Do you say hello?

Do you say hello?

I do. Most people on my loops do too. Not all of them. You learn the faces without meaning to. Same paths, same times. After a while it is less a greeting and more a roll call.

The ones who say it. A proper hello. A breathy hi. That little raised-hand thing that is still a hello even if no sound comes out. You get used to seeing them at the same bend. You are not friends. You would not know their surname. You still notice if they are missing for a week, which is a bit mad when you think about it. I have worried about people I have never spoken to. Then they reappear on a Tuesday and you both go “morning” like nothing happened, because nothing did.

I used to say it to everyone. Full commitment. Then you meet the blanks.

Face set. Eyes on a point six metres ahead. Miserable, or concentrating, or both. I took it personally at first. You offer a hello into the air and it dies. Makes you feel like a bit of an idiot, especially if you have already started the word. Now I do not bother twice. Some people are in a hard session. Some people are in a hard life. Some people just do not do the hello. Fine. I still offer it once. After that I save my breath.

Walkers get a nod. That feels like the right size. A full hello can land oddly if they are out with a dog and a coffee and you are sweating past them like a late parcel. A nod says I see you, I am not going to clip you, carry on. Most walkers nod back. The ones who do not are usually on the phone. Fair enough. I am the one in the silly shorts.

Then Strava.

You know the first name, the usual loop, the fact they did 14k on Thursday. In the street they are a vest and a watch. Online they are a little map. I have given kudos to people I would not recognise in Tesco. I have recognised people I have never spoken to because the route is always the same and the jacket is always the same. It is a strange almost-knowing. Not friendship. More like you have been in the same queue for years.

One grinned at me on the cold of Christmas morning. Proper grin. Empty roads, that thin winter light, everyone else in the house still asleep, and this woman coming the other way looking as pleased to be out as I was. I grinned back. Later I followed her on Strava. Not really stalker, eh? I told myself that at the time. I still tell myself that. Occasionally the two worlds click and you get a proper hello, which feels like cheating, in a good way.

One of the grumps works in an optician. I only know that because I have seen him in there, same set face, helping someone with frames. On the path he gives you nothing. In the shop he is at work. He is not specifically unhappy to see me. He blanks me just the same. He is just like that. The running face and the shop face are identical. He has never served me yet. When he does I will comment on his watch. Chuckle and call him out. Maybe I will not. I have rehearsed it, which is already too much thought for a man who will not say morning.

There is another friendly. Have not seen her for a while. She was out a lot. Always chatting on the phone, quite a conversational pace, like the run was just something happening to her legs while she got on with a proper conversation. I used to hear the end of sentences as I went past. Laughter, sometimes. Then she was gone. I still look for her on the stretch where she used to be. Wonder where she has got to. People vanish off loops. New job, bad knee, moved house, had enough. You never find out. That is the deal.

Another grump is a man with a shuddering arm in his run style. You cannot miss him. The arm does its own thing. I said hello once. Nothing. Said it again a week later because I forgot my own rule. Still nothing. Now I do the same as him. We pass. The arm shudders. The air stays empty. It works.

A few more, if I am honest.

The club vests who only greet their own. Fair. That is a pack, not a public footpath committee. I have been on the other side of that too, in a group, and you do go inward. Not proud of it. It happens.

The ones with both buds in who still twitch an eyebrow. That counts. They are in a song. They still saw you.

The too-fast ones. No time for words. You get a puff of air and a glove. Also counts. I have been that person, watch beeping, lungs everywhere, and the hello comes out as a grunt. Sorry, if that was you.

The double-takers. You have both started the hello too early, fifty metres out, and now you have to commit, slightly too loud, like you are in a play. There is no way back. You either go through with it or look at a tree. I go through with it. Then we are too close and it is hello again, quieter, which is worse.

I generally do it. I think most people do. It costs nothing and it makes a dark morning feel slightly less like you are the only idiot out there. I do not need a conversation. I do not need a name. A hello, a nod, a raised finger. That is plenty.

The blanks can stay blank. I will still go past the optician window later and not wave. Some things can stay on the path.

I do try to be kind. I do not ever give someone a second chance.