An American in Provence

Some people, when they run, get very happy, love the world, love being alive, love moving, love the wind, love the sun, love other people, love the birds chirping, love the light refreshing drizzle.

Not me. I am a very grumpy runner.

After a few weeks of admiring my new running shoes in the box, and a few too many comments from one Frenchman along the lines of "So, did you spend 83€ on new running shoes just to look at them?" (well yeah, at least until spring, duh)
I finally laced 'em up and headed out.
There is a track right nearby, which is usually not too crowded. The problem is, everyone else bothers me.
The father and son playing soccer and my occasionally having to kick the balls back their way mid-stride. The two women walking slightly faster than window shopping in the first two lanes. Move over! Geez. You would think that after being lapped by me 20 times passing a few inches from them, they would get the hint and move over say, to lanes 2 and 3, but nope.

The other runners with their headphones turned up REALLY LOUD. The kids playing with their remote-controlled trucks on the track. The person in the apartment building looking over the track with music turned up at 9 am on a Sunday.
The group of men standing in a circle taking up the entire width of the track, kicking around a soccer ball, whereas there is plenty of room in the center of the ring formed by the track for them to play, plus empty goal posts. I don't care. I run right through them, whereas other runners go over into the weeds to get around this group of men.
The track is for running.
I am on the track.
I am running.
Ergo, I have priority.

Hmph.