The Realist: The 7 Kinds of People You Meet on Bowen Road

Bowen Road is a long road in the Mid-levels that’s partially car and mostly pedestrian. It’s also basically the only place to go running in the Central/Sheung Wan/Wan Chai bubble. You could theoretically do the run by the harbour or Sun Yat Sen park but those are full of 10,000 old Chinese people doing tai chi. Having run on Bowen Road for the last nine years, I’ve noticed that I normally encounter the same sort of people. Seven of the same sort, to be specific:

Sweaty Shirtless Man: No matter how hot, cold, or rainy it is, Sweaty Shirtless Man refuses to wear a shirt. It’s part of his nature, I guess. He huffs and puffs and lumbers through his run, every step a testament to his survival and the indomitable spirit of humanity. I don’t think I’ve worked as hard at anything as sweaty shirtless man does for his run. The amount of sweat on his body is staggering – he glistens like a Twilight Vampire. If we could only collect the amount of water that sweaty shirtless man dispels from his body we could solve the water crisis in southern China.

Walk-and-Talk Girls. Occasionally appearing in bootcamp, Bodypump, and spinning classes, walk-and-talk girls treat exercise primarily as a time to chat. The spiritual rival to sweaty shirtless man, the W&T ladies have never seen a bead glide down their face and have never felt their heart rate increase in any way whatsoever, including during sex where (I assume) they lie on their back and starfish it while WeChatting with their friends. The W&T girls gather together for a slow jaunt through Bowen Road whilst dressed in perfect Nike or Adidas gear. The tight clothes normally betray a layer of fat around the midsection, or, if they’re young, those skinny-fat arms where if prodded would wobble for hours unabated. Sometimes you’ll spot them at dinner parties, complaining about their weight despite the exercise routine they’re on.

THE ATHLETE. THE ATHLETE can only be written about in ALL CAPS because THE ATHLETE seems to have gotten lost at the Olympics and ended up on Bowen Road. Dressed in tights or waaaaay too short shorts, THE ATHLETE is a running Terminator, here only for the purpose of running to save humanity. I imagine he or she has some corporate job and failing relationship that can only be soothed through the strict discipline of physical fitness. You know THE ATHLETE approaches because you hear the steady intense breathing, and the clop-clop of approaching New Balance running shoes, chasing you like old age, thinning hair, and death. Despite your attempts to be fit yourself you must let THE ATHLETE fly on by – you have as good a chance at beating THE ATHLETE as you do escaping your own shadow.


Bowen Road. Photo: Marc van der Chijs via Flickr

Mainland Guy with Radio. Of all the freaks, I like the MGWR the best. He’s got his shirt rolled up halfway and slapping his stomach as he half-runs, half-walks the trail. He’s also forgotten about modern technology, for instance, iPhones or headphones. Instead he’s got an old radio he holds as he runs, listening to an old melodic Chinese song or an absolutely horrible Peking opera. I’m never quite sure what he’s doing on Bowen Road, and he never seems quite sure himself either. All he’s got is a half-shirt on, a radio, and a dream.

Helper with Dog or Baby. True story: I went to a potluck dinner and everybody brought a dish. Dumplings, noodles, skewers, and pie were amongst the dishes. “Oh my goodness!” the hostess declared, “Did you make this yourself?” “Yes,” the guests said one by one, following it quietly with “my helper did.” It’s these sort of guests who leave the parenting and walking to the helpers who trudge along silently whilst their employers sit at the Shangri-La and have one more glass of rosé.

The Almost Marathon Runner. The AMR can sometimes be confused with the athlete, but doesn’t exactly have the body for it. Instead, he’s a svelte guy in a matching top and bottom, rail thin, and jogging quick, doing his thing. He’ll pass you and keep going forward on his pace, one foot in front of the other, until he’s disappeared in the distance. But then, you’ll find him a kilometre later. It’s not a tortoise and hare story – he’s doing some sort of weird stretches by the side of the road and opening up his hip flexors. Then he’ll run past you again and you’ll find him doing some push-ups or checking his iPhone. Is he running? Is he tired? Is he doing this just to mess with me? It’s a question that will never be answered.

The “Why Am I Doing This” Runner. This is the category I mostly fall into. Every month or two I think, it’s time for me to try something different, and I get a taxi, go to Bowen Road, and take off. A third of the way through I realise that this is extremely boring and I need to stop, but then I know I’d have to walk the rest of it and be passed by eight ATHLETES and at least three Almost Marathon Runners. So I trudge along, swearing quietly to myself, waving to other runners going along, avoiding cars, staring at that weird house with a million cameras that must be owned by gangsters, making a series of life decisions and resolutions I know I won’t keep, angry, bitter, tired, exhausted, and bored. So like normal life. But with running.


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