The last time I went to the
Nice Shop to buy some proper running shoes, they had me pile up and down St. Michael's Hill (it's steep, even for Bristol) a half-dozen times in different examples so they could 'check my gait' and watch me expire on the pavement afterwards
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I should note, for the purposes of clawing hold of what vanishing (post)punk cred I may have had left, that I do my running in cut-off flecktarn combats and a sleeveless Whitby shirt.
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