I think I’ve figured out how the racing man manages to race the trains so hard in this part of the world.
This morning we were speeding along to Leicester as usual away from the Parkway and before I knew it, there he was, racing up the inside of the track getting closer and closer.
It was enthralling, and I wondered whether he risked falling under the wheels of the speeding loco, but no, he dotted and darted, up and around, and my goodness, there he was, right up to the carriage windows, looking in, searching for someone or something.
For a split second he came right up to my window and I gasped when I saw him and realised: he’s flying, he’s not running, he’s flying! He must have had – I don’t know – six, ten, a dozen – pairs of ultra thin, gauze wings which were whirring at an incredible rate, so fast you couldn’t see them unless the sun caught them.
Racing man wasn’t just a running man but a flying man, a force of nature. And before I could say anything to anyone in the carriage, he’d peeled away from the train, still racing, beating the train into second place as we rushed through Loughborough station.