boeuf bourguignon. He does have a weakness for good cognac, but that’s about the extent of his Francophilia.
Anyway, and I’m talking many years ago, every now and then a few of us would grow uncomfortable with our collective sloth, and decide to go for a run. And we’d do a few kays, maybe on Tafelberg Road for the fresh air and scenery, laughing and pointing at each other. After working up a light sweat we’d congregate at someone’s house for refreshments, all telling each other we’d Done The Right Thing.
What I’m getting at here is that none of us took running very seriously.
Until a year or so back. When Jean discovered trail.
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