Fairmount Park is one of the largest urban parks in the country. Gorgeous and ethereal, the portion I run is along the banks of the Schuylkill (pronounced SKOO-kul) River. Let me introduce you to some of my (unbeknownst to them) running partners.

There’s the weird guy who sits quietly on one particular bench where everyone must pass. He is not alone – his bench-mate is Jesus, or rather a couple plastic-wrapped pics of the Big J. I’ve yet to figure out if he’s selling them or simply displaying them for our admiration or conversion and will never know, since his crazy eyes make me run a little faster whenever I see him sitting there.

There are the geese. Not a few or a handful, but clumps of 30 and 40 milling about. They’re extremely good-natured and except for the giant green turds they leave in their wake, make for some very nice crowd support. I’m also happy to note that leg-pecking does not occur to them – which is good, because I’m always having to sneak around one or two waddling in my way.

There are the power-walkers, some I recognize from far away, thanks to their hugely abundant arm-swings. I smile or say hi to a couple, though a few always pretend they’re alone in the world, which is fine, I just ignore them back.

One of my favorite sights in the park are the lanky-legged guys running with concentrated determination across their faces. Sometimes you can tell it’s a speed day as they surge forward like antelope, effortlessly bounding ahead, all limbs and raw energy. Other days I might end up passing them which always tickles me pink (even though I’m sure it’s their recovery run or low HR training that lets that happen).

There are loads of women around, too – all ages though the majority are younger. There are some you smile at, say hi to, there are some who look mean even if you’ve smiled and said hi, and there are those that cheer you on a cold day saying “go, us!” or out of nowhere give you a high-five (I suspect that woman confused me with someone she knew, but I loved it anyway). There are also a few strange ladies who, in the height of summer, bundle themselves weirdly in plastic outfits, like an antiquated example of how to lose weight. I always expect one to pass out – maybe then the geese will have something to peck.

Then there are the Boxers, or at least that’s what I call them. Assorted tough-looking guys shuffling forward in large hooded sweatshirts, hands shoved deep into the center pocket. It’s funny how you can tell when someone’s running for reasons other than running and these guys look like they belong in the ring.

Lastly, there’s the old guy who’s 70-something and fast. I’ve seen him at races – he wins his AG all the time, but would be considered fast by anyone’s standards. He’s there in the summer, long white beard and short shorts (nothing else), zipping along like a mad scientist with wings on his feet. I saw him drive out of the parking lot once in a Porsche convertible. I wanna be him when I grow up.

So there you have it; a wonderful mixed bag of shapes, sizes and species – as beautiful to watch as the rowers slipping their oars soundlessly into the river. Well, all except for Jesus Guy…he’s just creepy.

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