Lycra, plimsolls, watch me go

I can be anything I want.

Fitter, faster, longer, stronger. Why can’t I be more beautiful?

Maybe I should go running, get outdoors, hit the road.

Burn off calories. Save money I’d otherwise spend on booze and fags. Avoid the hidden killers of salt and sugar in our processed diet. Put two fingers up to agri-business and the industrialisation of food at the same time, yeah?

Lycra, plimsolls, watch me go.

Through the back courts, up stairwells and down alleys, past tenements and basements and intersections and thoroughfares.

Keep track of my stats. Shoe size, pin number, dying wish, goal of the season, where I see myself in five minutes’ time. Help me reach my optimum self-loathing target.

But soon I feel lost and disorientated, breathless and sweating, red-faced and nauseous.

And that’s me just thinking about it.

Fatter, slower, shorter, weaker. Welcome home.

Cheers, Govanhill.

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