She wears milking trousers that stop short of the ankle, the kind I remember the herdsman in, and her top, a smock, is faded pink with collar standing proud like a vicar’s without the slide of white cardboard. It’s square like her trousers which are faded blue, stained with farmyard straw and farmhouse kitchen. From the back she’s seventy at least, white ankle socks dusty and marked, goodness knows what shoes, I never get that far, so mesmerised am I by her form, but I imagine some sort of aged plimsole that’s seen mud and rain and probably the stirrups of a well worn saddle flung on a family pony. My favourite runner making her way along the lanes, a steady trot, grey hair flattened at the back, I won a wave and smile once as I passed, an arm raised, her crinkly face crinkled more. That time I’d followed her for almost a mile in my silent car, always I’m on my way training, to do what she does but with my favourite fireman in the backroom of the station that has tables pushed aside so I can sweat it out with burpees and weights. But her who looks like she’s spent all morning in the milking parlour or mucking out the donkeys or baking fifteen different pies doesn’t ask for kit and a room out of the rain or even a friendly fireman though I’m sure she’d get a kick out of what we do. I imagine her drying her hands on a dishcloth and thinking, time for my run and without getting changed, without fancy shoes or breathable lycra or even a hair tie she’s off, down the lanes, aged eighty or more, she’s getting older in my mind as I type. I first thought when I saw her for the first time Really? At your age? Is there a point? and promised myself I’d give up all this effort when I reached the stage of flattened hair at the back, but gradually I’ve got to know better. She’s still running. She’s still alive. And she waves her hand at me as I pass in my silent car.
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"She’s still running. She’s still alive." Sentences in perfect balance.
You train with firemen??!?!?!