I hurried along the footpath from Putney Bridge station towards home, eager to flip between the stream of a Dodgers day game against the Cubs and Manchester United’s walk-a-bout over an inferior German side in UEFA action. I neared the halfway point on the path and a gaggle of runners rushed past me.
|New York City? What’s your Pace?|
Let me point out, that these runners were quite proper runners and they carried a pretty good clip. Two men in very short shorts (I am hesitant to comment on how cold it was outside) approached and I was fortunate to overhear their conversation.
“This is a tad bit quicker than my natural pace,” said the tall British man.
“You reckon,” asked the short British man.
“I reckon it is, yes.”
That was all I heard, because they ate up path like chips on Cinco de Mayo. But it got me thinking – what is one’s natural pace?
I turned the skeleton key into our door and concluded, without too much thought, that my natural pace was not the speed in which I walk to the refrigerator because let’s face it, for a working man that pace is a touch too hot. I also thought that it might be the pace in which you walk up to the DMV window when your number is called. You don’t want to seem too anxious around those who are still watching every number but theirs tick by on the terrible monitor. I finally closed the door and settled on my natural pace as the speed in which I walk to the sink to brush my teeth. I am generally not in a rush, but at the same time want to accomplish the simple goal (combat plaque and get into bed and fire up my Kindle).
The tall British man, with his long legs replied, “but it is a good pace, it really feels quite good.”