Our Man in Hong Kong

[Sweder]

Location: Wanchai, Hong Kong
Terrain: City Streets/ Park
Conditions: Warm, 98% humidity
Distance: Appx 5 miles
Duration: 59:30

I need to 'get one in' before flying home. Thursday will be dawn 'till dusk at the exhibition centre, so, as Rod would say, tonight's the night. The weather is on the turn here, gently warming up, the mists replaced by smog and a perpetual dampness that hangs in the air like a gossamer veil.

I set off from the hotel at 8 pm, heading East towards Victoria Park. The concierge tells me this is the closest place for joggers, and though it will be less visually inspiring than the wilds of the Peak, it'll do. I'm looking for a 45 minute slog to turn the legs over, get the blood pumping.

I abandon the pavements after 5 minutes. All human life is here; 5.5 million people in 2 square miles of concrete spires, and Mr World and his missus are out shopping in the muggy night air. My best option is to take to the roads. The frequent clusters of construction machinery keep the traffic in the outer lane, providing my own private half-lane. I run easily, enjoying the occasional quizzical glance from pedestrians, baffled by this chunky human traffic plodding through their city, clad in All Blacks swat top and surf shorts.

Victoria Park proves to be a runners paradise. Except that the well laid-out, beautifully lit running circuit, woven carefully between tress and shrubs, up hill and down dale, is this evening bisected by a temporary chainlink fence. Que Passe? Ah, the Hong Kong Flower Show! Blissful in my ignorance I head for the entrance. A portly, well attired guard steps forward. I wave (Shearer!), grin and duck in through the entrance, increasing my pace on an impromptu tour of the exhibits. Fabulous wicker sculptures dressed in exotic floral gowns float by; a rock exhibit, a collection of bamboo displays. On I speed, spying a side exit. I duck the barrier and re-join the dismembered jogging track.

This part of the circuit proves more popular, inhabited with a dozen or so locals moving at varying pace back and forth it's newly formed 700 metre length. We run like lab rats, following the channels to the man-made barriers, turning to retrace our tracks to what we already know to be another fence.

I check out my companions. A large, wobbly gentleman, probably younger than I and without doubt displaying a more eccentric running/ wobbling style. A lithe woman, hard body glistening with a light runners' sheen, moving easily at good pace, eyes fixed ahead. A couple of lads, hair spiked in a Gavin Henson stylee, chatting excitedly in local dialect.

Occasionally I dodge one of the smaller occupants of the track; cats. Lean, mean mini-tigers, possibly ferral, stalking small mammals in the shrubs and tree roots.

40 minutes after leaving the hotel I feel myself slowing. What's this? Fatigue? The past few nights' indulgences taking their toll? Surely I've accrued more beer vouchers than this over the past few months? I look down. My shirt clings heavily to my chest, my shorts have darkened by several shades: I'm drenched. 98% hummidity means just that - the air is actually water, masquerading as air. I'm amazed. I vow to head home, but not without a final circumnavigation of the park perimeter.

15 minutes later I'm regretting that last decision. My breathing is ragged, skin slick with sweat, legs heavy. Bloody hell! 45 minutes of gentle plod and I'm melting! Back to the streets, but my approach is too casual; I've mistaken one set of lights for another and I'm in a pedestrian zone teeming with shoppers. Which way? I know the causeway is to my right so I head for the water, darting through a thickening mass of indigenous and visiting humanity, mild panic rising slowly.

A scene from Blade Runner pops into my head.
Deckered is running, clad in heavy raincoat and dripping hat, gun raised, in pursuit of a Replicant. The neon signs, the moist air, the packed city streets, the etherial glow of pollution illuminated by giant neon advertisements; I'm in Ridley Scott's LA of the future, San Angeles. I shake my head. Get a grip, matey; you need a shower.

Two minutes later and I'm through the throng, standing, chest heaving, at the side of the main causeway. I turn left along the deserted walkway and back into Wanchai. Famliar shops, bars and hotels appear, and I'm back in my Swederlane. Finally the Novotel appears, a beacon of light in the sweaty neon street.

I ride the elevator with a new arrival. He glances nervously at this pink, glistening apparition dripping salt water onto the lift carpet. I check my stopwatch: 59:30. Probably the hardest 5 miles I've ever done in my life, but I feel OK. And I can hear the Guinness calling.