The first shove happened early on. Definitely within the first kilometre. It was subtle and maybe even a bit gentle. Like it could’ve easily been a mistake: maybe he tripped and accidentally pushed his shoulder into my arm. Perhaps it happened so quickly he didn’t even notice, which is why he must not have stopped to apologise. He might’ve mistaken me for a lamp post.
That was how I rationalised it, anyway. But then came the second shove. And then the third. And fourth. In total, seven men either barged past or into me that Sunday while I was running a 10km race. Yes, I counted.
