Just Say "Gno"

Want to know why I don't take walk breaks?  It's not because it's ineffective -- it's quite effective, 'makes one's running even better, in fact.  I'd say it had something to do with pride, as in not wanting anyone to think I'm out for a walk but I'm over that one.  The reason I don't walk is gnats.  If you don't believe me go out and walk.  Then try and tell me I'm wrong with your mouth full of gnats.  Gnat Mouth!

During a well-deserved break at the top of a hill, I...I...coasted, I paused, shall we say, cruised for a moment, if you will.  They were in my eyes, noes and mouth in instant.  The only way I can describe what I did next is "crumping" (young folks: explain this to the older folks...): swat! duck! bend! arch! huh! a boom! boom! cat!

Then it dawned on me:  Run.  So I took off.  Of course, I had to verify if they were really gone, so I started walking again.  This did not go unnoticed by them so much.  I ran, walked, ran, walked, ran, walked.  This didn't look crazy at all to anyone who may have been about and therefore, see my previous dance moves.

I would never talk anyone out running -- it's great for your health.  Walking, on the other hand -- so hazardous!  Pleh!

Heading South

Dear Lost,

I hope when you receive this, you will  have made it back safely to the confines of wherever the hell you were trying to get to when you flagged me down like a lunatic.  I thought I'd ask:  why did you vote me most likely to give directions to the parkway?  Was it because I was:  Out of breath?  Had on headphones and, therefore, couldn't hear you, or, in my case, faked it really well?   

I've been there.  Lost, I mean.  I can't say I've ever imposed upon someone the way you did, though.  You messed up my entire workout by scaring me, pissing me off and pissing me off!  Don't you know the saying, "If, at first, you get ignored, drive, drive again"?  If Emily Post weren't already doing a continual grave-roll, she'd surely get to movin' for you.  I kept going when I saw you pull over because I've finally figured out that it's dangerous to stop for people who pull over, and you followed me anyway!  Since, now I had my back to you, which is also dangerous, I figured I'd turn around to see how many of you were in the car, and in the world,  and thank God it was only one.  Then I saw you waving at me frantically and rolling down your windows, and that's when I thought my butt must be on fire since who in their right mind would press their luck like you did unless they were trying to save someone from their butt being on fire?

Now I was at a full halt, not even a step-tap as to bring my heart rate down at a respectable speed, not to mention once I stop I don't feel like running anymore!  "Make.   A.   Right.   Up.   Ahead.   And.   You'll.   Be.   Heading.   West.   Then.   Just.   Follow.   The.   Green.   Signs."  And, just like that, you were gone, in too much of a hurry to throw out a 'thank-you'.  I should have told you where to go.

Ahhhemmm!!!

It's not a secret that I cough to mask my farts. It's my way of keeping as many eyes off me as possible (being invisible would have come in handy the time I accepted that hose-down wearing only a cheap sports bra).

But what about the times I want presence known, like if I'm coming upon a person or, in this example from my latest 4-miler, what looked like a maltipoo whose leash seemed to go on for 5K? I needed his owner to know I was coming -- she's got to get a handle on this dog or I'm going down.

"I could cough", I thought, but learned that people just think you're coughing and do absolutely nothing, especially women. I have found that we don't yield to eachother -- that's a guy thing. Tell me I'm wrong. You haven't noticed that? A woman is NOT going to walk on the little strip of grass so you can enjoy the entire girth of the sidewalk. Men do that. So, immediately, I knew even if I had a stroke while throwing up and yelling "fire" after getting shot and stabbed, statistically, she wasn't gonna' flinch. I needed her to know I was coming in time for her to make that dog heel.

So, I did what any runner under the delusion that they're experienced would -- I said, "Excuse me" as I passed her and my nightmare played out in a way that made me wish I'd done those drills and exercises that stengthen your core muscles: I had to swerve around the dog attached to the leash then went on for days, held by the woman who remained partially asleep the entire time.

WANTED: a workout whose success I can define in terms of how many calories were burned, how much conditioning was achieved, or how it improved my outlook, not whether or not I got run-over, knocked-unconscious or bitten.

Take Cover

Motorists: be honest. Do you hate pothole covers or me? If I didn't know better, based solely on the number of times you have almost driven over me rather than make contact with one of them, I'd have guessed potholes covers, but, then again, if you gave two squirrels asses, you'd take a few for me. I can accept that you hate me but more than a pothole cover? It's covered. That hurts. Let me just say that I am truly sorry you don't like sharing the road with me but you're going to have to learn to share it with pothole covers and stop swerving toward moi. What's that? Oh no, you most certainly did not suggest I run on the...you have got to be joking. I can't even say it. Maybe you should try it yourself first! I wouldn't even WALK on sidewalks if I didn't have to; those minefields of unevenness.  They are CAT scans waiting to happen! I should know! Months later, I'm holding my double A battery in its little cavity since I still can not find the freakin' cover that flew off sometime during what I hope was the biggest spill of my lifetime! I mean, were these things really designed with pedestrians in mind? I missed two races after that because my doctor said if I fell again I would break something!

If you vear near me with your car, I'm going to feed you one of my gel inserts.

DAY IN THE PARK

You know that thing squirrels do when you're about to hit them with your car? That annoying back and forth, confused scurrying business? That's nothing. Run into them on foot, say, doing an 8 minute mile, and they don't scurry. They know what's up. In fact, you have unkowingly incited a turf war. Just as you don't invite them into your gutters, they don't want you showing up at the park. Making matters worse is that squirrels of today are fatter than their forefathers (thanks to a steady diet of refined foods we drop on the ground) -- they have these asses and they're not afraid to pop a squat on them right in front of your path. Coming between you and your workout are more suirrels than you've ever seen in your life.

The last time I encountered this problem, I froze, clearly a sign of backing down.  Ultimately, I could be heard by nearby tennis-goers, saying what any other person in my running shoes would say: “Excuse YOU!” and “little prick!” Then I carefully ran around him, whispering, “Excuse me” and continued on my way.

Needless to say, I’ve had to map out new parks and have been pretty successful at finding ones where people outnumber squirrels or where the squirrels are just more educated and better-behaved. Where squirrels know their place. Where they “squirrel” around doing whatever it is squirrels are meant to do. And they leave 95 percent of the terrain, (let's forget it was intended to be shared by man and animal) to the humans because, well, we’re bigger!

ONE MAN'S TRASH

You see a lot more on foot than you would driving around and, aside from the deer, squirrel, motor oil, archery tournament, acorn and Christmas tree trunk-related incidents, it

really has been a great way for me to take-in the world.

For example, one might ask to what, in hell, I could possibly attribute my expertise on the stages of oak tree bark rot. Plod past some for two hours, twice a week for ten weeks and you’ll have your answer!

Now, I live in a place lined with parking meters, not trees, so if you’re wondering where I’m grabbing all this shade, I’ll tell you: in much wealthier neighborhoods, that’s where! It started with wanting to see how they live. Once I saw how they lived, naturally, I wanted to pretend I lived there too (that’s me, just out for a jog near “home” every Saturday and Sunday morning, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, nothing suspicious here.). Then I came to realize: rich people have the best garbage. So, once I felt I had successfully blended in, I focused on gaining as much insight as I could about my subjects – and previewing what goods I’d want to load into my car, simply by whizzing past their curbs. Through it all, preconceived stereotypes were shattered but mainly strengthened:

• Alcoholism crosses all economic lines – rich people can be drunks, too

• Rich people eat fast food. And sometimes even drop the wrappers in the road!

• Rich people don’t recycle more/less than the rest of us – but they do have shinier receptacles with the town name screen-printed on them

• If you’re rich and have graduated eighth or twelfth grade, you had a pretty big party.

• They do have people to do their lawn and they do have people to clean their pool. And they have pools. Cause they have like, really big yards.

• They apparently have nothing better to do than subscribe to newspapers. And by the way: the delivery woman on the route? Drives like a maniac! ‘Does U-turns wherever and whenever she pleases! Damn-near hit me! I ought to report her! I pay over twenty thousand dollars in taxes to live in this town!

• At this moment, a rich person could be putting out beaded board, china cabinets, tiffany lamps, framed art, Price Fischer play things for the kiddies, you name it – to be hauled off – and while you blurred away in your vehicle, I was scoring it all because I did my research!

I know. Unfair of me to generalize – I can’t truly know them until I’ve walked a mile in their shoes, whereas showering in their sprinklers? It’s made me feel a lot closer.