A Jogger

Let's say his name was Chip, or if not Chip something in the Chip family. The International Fraternity of Chips really missed out if this guy's name wasn't Chip. So a man, this Chip and certainly a man, runs. He looks like this is maybe the first time he has run. He looks like this is maybe something someone else has put him up to, this running. His form is awkward. He runs like he is continually trying to side-step out of his own gait, a rhumba-ish hip. 

Made even more odd by his hair. Well his hair, and face and skin. He has smooth, tan skin and an untroubled face.  Long salt and pepper hair tucked back behind his ears has come free and hangs over part of his face.  He is doubtless forty to forty-five. At the same time he is a teenager, a baby-face, a young 'un. His expression is somewhat clueless, though easy in that Chip-ish way. I don't know why, but he appears free of social phobias: friended, familyed, healthy. This jogging is his most complicated act.

An untutored jogger, a jogger trying to side-step his own gait. Looking both middle-aged and childish. Jogging not down Central Park West, but along the ridge in his own appearance.