Ever Get That Feeling of Pure Hatred?

Officially, there are worse places to jog than in Prague. I had grown accustomed to the exercise mores of Marrakech; I have a knack for dodging petits-taxis, high-fiving parking attendants, and getting groups of school children to cheer me on as I waddle down the street and up the steps of Marrakech city hall like Rocky-Mustafa.

Not really.

It's important to remember that I spent a good deal of my time in my first few months finding the best (read: least likely to get me killed) jogging and cycling routes. By the time I departed Marrakech this last time, I had a three and a half mile jogging loop mapped through residential areas of the city with minimal two-stroke engine exhaust exposure.

Prague is another story. While Morocco I have to deal with temperatures being just right or too bloody hot, in the Czech Republic I have experienced only a few days of perfect outdoor exercise weather. Also, Marrakech has potholes, broken sidewalk tiles, low hanging trees, asshole drivers, donkey crap, and no traffic laws.

Not my photo. What is funny is that I know where this was taken, am not surprised by this in the least and that the guy is dragging his cart through one of the busiest intersections in all of Marrakech.

Prague has some things much more sinister. Some things much more difficult to avoid. Some things that try my sanity. Cobblestones and tourists. One has a very dense top that can hurt my knees and ankles with each impact and one has a very thick skull that hurts my brain and heart with each encounter.

Typical Prague cobblestones.

Typical Prague numbskulls.

Tell you what, folks; the trail parallel to the Vltava River is wide enough to be shared.  In fact, it is about 30 meters wide where I tend to always meet you.  And yet you still insist upon walking toward me, 30 abreast, doddling along as if you'll receive the congressional medal of honor if you're able to hold your line.  You can see me coming from at least a hundred yards away and I'm hard to miss.  I'm the fat, wheezing American shuffling toward you, rocking out and singing along to REO Speedwagon.  I know you see me.  I know because you all simultaneously look up, chuckle to yourself, look at your neighbor and chuckle then REFUSE TO MOVE.  

It's a well known fact that it's easy to spot an American anywhere in the world.  If you ever see someone jogging or doing some form of exercise outside of the United States, it is an American.  It's true and scientifically documented.  Perhaps that is why they don't move.  No matter, but it is so frustrating when I actually have to stop my stride, hold out my arms and shrug my shoulders and they look at me dumbfounded as if the two inches between Gertrude's breasts and Frauke's 1986 video camera was enough for me to slide between.  So sorry to interrupt your tour, dear friends, but next time I have to do this I am going to shake my head around like a shaggy dog and soil your fancy new "Czech Me Out" t-shirt with essence de Garren.

I just can't fight this feeling anymore.