Late this morning: I’m out for a run when I overtake Leasey and companion as they stroll past one of the haunts of Cambridge’s surreal inner-city cow population. I pause long enough in my exertions for Leasey to give me a hug and tell me that she needs to take me shopping for some new running gear. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
She points at my shorts and black-and-purple sleeveless running top and asks in her tactful way, “How gay do you look?!”
Look, kid, it worked for White Goodman—and he’s a hunk of red-blooded male.
Perhaps I need a medallion.
Runners are supposed to look gay. When I used to race, I was one of several hundred people dressed in the skimpiest of skimpy shorts and a skintight Helly-Hansen top. I’m sure people would have made more remarks, but the fat ***** couldn’t keep up long enough to finish the sentence.
The same goes for cyclists.
I am said companion and I have to agree, If I hadn’t been on the phone I would have wolf whistled you myself, damn you couldn’t just tell your sex in those shorts but your religion too!
But to be honest, the bouffant, highlighted hair and the porn-tash negate the homosexuality of Goodmans tight, purple outfit.
In your favour you looked very athletic…. You planing on doing the great north run this year?
Oop North they have hills: a bit scary for me after four years in Flatland. And the Great North Run is half-marathon. I’d die.
While I might not have seen your choice of outfit, I’m with Leasey, the purple and black SLEEVELESS top is very gay.