Nightmare on Main Street!

One of the advantages of running outside is that you get to choose your scenery. On the treadmill my scene is the brick wall to my left, dirty pile of laundry to my right and my tv which sits in the adjacent room. That scene never changes, except when the dirty laundry pile get bigger (sadly never smaller). Occasionally my cat will come in and take care of her business in the litter box in the corner. Outside, well I can take my pick of views. About 3 blocks from my house is a forest preserve with a running path. You will never, ever, catch me running in there. I repeat, never, ever! I have seen too many Dateline specials about women who end up missing while on their morning run through the forest preserve. I have seen enough horror movies where the hapless jogger is attacked by some crazy mask wearing assassin while running through the woods. And we all know that black women don't make it far in those movies. So, if I were to ever end up missing and my beloved spouse says I was jogging in the preserves, cue Drew Peterson footage and call the cops!

Out of fear of being abducted, I started taking a route the goes along several major streets. My logic being that if anyone tries to carry off a 5ft 11in woman wearing spandex from head to toe, there'd be people around to see it. My plan thus far has been working in that I've yet to encounter a would-be kidnapper. I have however, been approached by something far more sinister. Along my route there is a hot dog stand with a small parking lot out front. During my run late one Sunday afternoon, I was running past said hot dog stand, when I saw a robust man leaning against his car greasing down on an Italian beef sandwich. I had my music blaring, and was covered in a thick sweat. As I was passing Mr. Rotund, he began waving his hands at me as if to flag me down. Because I had my earbuds in, and he had a mouth full of shaved beef, I couldn't hear what he was saying. Foolishly, I stop my run, remove my buds, and ask him "what's up?" To my shock, horror, and complete amazement, he responds, "Can I go with you?" . Is this real? Are you f@*king kidding me? I'm out here grinding it out when I'd rather be on my couch, and this dude has the audacity to hit on me while I'm mid stride. Really?!? What makes you think we match. I'm running, you're leaning--on a car--eating a greasy sandwich--wearing a velour track suit! Can you go with me?!?! Where, running? Are you going to put the sandwich down and take off that sweltering jacket and run the block with me? What about me would make this dude in any way feel like interrupting the peace and tranquility of my run to hit on me. We are not a club, and I'm not dressed in my favorite little black dress. On the contrary, I clearly look like a woman on a mission--fitness. This exchange infuriates me. I was planning for Freddie Krueger jumping out on me, not Al Roker (old Al, not surgery Al). If I'm leaving the comfort of my home to engage in this activity, I really don't want to have to stop my stride to address some fool who has nothing better to do than harass passing joggers. This includes the guys who honk their horns and scare me half to death, so they can give me a sleazy thumbs up. Ick!

Needless to say, I have found another route. Now, you can find me on the quiet tree lined streets sharing the road with Yorkies and their owners. Here, I can run without fear of Freddie or Hamburglar, I can just run free.