Why I need to stop watching Nancy Grace

I do the majority of my runs close to home, in a neighborhood comprised mostly of retired couples and rich Canadians who think it’s super hip to have a summer home south of the border.

As such, I usually pass by several old people walking small dogs over the course of my usual route, but I hardly ever see other runners. Which is fine with me—whenever I catch a glimpse of another runner in the distance, my competitive juices start flowing, and I feel compelled to somehow “beat” them, either by being the first to reach a certain point along the road (if they are running towards me) or passing them before I reach a certain point along the road (if they are ahead of me).

So to be honest, I’d much rather smile and wave at Dr. Nelson and his bichon frise, Princess Beatrice, than enter into an involuntary speed showdown that, whatever the outcome, will almost certainly leave me feeling like a complete nerd/loser.

Today, however, was different.

As I exited the land of late-onset empty-nest syndrome and turned right onto the main road, a flash of motion jumped into my peripheral field of vision.

I turned my head and squinted into the morning sun, trying to get a better look at this mystery exerciser—the first one I had seen in days. But he was completely backlit, and all I could see was the distant silhouette of a…roller blader?

Hold the phone, I thought. Did I really just see a freaking roller blader?

As I strode along, I racked my brain for the last time I had ever laid eyes on a pair of roller blades. I finally decided that it must have been at least a decade, since everyone knows roller blades haven’t been cool since “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” was on the Billboard Hot 100.

No, wait—I thought—I think I saw a pair at that white trash garage sale I stopped at a couple of years back, the one where I almost got talked into buying a set of Harry Potter Happy Meal toys from a 6-year-old with a Kool-Aid mustache.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted as an elderly gentleman zoomed by me on some sort of wheeled contraption that can only be described as the awkward lovechild of a mountain bike and a Nordic Track ski machine.

So it wasn’t a roller blader, I thought, shrugging my shoulders with an inexplicable feeling of disappointment—like I’d just seen Bigfoot but then realized it was only Jack Black with his shirt off.

I ran on, wondering why I had never seen this guy out on the roads before. About a mile down the road, I heard the faint sound of an approaching set of motorless wheels.

Then, from behind me: “You’re beautiful.”

My heart jumped. Oh crap, I thought. It’s finally happening. I’m going to have to karate-chop some pervert and make a run for the nearest dog-walking senior citizen.

I had reviewed my response to this exact scenario many times in my mind. The only problem is that, despite my best intentions, I still haven’t taken the martial arts self-defense class I’ve been meaning to enroll in for the last six years.

With no bank of kick-ass ninja moves to draw from, I picked up my pace and stole a quick look to my right to size up my attacker. He was skinny and at least 60 years old.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I could escape from him with nothing more than a swift kick to the crotch and a few hundred meters of sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Your form, I mean—it’s absolutely perfect,” he said as he glided past my right shoulder.

I think he knew he had startled me, because he kept a comfortable distance between us as he continued on with his somewhat flattering commentary of my gait.

“I just love watching you run,” he said. “I can see the winner inside you.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” I said, not knowing how else to respond to such an odd compliment.

The winner inside me? Was that some kind of cryptic sexual reference?

I picked up the pace another notch and made a sharp turn onto a small footpath that led to a narrow canal bridge, hoping it would prove too great an obstacle for his bike-ski hybrid.

“Oh, I see we have the same route,” he said, following me down the path.

I was on the verge of veering off into someone’s backyard and screaming, “Help! I need an adult!” But before I had the chance, he opened his mouth again.

“I’m Bob, by the way,” he said. “I ran competitively for 30 years, and I can always pick out the best runners just by looking at their form.”

After Bob introduced himself, the strength of his creeper vibe diminished considerably. I got the feeling that he was just like me—a lonely runner in a world of tiny sissy dogs with out-of-shape owners.

“My name’s…” I hesitated for a second, weighing the consequences of giving him my real name and ultimately deciding it probably wouldn’t hurt. “…Brooke. I actually ran in college, and my coaches always said I had good form too.”

Bob rode his ski apparatus next to me for another half-mile or so. We chatted about cross training and cartilage breakdown—you know, normal running small talk.

After we parted ways, I wondered if I had just seen a glimpse into my future. Would that be me someday, riding a funny-looking bike thing and striking up unsolicited conversations with young whippersnapper runners?

I can accept that as my fate, as long as I never reach the point where I have a miniature Schnauzer named Prince Charles.