Footrace versus coworkers, to be held in the produce section of a downtown supermarket. Riding the train, stretching and warming up on the way. We’re late – the race has already started, but we’re encouraged to join in.
The course runs in a rough oval around the aisles of the produce section, and I’m doing my best, really pushing it. I cut past a couple of runners by the broccoli and the race comes to an abrupt halt.
“OK, OK,” loudly intones the referee, an authoritative older black woman in a red striped shirt; “I guess we’ve got someone here who’s not familiar with the rules.”
It is explained to me, as the other runners resume their course, that it is not permitted to cut past two side-by-side runners – running faster than other people is actually discouraged.
I continue running. The course is getting less crowded, and I am able to pick up the pace a bit, but now there are people sorting fruit and unpacking boxes. It becomes necessary to hurdle a pile of variegated eggplant by one of the turns. I’m running faster now, and it seems I’m the only one running. My boss appears by the side of the course, tells me the race has been over for hours.
She’s got a letter she needs me to edit.
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