7:45ish A.M. I'm on the return home stretch from a jog to the Stratosphere. Few cars are out. Heading west, my long shadow keeps one step ahead of me. It's great, it's what runs are all about. When enter stage left, crossing Alta diagonally toward me, here comes this on-the-portly-side couple. Let's call them 50-somethings. Their dress is a combination of jeans, flannel, and terrycloth. The woman's ahead of the man. In the absence of traffic they're free to move at their own pace and regard me as I jog on on the right side of the road. I'm well past them when I hear the woman mutter loudly the following word, I'm 3/4 sure at me: "Pervert." Huh? methinks. But then I suppose she's right: who joneses for some old-fashioned Sunday morning exercise, good ol' Teddy Roosevelt style, after moving to the very hive of dollar-based sin and fabulous fakery? It is perverse, hysterically so.