The conversion of a Masai worrier
16 December 2006
At first I was not convinced. Not at all. As I trudged my daily circuit around Hyde Park in old Reeboks, dog at heel, I would endure the humiliation of being lapped by skinny women friends in black Lycra leggings, barrelling past me like geishas on speed.
‘Where’s the fire?’ I felt like shouting as they rocked past me in those funny black thick-soled shoes, leaving me a distant speck in their pert-buttocked wake. Honestly, it didn’t look as if they were going for a walk at all, in the sense that you or I might go for a walk — they were going at it like knives.
Once or twice I invited myself to join them. It was never a great success. While they did their power-walking thing in their special matching ugly shoes, and had enough breath left for some serious gossip, I panted and jogged, and panted and walked, to try to keep up with them. Usually I had to give up by the time we reached the Serpentine.
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