Flashes of Panic

Tonight’s workout was pretty good for the shape I’ve been in lately. Two “half mile” road loops incorporating a significant hill, a three-mile (plus) hilly loop at about 6:40 pace (based on feel) with four 30-second pick-ups thrown in, then a hard mile on the track, which I did in 5:51.

Then came the clown. I’ve been pretty lucky that in my running career, most of the random heckling I’ve heard has been of the unimaginative “Run! Run!” sort. (I assume these are the same people who moo out their windows at cows beside the road.) Tonight as we were cooling down there was a guy—probably younger than me but evidently of the variety who think “exercise” is some kind of scam—who felt an unrestrainable urge to comment on the length of my shorts.

Now, I wear “real” running shorts, which is to say, I have not followed the recent fashion which calls for runners to wear, say, basketball shorts which come to their knees, or even soccer shorts. My shorts generally have a split leg. I wouldn’t wear them into the grocery store if I could avoid it. They’re for running. So I let him air his ignorance in his off-color way without response from me. Our cool-down loop brought us past him twice; the second time, the woman in his group was obviously embarrassed, which was more gratifying than any come-back from me.

A said to me, “Clearly he’s jealous of something.” I agreed, “Yeah, he’s probably never run sub-6 in his life.”