Trolls And Bridges

The young man sat with his back to the pale grey vertical pillar where the muddy path from the park met the small footbridge over the canal. His head was back, eyes closed, waiting for the sun to warm him. His coat hung loosely, as if the thin morning frost might cut straight through to his spine. In front of him, his hands cupped a thick paper cup branded with a coffee or restaurant logo, but I didn't recognise which one. He tipped the cup towards his face, either to smell the coffee or to count the money people had thrown in. Was there steam? It was hard to tell as I bobbed up and down to the pace of my early morning run.

Some decisions are made quickly. Some slowly. Some are instantaneous. When you're running you can switch off, as if your brain is on standby. Fear can be the greater driver. Fear was the dominant emotion. I could have done a neat sidestep past his outstretched legs, I was till fresh, and I like to think I'm flexible for my thirty five years. I could even have accelerated into a jump, noting that there were two feet of hard reliable surface on which to gain purchase before the point at which I would have had to have executed my take off. But I stopped. And once I had stopped, there was nothing that would make me restart. Of course I could have turned round, but I never retrace my steps in a run. Running is about making progress, about treading new ground. I never plan a route that returns the same way I have come.

And that, looking back, is why I made the joke. There must have been a point at which I thought it was funny, but even now I can't place it exactly. 'Who's that trip-tripping over my bridge' I said.

The young man turned his head slowly, staring at me. I must have smiled nervously for his features hardened. His beard defined his mouth perfectly, so that his flat mouth line was clear. His chin raised slightly in defiance. His eyes half closed then opened wide, grey-blue as the water that ran under the bridge. I noticed how the hairs of his eyebrows fanned out uncontrollably, but was relieved to see they didn't meet in the middle. I have an uncle....

He placed the coffee cup down beside him, on my side. Still, I had no idea whether it contained hot liquid, or if it was a collection tin. I quickly concluded that if it was coffee, he would shortly lift himself up to my height, or taller, he seemed taller than me now. I assumed the safer route.

'What's the toll, troll?'

His forehead furrowed in confusion, neither angry nor laughing. 'Troll?'

I jogged on the spot to indicate my urgency but it came out as nervousness. I felt the small internal pocket in my lycra and ran my finger over the hard ridge of a pound coin. I turned away so that he wouldn't see me pushing my hand into my clothing, and with a pincer like movement grabbed the coin. I stopped. Listening for movement behind me I heard a multitude of sounds. The gently flowing water lapping at the banks. The fresh spring leaves of the tall trees gently caressing each other in the cold air currents. The distant motorway. My feet again moving, toes solid on the mud but heels bobbing up and down. I took a step forward in case he was behind me, then spun round, ready to strike. But he continued to sit on the bridge, almost unaware of my presence.

My final act was instinctive. I started to sprint, launched myself into the air over the man's outstretched combat trousers, intending to reach so high that even if he lifted his leg to make contact he would not be able to reach to that extent. Immediately I took off, I calculated precisely the trajectory of my coin and launched it towards his cup. As I watched the coin spin through the air I felt initially elation, seeing the gold nickel glint just as it dipped inside the lip of the cup. I may have raised my fist in self congratulation. Then I felt embarrassment as I watched the small brown drops of coffee splash over the sides, and heard the all too loud plop.

I didn't look back. Neither could I use the bridge again. I had created my own troll.