Route 66: The Zac Efron of the industrial road surface community.
I don't know what it is about pavements that makes them so utterly and soul-destroyingly boring ... well actually I do.
For starters they're grey, aside from being my preferred hue choice for t-shirts and hoodies. There's hardly an abundance of praise waiting in the wings for the illegitimate love child of black and white. Even the word itself is onomatopoeic to tediousness, especially in the throes of my dulcet lancastrian tones. Disregarding the monotony of my vocal skills (that definitely wouldn't pay the bills), our more opulent neighbours France don't seem to fare any better with the equally uninspiring lexeme 'gris'. Neither do the Germans with 'grau', or the home of the linguaggio d'amore and their sub-par 'grigio'. You know all hope is lost if the Italians can't manage to make something sound appealing.
I suppose what I'm trying to imply is that for anyone who endures endless miles of prosaic pathways whilst running, pavement isn't exactly the most awe-inspiring sight to behold whilst bounding along the beat of your running route. On numerous occasions, I have been bear-baited by the pavement's black and double-yellow lined lustrous neighbour: Mr Road. However, my conscience quickly kicks into gear and reminds me that this is a sure-fire way to getting a lift home from a paramedic. Secondly, and most importantly, my choices of underwear when running would hardly class as 'Sunday best' if I were to accidentally get myself into some sort of misadventure.
A much safer option would be to suggest a series of 'alternative' road coverings to councils everywhere, which would guarantee a deluge of runners hitting the streets. All we need to do is rewind back to 1939 and follow the yellow brick road. I don't know about you, but if Nike brought out some ruby red running shoes, and gingham shorts, I could happily imagine I was Dorothy doing a fun-run from Munchkin Country to the Emerald City and I'm sure my running times would be the better for it too.
Alternatively, there could be a road kind of like a hybrid between the giant piano in Big and the Billie-Jean video. How much fun would it be skipping and moonwalking through the streets with a solitary white glove. Progressing from the gently melodic bpm of a sonata-esque warm-up, all the way up to a heart-racing jazzy drum & bass fusion fuelled sprint finish. All the way back down to an ambient and euphoric Ibiza, 15 minute remixed, sunset on the terrace cool-down. All I need now is a Mojito (or Lucozade) and I'd be in a runner's oasis.
I'm well aware that these are the far-fetched missives of a madman, but I'd happily settle for anything, so long as it wasn't grey. Is it too much to ask for a pavement adorned with the hues of a 'First-Dawn Blue', or a 'Raspberry Bellini Red'. Even a 'Melon Sorbet Green' would be welcomed with open arms, I would happily settle for the marginally more motivational beige carpet option instead of grey. But then just as I was beginning to lose every ounce of hope. All of a sudden it hit me, why don't I just stop looking at the pavement beneath my feet? Wouldn't it be infinitely easier to just look around and soak up some of the stirring scenery surrounding me? As Aleksandr the Meerkat would say "Simples".
