Run Report for a Freedom parkrun in Paraguay!

So there I was on Friday 13th, sitting shirtless, shoeless, and somewhat un-sober under a mango tree by a river deep in the heart of South America in temperatures approaching 40 degrees, when I thought of Swindon parkrun re-starting the next day.

 Denying myself another ice-cold beer, I decided to have an earlier night than usual in preparation for an earlier start than usual at 5.30am, to put on my trainers, eat a banana, warm up, and run 5k at exactly 6am local time, in synch with Swindon, three hours ahead of Paraguay.

 The sun was rising as I set off out of the village along a red dirt road to the sound of cockerels crowing. Within five minutes, I was way out in the campo (= countryside, but not exactly the Cotswolds) where the only signs of life were screeching parakeets and wading wading birds.  By kilometre two, I had so relaxed into my running rhythm, with only my shadow for company, that I mistook an extra-green patch of campo for grass. It was swamp and I was in it, up to my knees. No bother. Got out ok, scraped the mud and leeches off my legs, and ran on, with trainers squelching.

Headed towards dry sandy stretch and immediately spotted a trail of what looked like very fresh big pussy paws. The puma, though rare hereabouts, is, I seemed to remember, only known as  a calf-killer. So I carried on, a little nervous but preferring sand to swamp, and hoping my memory served me well.

Suddenly, round a bend, facing me, in the middle of the track, with swamp on one side and jungle on the other, was the paw-print creature. It was huge, underfed, and looked hungry. 

It was rather odd, out there, in the middle of nowhere at that time of day, that wandering about on its own should be a Great Dane mongrel dog. As I jogged by, very slowly, with a palm leaf of peace in my hand, it ignored me, and lay down to rest.

 Approaching fifteen minutes into the run and, to make it a genuine 5k parkrun, and feeling I should be turning round and heading back to the village of Belen, I saw a strange sight ahead. A battered pick up truck, with a blue light strapped to its roof, edged out of the trees, and stopped halfway across the track. Three men in ragged uniforms, with lots of badges and armed up to their armpits, got out and signalled me to stop.

`Identificacion señor!´ said the one who looked least like he had ever run in his life. `Mi pasaporte esta en casa, pero tengo este.´ I said, offering him all I had by way of identification on my pocket-less shorts, my tied-on parkun barcode, of course!  They looked at it, frowned, then laughed, and waved me on.

It was good to get back to the safety of the old mango tree and even better to take a dip in the river. Ah, that wonderful post-parkrun feeling, even in perilous but paradisal Paraguay, from where thoughts go out to Paris . . .