So I did the Color Run last week. It was the first ‘run’ I’ve ever done. For those of you whom know me, you know that the words ‘fit’, ‘healthy’, and ‘athletic’ are not words which apply to me.

It was only a 5km run, but I was still surprised that I wasn’t dead by the end of it.

Anyway, the distinguishing feature which gives this event it’s name is the ‘color stations’ which are regularly spaced throughout the course. These stations are manned by staff who grab fistfuls of ‘colour’ from drums along the edge of the course, and pelt the passing competitors with them.

Except, that’s not exactly what happened. More often than not, people did not simply pass benignly through the stations, unfazed by the riot of vibrant friendly-fire, as they made their way to the finish line. Instead, they stopped. They paused to stand in front of the spectrum of artillery, they fleeced ammunition and loosed it upon friends and unknown passers, they even lay down upon the hue-drenched grass and began to writhe and grind the raw colour into their bodies.

I think that was more confronting than the actual exercise.