Speed

THE concept of speed is relative.
For instance, I was running flat-out when Elmer went past me tonight. He was only cruising really, but I never even saw him coming despite his frankly garish Union Jack running vest.
We were on the 320-metre loop down at Clennon as the heavy brass-coloured clouds rolled in over the brow of Penwill Way and a rainbow touched down right on top of the caravans belonging to the tarmac travellers who have set up home in the service lane.
The grass was long and lush, and by the time 18 of us had completed 10 laps each in a pairs relay it was worn flat into quite a pleasing furrow.
To be fair, Elmer and his fellow speed merchants did 12 laps while the rest of us toiled into double figures, but the concept of speed is relative, OK?
Elmer lapped me on the fast descent that comes after about 100 metres, on about my seventh or eighth lap. I thought I was going pretty well, but he flew by.
Later we did a kilometre around the edge of the field as fast as we could. I started conservatively and then passed a few people including Rowdy Robbie, which was a pleasant surprise.
The Caerphilly Kid was out in front of me by some considerable distance, though. I think we should have him and Elmer dope-tested.
Even later, while I was wheeling the wheelie bin down to the pavement Bazza appeared on his bike and stopped for a chat. He was listening to The Beatles on his MP3 player and was heading up to the cash and carry car park for his regular timed session, zooming around and losing weight.
This exercise regime is paying off, for he is a shadow of his former self. The laws of matter and physics surely dictate that all these unwanted bits of Bazza must have ended up somewhere. I must pop up to the cash and carry car park when it's quiet to see if I can see any of them lying around.