I like jogging even though it hurts my ass.

I jog alone. Always have done. Always will. I have no desire to join those run club cults. The ones that require $500 bowel movement tracking GPS watches, taut and tanned legs, spongy art gallerist trainers, banal flirtation between lonely souls, post-run oat flat whites, and sex-freak vests.

Maybe I do want to join one, but I’m too embarrassed. I’m just too ugly and too slow. Anyways, my running habits wouldn’t fly in these groups. People would figure me out, think I’m a freak and then ostracise me. They wouldn’t get it.

My runs aren’t dictated by distance, speed or heart rates. I’ll never look at a plan written by a wiry Frenchman trying to sell me his weird running caps. I’ll never track miles and “effort ratings” in a notebook.  I just go until the moment my brain says “You’ve seen enough. Go home”. This could be 10 miles, 2 miles or 100 feet. There’s a beauty in it. This is my way. My whole existence is formed by the dictates of others: banks, utility companies, bosses and mobile apps. I don’t want to add another thing or person to that list.

Back to why I run. I’m not going to feed you some philosophical or spiritual tripe. I haven’t come up with any grand statements about how running is a metaphor for life; I’m too stupid to find the words. And I’m not trying to discover the ‘surprising depths of my physical and mental fortitude’. I already know them well, and they suck. Truth be told, jogging provides me with excellent cover to cop good old looks at strangers without being too conspicuous.

Yes, I’m a starer. It’s a habit that I never grew out of. “Stop glaring at people. It’s rude,” my parents used to say. Why is it rude? Germans do it all the time. I don’t think they’re that rude. And in any case, it’s fun and interesting, essential to a good outing even. And I assure you, I’m no perve. I just need material to create my stories. It’s harmless. Jonathan Kemp, 63 years old. Divorced twice because his finance job fucked up his relationship with his wife and kids. Both sets, same story. Trip to Turkey to get a hair transplant in 2 months’ time. Not as miserable as you’d think. Making up these stories is the only worthwhile thing you can do if you’re trying to avoid iPhone brain rot while you’re on the train, a bus, or in a crowded cafe. And you must stare at people good and proper for the magic to happen.

Living in bustling city is one of my great blessings. My runs have me dipping through bustling streets, stinking alleyways, parks full of life’s winners and parks full of life’s losers. It’s a smorgasbord; there’s plenty of material. They’re in restaurant windows on awkward first dates, on benches kissing their Shih Tzus and in the passenger seats of Ubers avoiding driver conversations. They all have two stories. The one they tell themselves and the one in my head.

I always go slow, so I can really ogle. And I take breaks too. Whenever I see a drink fountain I’ll stop, have a drink, stretch and snoop around. Like yesterday in Dog Leg Park. I stopped by one of my usual fountains near the little lake and saw a young couple sitting at a bench across from me. The guy was smacking a tattered notebook against his chest and seemed to be giving some impassioned speech to the lady. She looked ahead with a thousand yard stare and played with her car keys. Grace and Jeremy, 31 and 33. Jeremy is a laze-about who’s living off Grace’s trust fund. Grace doesn’t mind, but Jeremy hates himself for it. Grace wants two kids: a boy and a girl. Jeremy doesn’t. Jeremy wants to play writer, and thinks kids would get in the way. They definitely wouldn’t. I chuckled to myself and thought I might just yell out “Grace and Jeremy, break up already. It’s gonna get worse from here”, but thought better about spoiling their day.

I really love Dog Leg Park. And I think I’ll continue doing laps around it until I can’t anymore.

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Freda Payne is a loveable cynic who spends their days writing silly emails and stories. They also like yelling at traffic and clouds