Summer Rain

Yesterday’s run held a personal first. I was spat on by a motorist.

Plodding lifelessly up a steep hill on a country lane at a quarter past 7 in the morning, I moved to the ditch at the side of the road to allow an oncoming black Nissan SUV (or 4X4, or whatever the appropriate term is) to pass without demolishing me in the process. Somewhat unexpectedly, given the usual nature of the driver of such vee-hickles, the SUV slowed to a near halt, so I continued running. As I passed, the driver -a scrawny young man in a sun hat- lowered his window and sprayed me with a generous mouthful of whatever it was he’d been drinking, much to the amusement of his passengers. As I stood dripping, bewildered, the vehicle sped off.

What is it about the sun in Ireland that it infuses drivers with a hint of rabies? And is it only SUV drivers who spit at pedestrians? Does having one induce such a sense of inadequacy that you feel you have to spit on people to demonstrate your superiority? Or is it a sense of inadequacy that leads one to buy one? If, for those with hangups, the extended bonnet of the traditional big car symbolises a phallus, do the elevated seats of the SUV symbolise an erection?

I continued on my run, did 8 miles in the end, then had a long shower.

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