The Domestic Goddess as Athlete
Back from camping now! It was fun and I have one funny story to share.
Six months ago I started running again (after a hiatus of several years). I set my sights on running the Peachtree Road Race as a motivation for getting back into shape. Sometimes it helps to have a reason to lace up those shoes.
As it happened, my last week of "training" (and I use that term very, very loosely!) coincided with my camping trip, which takes place in the mountains of North Georgia, in which there are no roads that aren't headed either straight up or straight down. So basically, my only option for running was a circuitous and hilly route around the campground. Flat on one side of the lake, then up an incline known by fellow campers as "Cardiac Hill." (They even have the name carved on a little wooden sign.) Back down the hill, around the clubhouse, a nice flat stretch around lots of motor homes, then up a hill so strenuous that you're really just walking it at a fast pace even though you haven't changed your pace. Down the other side of that hill, you feel smug and Olympic. (Why this hill didn't earn the name Cardiac Hill has never been explained to me.)
I ran three times during the week, enough so that I saw the same people up at the same time, walking or taking out their dogs or cooking their eggs and bacon on the outdoor grills. They always had something clever to say but I rarely heard them because I run to very loud music on my iPod-clone Zen, so I usually just smiled and waved. (This is the South, you know. If you don't greet people, they will think you are a Yankee. Can't have that.)
Anyway, on my last run, I made two and half circuits around the campground, passing some of these people three or four times. (For all the Yankees who might be reading this, know that you only have to smile and wave the first time. Thereafter you will not be perceived as inexcusably rude if you just keep looking straight ahead.) Finally I finished and slowed to a walk, not far from a gaggle of old guys shooting the breeze on the side of the road. As I approached, one old man peered at me out from under his straw hat and said, "You some kinda athlete or somethin'?"
Well, I was startled. But also pleased! Hey, no one has EVER mistaken me for an athlete before! Evvv-ver. So I modestly replied, "Oh, no, no. I'm just running the Peachtree on Monday. Trying to stay in shape for it." He looked confused. I added, "It's a race. In Atlanta."
He broke into a warm smile. "Oh, I see! Well, when you win that race, you'll have to come back and tell us all about it!"
He was so cute, and so sincere, I didn't have the heart to tell him I was up against 54,999 other runners. At least 50,000 of whom are virtually guaranteed to finish ahead of me. I just smiled and said, "You bet I will."
You just can't help feeling all warm and fuzzy about people when they believe the best for you.
Six months ago I started running again (after a hiatus of several years). I set my sights on running the Peachtree Road Race as a motivation for getting back into shape. Sometimes it helps to have a reason to lace up those shoes.
As it happened, my last week of "training" (and I use that term very, very loosely!) coincided with my camping trip, which takes place in the mountains of North Georgia, in which there are no roads that aren't headed either straight up or straight down. So basically, my only option for running was a circuitous and hilly route around the campground. Flat on one side of the lake, then up an incline known by fellow campers as "Cardiac Hill." (They even have the name carved on a little wooden sign.) Back down the hill, around the clubhouse, a nice flat stretch around lots of motor homes, then up a hill so strenuous that you're really just walking it at a fast pace even though you haven't changed your pace. Down the other side of that hill, you feel smug and Olympic. (Why this hill didn't earn the name Cardiac Hill has never been explained to me.)
I ran three times during the week, enough so that I saw the same people up at the same time, walking or taking out their dogs or cooking their eggs and bacon on the outdoor grills. They always had something clever to say but I rarely heard them because I run to very loud music on my iPod-clone Zen, so I usually just smiled and waved. (This is the South, you know. If you don't greet people, they will think you are a Yankee. Can't have that.)
Anyway, on my last run, I made two and half circuits around the campground, passing some of these people three or four times. (For all the Yankees who might be reading this, know that you only have to smile and wave the first time. Thereafter you will not be perceived as inexcusably rude if you just keep looking straight ahead.) Finally I finished and slowed to a walk, not far from a gaggle of old guys shooting the breeze on the side of the road. As I approached, one old man peered at me out from under his straw hat and said, "You some kinda athlete or somethin'?"
Well, I was startled. But also pleased! Hey, no one has EVER mistaken me for an athlete before! Evvv-ver. So I modestly replied, "Oh, no, no. I'm just running the Peachtree on Monday. Trying to stay in shape for it." He looked confused. I added, "It's a race. In Atlanta."
He broke into a warm smile. "Oh, I see! Well, when you win that race, you'll have to come back and tell us all about it!"
He was so cute, and so sincere, I didn't have the heart to tell him I was up against 54,999 other runners. At least 50,000 of whom are virtually guaranteed to finish ahead of me. I just smiled and said, "You bet I will."
You just can't help feeling all warm and fuzzy about people when they believe the best for you.
posted by Mamabird @ 1:19 PM
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