There is a gorgeous-hunk-of-meat man jogging proudly through the Sepulveda basin. It’s a hot summer day and his sculpted tan body glistens with sweat. His golden hair flows as he easily runs up a slight hill and descends onto the running path. He is a glorious Palomino and it’s impossible not to stare. I see him most days, around 5:30 pm. I wonder who he is.
It’s the early 90’s – spandex, aerobics, steroids – and I idly wonder how he maintains his physique. I enjoy the view. I don’t think he’d mind – he’s wearing extremely brief running shorts and his gait is beautiful. I have totally objectified him.
The summer dissolves into a baking hot fall and still he runs. In winter he wears a thin shirt and those shorts – if it’s damp the shirt molds to his perfectly cut chest. Those legs – who is this man?
I think he must be a professional bodybuilder and I think he lives in the neighborhood. I’m pretty sure that maintaining his physique is his #1 job. What does he do and why? I invent a backstory – impossible not to – he is Mr. World and he oils his body for maximum display. He takes steroids because that’s what you do in his industry. When I don’t see him, it’s because he is competing – Switzerland, Brazil, Australia – I imagine he travels all over the world, first class, and drinks water and juice to stay hydrated. Those veins won’t pop if he’s dry. I wonder how long his reign will last?
And then I don’t see him for a while and my imagination goes elsewhere. Until one day, as I wait for the light to change, I see him. My golden man struggles to get up the hill. His lope has turned into a jog and he hangs his head. His gleaming blond hair is stringy. He is no longer king, but he is still out here. I admire his determination to keep fit.
As the years pass, he slows more. He wears t-shirts and terry headbands to protect his eyes from sweat. His body curls and it looks like he’s in pain. He shuffles down the street. I think that he’s paying the price for years of steroids and overtraining. I hope he saved his earnings and has a paid for home to live in.
He passed us last night. Despite the heat, he wore a watchcap, t shirt, hoody and shorts. His skin is leathery and his grey hair lies lank about his face. Still he trots – setting one foot before the other. He keeps his body moving…that’s his job now.
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 