I never thought that I would ever, ever run after a bus, but I have joined the ranks of those sad individuals that chase after buses just to avoid a fifteen minute wait. I still haven't employed the tactic of running in front of the bus so that it can't drive away; I'm afraid that I'd end up a grill ornament. But I suppose there's time.
I still can't quite believe that I'm involved in such ridiculous behavior. In college (or university, as I must now say), I was a vehemently against running to class. Even if I was late, I would never stoop to dashing across campus, dropping books, spewing papers, breathing like chain-smoking grandma and arriving to class dripping with lovely Arkansas perspiration. Never. Anyway, I hate running.
When I first moved to Hong Kong, my dad asked me if I was a bus-runner. Of course, I answered no. But just a couple days ago, I surprised myself. I was going to Central, so I had to hike up our lovely steep, curvy stairs and then walk up a hill to get to the bus stop. I had just cleared the stairs and started up the hill when I saw my bus pulling up. Before I even knew what I was doing, my legs started booking it up the hill.
A little old man was in front of me, walking right in the middle of the sidewalk. Somehow, I'm not quite sure how, I leaped around him, pushed off of a rock (ducking a couple of grasping shrubs), and kept going. I think I saw the several hairs on his dome blow back as I passed.
Yes, I made it to the stop in time.