Never Stop (Especially after you cross the finish line because there are 20,000 people behind you)

Ever since I moved to Phoenix, I’ve had some variation of the following conversation with pretty much every local resident I’ve met.

Arizonan: So, you’re a runner?

Me: Yeah. I ran track in college, and I still run pretty much every day.

Arizonan: Have you ever done Pat’s Run?

Pat’s Run—an annual event that raises money for the Pat Tillman Foundation and honors the legacy of a fallen American hero—is the crown jewel of the Phoenix racing calendar. It’s essentially the last major race before the city again descends into the fiery depths of hell (a.k.a. summer) for approximately four months. It’s also the Valley’s largest running event of the year, with more than 20,000 participants.

It didn’t take long for me to ascertain that I would never truly be accepted into the Phoenix running community until I had at least one Pat’s Run under my belt. It’s a rite of passage of sorts—an initiation into the fraternity of fellow crazy people who scarcely bat an eye at the thought of logging several miles in triple-digit heat. So when I found out that my company was sponsoring a team—and offering to pay half of each participant’s registration fee—I took it as a sign from the Universe that it was my destiny to run this race.

By the way, the theme of the entire shebang—and the inspiration for the title of this post—is “Never Stop.” And let me tell you, the organizers of this race really live out their rallying cry to the fullest extent possible—as in, “Never Stop promoting this race until everyone within a 500-mile radius uses it as a go-to topic of conversation when making small-talk with hobby joggers,” and “Never Stop allowing people to register for this event, even when the size of the race field far exceeds the capacity that the race venue can comfortably support,” and “Never Stop running, even after you have crossed the finish line, because there are literally thousands of people coming in behind you and that shit backs up quick.”

All in all, the race itself was fairly uneventful. My performance was neither outstanding nor abysmal: I finished the 4.2-mile course in 25:27 (the distance is a tribute to Tillman’s jersey number as a member of Arizona State’s football team) to nab sixth-place honors in the women’s race. Now, that might seem somewhat impressive considering the massive list of entries, but keep in mind that the vast majority of “runners” in this race were not runners at all. In fact, I would estimate that the true “racing” field—that is, people who actually treated this event as a competition—consisted of about 2,000 people.

Anyway, the real challenge of Pat’s Run is arriving not at the finish line, but at the starting line. Here’s what I was up against:

• 7 a.m. gun time
• 12-mile commute to race site (Arizona State University in Tempe)
• Road traffic from 20,000 race participants (plus spectators)
• Limited parking

Adding another layer of difficulty to the whole ordeal was the fact that I was flying solo. With no support crew to chauffeur me to the starting line and baby-sit my belongings, I had to plan very, very carefully. The night before the race, I hemmed and hawed over whether I should drive to Tempe—and deal with the headache of bottlenecks and parking wars—or take advantage of public transportation. I opted to go public, concluding that I would rather take my chances with smelly train bums than waste my adrenaline reserves contending with road-raging douchebags. With my transportation decision locked in, I chowed down some pasta and turned in early. Here is how it all shook out on race morning:

4:00 a.m. – Alarm goes off.

4:01 a.m. – I briefly consider the possibility that I am merely having a dream in which my alarm is going off, because who in their right mind sets an alarm for 4 a.m. on a Saturday?

4:02 a.m. – The race. I have a race. I have to get out of bed so I can get to the race.

4:03 a.m. – But I don’t really have to go to the race. I mean, I already have the t-shirt. And what’s the point of running when I already have the t-shirt?

4:04 a.m. – I paid $20 to run this race. I am running it.

4:05 a.m. – Then again, what’s the value of restfulness? Can you really put a price on sleeping in on a Saturday?

4:06 a.m. – I remember that Pat Tillman died for America.

4:07 a.m. – COFFEE.

4:10 a.m. – Still drunk with slumber, I clumsily jam a piece of bread into the toaster. I then take dedicate a few minutes to unnecessarily banging around the kitchen, slamming random drawers and cupboards in hopes that I will wake my upstairs neighbors—who apparently feel it is 100% acceptable to vacuum their floors at 11:00 p.m. Every. Single. Night.

4:15 a.m. – I stuff a piece of toast into my mouth. Chewing requires an exorbitant amount of effort.

4:30 a.m. – Clothes on.

4:35 a.m. – Hair done.

4:38 a.m. – Teeth brushed.

4:40 a.m. – Number pinned.

4:45 a.m. – How dafuh does this disposable chip thingy work?

4:50 a.m. – Chip thingy secured (I think).

4:55 a.m. – I gather up my essentials (money, debit card, ID, sticky note with emergency contact numbers written on it) and tuck them all into the tiny zipper pocket on the waistband of my shorts. I make the difficult but necessary decision to leave my phone behind.

5:00 a.m. – Phone-less, I get into my vehicle and drive to the closest metro rail park-and-ride. I realize that, for the next several hours, no one will be able to contact me. I’m basically off the grid. It’s almost as if I do not exist. I am a rogue outlaw.

5:15 a.m. – I purchase a ticket for the metro. I am surrounded by other racers, many of whom are laughing and chatting as if hanging out in downtown Phoenix at five in the morning on a Saturday is a completely normal and in no way insane thing to do.

6:05 a.m. – I arrive in Tempe. There is a sea of Lycra-clad people as far as the eye can see.

6:20 a.m. – I locate the start line. There is literally nowhere to warm up. Claustrophobia begins to set in.

6:21 a.m. – I decide to get in line at the Porta-Potties.

6:22 a.m. – I realize that, as usual, I have picked the wrong line. I refuse to move because I am already too committed.

6:30 a.m. – As I emerge from the Porta-Potty, I notice that there is a track directly adjacent to the starting corrals. I look from the jam-packed staging area—with its dire lack of warm-up space—to the perfectly empty, perfectly good track. Butt-to-butt people. Deserted track. People. Track. People. Track. Oh no, I’ve gone cross-eyed.

6:35 a.m. – I do 20 jumping jacks and slap myself in the face a few times.

6:40 a.m. – I need to use the bathroom again.

6:42 a.m. – Again, I choose the wrong line.

6:50 a.m. – I begin to stress over whether I will make it to the starting line on time. This only intensifies the need to relieve myself.

6:55 a.m. – I briefly wonder if anyone would notice if I just popped a squat behind a bush.

6:58 a.m. – I make it to the front of the line. I then put the “pee” in “speed.” (That means I peed really, really fast, for those of you who aren’t hip to super-funny, super-clever bathroom puns.)

6:59: a.m. – I hastily ditch my warm-up top on the curb next to the starting line.

7:00 a.m. – The race starts.

7:01 a.m. – My body is a skin-bag of pain and struggle.

7:13 a.m. – I snag a cup of water at the first aid station and dump the entire thing over my head in a futile attempt to shock the lethargy out of my muscles.

7:14 a.m. – My body is a cold, wet skin-bag of pain and struggle.

7:20 a.m. – I start to think that maybe running this race was a bad idea.

7:21 a.m. – Confirmed: running this race was definitely a bad idea.

7:25 a.m. – I see the finish line. I’m crossing the finish line. Heave. Gasp. Water!!!!

7:26 a.m. – I am being ushered out of the finish area. The next several minutes are a blur, but I somehow manage to navigate my way through the post-race expo, avoid all of the giant complimentary iced coffees being shoved into my face by a disturbingly peppy group of Dunkin’ Donuts representatives, collect my warm-up top—which, by some act of God, is on the sidewalk exactly where I left it—and make my way back to the metro rail station.

8:52 a.m. – I am awoken from a daze-like state of dehydration and sleep-deprivation by the sound of a robotic voice announcing my stop over the loudspeaker. I attempt to exit on the wrong side of the train. A kind elderly gentlemen politely stops me and points me in the right direction. I try to thank him, but all that comes out is a pathetic grunt.

9:15 a.m. – I collapse on my futon.

9:16 a.m. – Never. Again.

Alright, well, maybe next year.

Medal head

Over the past few weeks, I have made a concerted effort to spread my wings and step outside of my comfort zone—my “comfort zone” being Netflix and microwave cooking for one (although let’s be honest: that’s a good-ass Friday night right there). So, when the opportunity to participate in a big 10K race presented itself, I nudged—nay, forced—myself to accept.

Everything about the race itself was awesome: fast course, decent competition, ideal temperature, adequate number of water stops. It was the post-race process that puzzled me.

Because even though the finish-line chute basically dumped my fellow competitors and me directly into the post-race expo—where apparel booths, nutrition stations, and Jazzercise (yes, it’s still a thing) dancers could keep us occupied for hours—there was NO AWARDS CEREMONY. I repeat: NO AWARDS CEREMONY.

In my opinion, this represented a huge oversight on the part of the race organizers. Why? Well, I’m not exactly proud to admit it, but my years as a competitive high school and collegiate runner conditioned me to crave the 30 seconds of fame and affirmation that a medal ceremony provides. Somehow, the high that accompanies the ritual of having a medal placed around my neck is enough to magically offset the horrible agony I put myself through to earn said medal—thus validating my efforts and keeping me coming back for more. So, while Lady Gaga and I might not see eye to eye on a lot of things—one of them being acceptable uses for top sirloin—we’ve got one thing in common: we both live for the applause.

Without the promise of such a high, however, I had no motivation whatsoever to linger alongside the hordes of sweaty people milling around the expo. Plus, the lack of public recognition made the whole experience a bit anticlimactic. I busted my ass to finish fourth overall for women—and second in my age group, thank you very much—but all the stragglers out there still huffing and puffing away as I cooled down would never know that. So, after I caught my breath and drank my complimentary bottle of water, I jogged back to my car and left.

Fast forward to a few days ago when I went to collect my mail. Underneath mountains of grocery store flyers and a few promising Papa John’s coupons, there was a small padded envelope. The return address was a P.O. Box for the Phoenix 10K. My eyes widened as a brief rush of excitement flooded my body. I tore into the envelope with a zest I have not exhibited since receiving my last high school report card.

As I pulled my second-place medal from the mangled mess of bubble wrap, I smiled with great satisfaction. Holding that medal made me feel good. Really good. And then, as quickly as it had come, that good feeling disappeared. Because about 15 seconds after I extracted the medal from its packaging, I realized that it was completely and utterly useless.

Now look, medals might not be my award of choice, but I enjoy them as much as the next obsessively competitive narcissist. The problem is, there’s an unwritten rule in the running community that one can only wear one’s race medal on the day of the corresponding event. Thus, the value of any medal hinges on timely receipt.

With this epiphany, I suddenly felt very angry. Why—WHY—would they send me this NOW? Was this the race director’s idea of cruel joke?

WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?!?!? I lamented aloud, shaking my medal at the sky.

When I returned to my apartment, I carelessly tossed that stupid, worthless hunk of metal on the kitchen table. I just can’t deal with this right now, I thought. I have too many other things to worry about, and Wheel of Fortune is about to start.

And there the medal stayed, taunting me day after day with its hokey logo and its crumpled neck ribbon. I grew to despise—even loathe—it. Why didn’t they just send me a gift certificate, or a water bottle, or a nice pair of socks? I would have even settled for a couple of GU packets.

Finally, unable to endure the torment for another waking second, I resolved to take action. Based on my rudimentary understanding of human psychology—garnered from my introductory college psych course, the Jodi Arias trial, and Shutter Island—I concluded that in order to let go of my debilitating resentment of this object, I had to live out the experience—or more precisely, the missing experience—that it symbolized.

Obviously, there was only one way to accomplish this, and even though I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, I knew it had to be done. So, I put on my race outfit, pinned my number to the front of my top, did my hair and makeup (hey, it’s a re-creation—I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties), and placed the medal around my neck.

Then I did something that, under normal circumstances, I would never, ever, ever, ever, never, ever consider doing: I pulled out my iPhone and started snapping selfies with reckless abandon. (For those of you who aren’t hip to Millennial lingo, selfies are basically self-portraits taken with smartphones. And according to this article, they are “pretty much the most embarrassing photos you could ever take, and everyone thinks lesser of you because of them.”)

With that in mind, here is the product of my digital catharsis (Note: I hold the Phoenix 10K 100% responsible for what you are about to see):

Cue standing ovation:

The Sweactrum

As the old saying goes, you never know what you can do until you have to—like satisfy your urgent craving for Lucky Charms by using back-of-the-fridge milk that smells vaguely of old flip-flops. Or hold your pee in traffic for 45 minutes because some d-bag got up that morning and decided he was Ryan Gosling in Drive (and found out the hard way that he is not). Or even abstain from using Facebook Mobile for six whole days because your little brother exhausted the entire monthly data allotment watching YouTube videos in a non-WiFi zone (which you cannot complain about for fear of reminding your parents that you’re still on the family phone plan despite being an employed, fully grown adult).

Anyway, there was a time when I would have sooner purchased a ticket for Grown Ups 2 than attempted to run in 100-plus-degree heat. Then I became a Phoenician.

Now, as we approach the dog days of monsoon season—who knew it rained in the flippin’ desert!?!?!—I have been forced to exercise in what are surely the hottest, muggiest, stickiest, most ass-slickening conditions in the entire first-world. Seriously—when I step outside, I feel like I’m stepping into the butt crack of that naked fat guy in the locker room at LA Fitness. (To clarify, I have never actually seen this man, but I have heard stories. Lots of stories.)

In pushing the boundaries of my temperature tolerance, I have become very in-tune with my sweat glands and the various environmental stimuli that trigger them. I also have come to appreciate the nuanced stages of perspiration—collectively, the Sweactrum—which I have detailed below for your education and entertainment:

The Dainty Dew: This is that elusive glow that seems only to exist in Lululemon ads, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, and Beyoncé. For me, it occurs during the 2.7 seconds between turning the door handle and crossing the threshold into the outdoors.

The Glamorous Glisten: This is really just Dainty Dew intensified, perhaps with the addition of a tiny patch of chest sweat: Nike ads, Flashdance, and Ke$ha.

The Beaded T-Zone: Eventually—or, if you are me, almost immediately—those sexy flecks of shimmer will coalesce into discernible sweat droplets. At first, these adorable beads of moisture will concentrate around your nose and forehead areas. But like a fictional amoeba-esque alien, they are bound to expand and wreak havoc on other regions of your face and body. Basically, you are rural Pennsylvania and your sweat is the Blob. (Because I just watched a documentary on frivolous lawsuits, I feel compelled to mention that this metaphorical movie reference is for dramatic purposes only. Please do not spray your face with a fire extinguisher and then attempt to sue me for it.)

The Crying Forehead: Now those cute little droplets have morphed into full-on face tears, carving dozens of miniature salt-water rivers across the length of your facial plane. In entering this stage, you’ll likely feel a faint sense of camaraderie with Joan Rivers, whose tear ducts are actually located in her temples. And forget about drying your sweaty mug with bottom of your shirt—the absorbency factor of that thin layer of fabric simply isn’t going to cut it. In fact, short of sticking a maxi pad to your forehead in some sort of deranged ad concept for Always, your sweat flow cannot and will not be stopped.

The Ink Blot Bra: Sorry, ladies, but even if you have the most breathable sports bra in the universe, it won’t save you from the impending doom of boob sweat*. Right around the time your chest starts to look like a Rorschach test, you’ll be cursing your decision to wear any color but black. 

The Bug Face: If you’re like me, this phase dominates the majority of your warm-weather runs. You inadvertently bring the gnat species one step closer to extinction each time you penetrate one of their annoyingly invisible swarms.

The Bug Neck: This extension of the Bug Face stage occurs as you continue to produce even more sweat, eventually dislodging the carcasses of the dead insects on your cheeks and forehead and carrying them to a soggy mass grave in the saucer-like divot where your neck meets your clavicle.

The Below-the-Belt: Did you really think I was going to get through the rest of this post without another reference to butt sweat**? Look, I don’t mean to be crude, but butt sweat is just a fact of life.

The Salty Soak: At this point, you might as well do a full-body plunge into a pool of pure human perspiration, because you’re totally drenched in it anyway. On the plus side, since all of your clothes are now approximately four shades darker, it’s almost like you’re wearing a whole new outfit!

*a.k.a. “Swoob”

**a.k.a. “Swass”

S#@! old people say

Seniors say the darndest things. (No, it’s not a Bill Cosby-hosted television show featuring old peoples’ hilariously cute responses to random interview questions—although it totally should be. I think we can all agree that TLC is in desperate need of some fresh content. They’ve kind of overdone it on the whole freaks-and-train-wrecks-reality-TV front.)

I’m no Bill Cosby, but even in the absence of quick wit and colorful cable-knits, I seem to be a magnet for comical commentary from the 65-plus crowd—especially when I’m running. Well, comical to me, anyway. I’m sure some of these episodes fall into the “you kinda had to be there” category. But hey, this is my blog. I was there, and it’s not my fault that you weren’t. (Not that I want you stalking me or anything. That would be creepy and would likely result in you taking a pepper spray shot to the face.)

Anyway, in an effort to give you the most complete picture possible, I have prefaced each laughable one-liner with a few contextual details that should make you feel more like you were there, even though—again—it’s not my fault that you weren’t.

The time: Early morning (we’re talking pre-6 a.m.—prime senior-spotting time)

The place: Immaculately landscaped walking path in the middle of a bustling 55-plus community.

The character: An 80-year-old, 5’4” man in red swish-swish shorts, a striped polo shirt, and a khaki fishing hat.

The comment: “Are you sure you belong in this neighborhood?”

The response: Taken by surprise and unable to formulate a verbal response before leaving Gilligan’s Island in the dust, my running buddy and I instead burst into a weirdly synchronized nervous giggle and left it at that.

The time: Later that same morning.

The place: Residential road named for some Indian* tribe.

The character: A remarkably fit 60-year-old woman in Jackie-O sunglasses and a Jane Fonda leotard.

The comment: “It’s so good to see some young blood out here!”

The response: My 6-in-the-morning brain isn’t really capable of producing anything more expressive than a classic Echo Response (e.g., “Good morning to you, too!” or “What a beautiful day, indeed!” or “Yes, there are dead gnats all over my face!”). But that wasn’t really an option in this case. My friend and I talked over each other in an clumsy but good-intentioned answer that came out as something like, “We also you think awesome fit great exercise leotard!”

The time: Mere minutes after above incident.

The place: Main boulevard in the same neighborhood.

The character: A very tan, very enthusiastic 70-year-old man in a white Toyota RAV4.

The comment: “Hey! Stop! Stop! Come back!”

The response: My friend and I were split on this one. I—being the product of an upbringing with inordinate exposure to Dateline and Nancy Grace (courtesy of my mother)—did not acknowledge the motorist, instead picking up my pace and scanning the roadway for emergency escape routes. She, on the other hand, sauntered right up to the open passenger side window like a child who had just been offered candy and a puppy. Feeling slightly responsible for her safety, I backtracked to the open window, arriving just in time to hear our senior stalker proudly proclaim that he has run every day for the past 35 years. He then congratulated us for not being fat like everyone else in our generation. I politely thanked him for this “compliment” and ushered my friend away from the vehicle before he invited us into the back seat to check out his “race medal collection.”  

The time: Early evening (another prime senior-spotting time—post-four-o’clock-supper but pre-double-gin-and-tonic-nightcap).

The place: Shaded walking path.

The character: A tall, slightly overweight man in plaid cotton shorts, long tube socks, and black sneakers. At his side: an energetic, impeccably groomed wire-haired fox terrier.

The comment: “What high school are you with?”

The response: Five seconds of awkward silence followed by five seconds of awkward laughter. Unsure of whether we should be flattered or offended, my friend and I fumbled for a witty comeback. We were nearly out of earshot when I finally chimed in with: “Oh, we’re out of high school.” She quickly added: “Yeah, we’re out of college!” Of course I am totally kicking myself now, as it would have been huh-larious if we’d advised him to get his eyes checked because we were actually a couple of retired widows.

The time: Early evening.

The place: Wide, well-maintained public sidewalk.

The character: Friendly elderly gentleman on a recumbent bike.

The comment: “You’re going ten miles an hour!”

The response: “LIAR!” (OK, I didn’t really say that, but it was obvious that he was either Canadian or Confused—Canadian if his speedometer was actually in kilometers per hour, and Confused if he simply forgot how to do numbers in the midst of a brief “senior moment.”) In reality, though, we politely moved to the edge of the path, let him pass, thanked him for the rate of motion estimate, and quietly debunked said estimate based on the fact that it was over 100 degrees outside and there was no way in hell—literally, because I’m pretty sure Dante’s first circle of hell is actually Phoenix, Arizona—that we were churning out six-minute miles.

The time: Later that evening.

The place: Drinking fountain on the border of the local golf course.

The character: Doc from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (minus brass buckle belt, add fanny pack).

The comment: “I’ve got a bar of soap if you want it.”

The response: To put this comment into context, imagine two sweaty, panting, half-clothed runners (us) splashing cold water all over our heads, faces, shoulders, necks, chests, and arms. I mean, we might as well have climbed into the basin of this drinking fountain—and probably would have had we not been concerned about compromising its structural integrity. Anyway, we were so surprised by the sharp-witted humor of our white-haired onlooker that we froze mid-bath, looked at each other with raised eyebrows and pursed lips as we warded off a bout of hysterical laughter, and muttered something about how nice and cool the water was. Once we were a safe distance away, we let loose all of our pent-up giggles and, after we’d caught our breath, decided there was a strong possibility that Mr. Magoo was actually serious about the soap because heck, you never know what old people are carrying around in those giant waist pouches with their IHOP coupons and their jars of Cetaphil.

Well, that’s it for this week’s edition of Seniors Say the Darndest Things. Join me next time when I delve into sexting, thong underwear, and other inappropriate topics of conversation for retirees having boozy dinners at family pizza restaurants.     

    

 Zippity boop bappity bop.

*Should this be Native American? I can never keep up on what’s PC these days.

Seniority rules

If there is one thing I learned from growing up in a neighborhood teeming with senior citizens, it’s that there’s really not much that separates me from the 65-plus crowd—you know, aside from roughly five decades and vastly disparate degrees of colon function. In fact, I would go so far as to admit that I am basically an outgoing septuagenarian trapped in the body of a 25-year-old woman. How did I arrive at this seemingly ridiculous conclusion? I think this list sums it all up:

Things I Enjoy that I’m Pretty Sure Old People Also Really Like

1. Crossword puzzles

2. Neil Diamond

3. Wheel of Fortune

4. Small fluffy dogs

5. One-speed bicycles with cute little baskets in the front

6. Licorice

7. Tonic-based cocktails

At various points throughout my life, I have made a conscious effort to remove myself from my comfort zone—i.e., the retirement scene—in order to engage socially with a more age-appropriate group of people. Though I have been moderately successful in this pursuit, I feel like the universe is constantly rerouting me back to my true destiny—a destiny of bingo tournaments, weekend trips to the dollar store, and date nights at Cracker Barrel. Case in point: professional opportunities recently brought me to the the West Valley of the greater Phoenix area—a.k.a. Senior Central.

Not that I mind. In fact, I think many of my peers would feel the same way if they just gave old people a shot. If you’re a runner, one of the best ways to experience the joys of interacting with the hip retiree crowd is to take a nice run through an area frequented by AARP cardholders (Florida, Arizona, and the five-mile radius surrounding any Golden Corral restaurant are all great places to start).

To reap the full benefits of exercising among the elderly, however, one must first understand the subtle cultural differences that accompany the generational gap. Remember, old people have been alive for a long, long time. They’ve been through a lot of shit. They are tired. They have spent years catering to the needs of others—hard-ass bosses, nagging spouses, ungrateful children, annoying relatives—and now, all they want to do is go for a goddamn walk in their goddamn Crocs and tube socks in goddamn peace. And the last thing they want is to have that peace disturbed by perky jogging whippersnappers like you.

On the other hand, seeing you run often sparks in them a pleasant nostalgia—a brief flashback to a time of youthful energy and stamina. A time when they, too, wore shoes with laces on them. The key is harnessing that sentimentality for your own motivational purposes. There is nothing more inspiring than a “Looking great!” or a “Way to go!” or even a “You know, I used to be able to do that too!” spoken through the soft, wrinkly lips of a kindly senior.

It’s not always easy. Old people are finicky, and eliciting favorable reactions from them can be a bit tricky. So, to help you maximize the benefit of your foray into geezer territory, I’ve put together a comprehensive list of things to watch out for. Please read carefully. Then go out and make some new old friends.

1. Fanny packs – The fashion powers that be have done a pretty good job of providing the aging population with convenient alternatives to cumbersome wardrobe items—elastic waistbands eliminate the need for belts, Velcro eliminates the need for shoelaces, and Pajama Jeans eliminate the need to ever change pants. Fanny packs also were designed with convenience in mind, and seniors have embraced the ease and comfort of hands-free, on-the-go storage. But when old people take their eyes off the road to rummage around their waist pouches in search of Carmex, prescription medications, or sugar-free cinnamon discs, they put everyone in their immediate vicinity at risk—especially on a narrow walking path. The movement of a distracted fanny packer is unpredictable, and that creates a dangerous hazard for anyone in his or her immediate vicinity. Approach with extreme caution.

2. Unruly Shih Tzus – Retirees are known for having a borderline unhealthy obsession with their small pets. In their eyes, Mitzy and Mr. Snugglepaws can do no wrong, least of all when they are sprinting, unleashed and with teeth exposed, toward an innocent, unsuspecting runner such as yourself. And if said runner inadvertently pins a fuzzy tail to the sidewalk as she attempts to sidestep said bounding yappers, who is at fault? Certainly not Mr. Snugglepaws. On the other hand, old people absolutely love it when you fawn over their fur babies. So if you find yourself approaching—or being approached by—a miniature canine, take a moment to compliment the pooch (“Cute dog!”) or even bend down and give him a little pat on the head.

3. Really dark sunglasses – When it comes to ocular UV protection, senior citizens don’t fuck around. They will not trust their precious retinas to anything less than NASA-grade tinted eye shields. Armed with the darkest lenses available in the retail market, these people could stare directly at the sun for 45 minutes straight without so much as batting an eyelash—literally. While it’s great that they take their eye health so seriously, it makes it really difficult for approaching runners to determine whether they are (a) paying attention to oncoming foot traffic, (b) visually impaired, or (c) sleepwalking. So if you come up on an old person rocking some Ray Charles shades, your best—and safest—bet is to swing wide, avoid direct contact, and offer a friendly wave from afar.

4. Motorized personal mobility devices – Sure, Old Man Jenkins lost his driver’s license last year after he “mixed up” the meanings of green and red traffic lights, but that didn’t stop him from purchasing a souped-up power wheelchair that goes from 0 to 35 mph in three seconds flat. Now he’s tearing up the sidewalks in your neighborhood on the daily, plowing through any obstacles—overgrown shrubbery, children’s toys, decorative garden gnomes—that stand in his way. And you better believe that list includes inattentive distance runners. So when you see him burning rubber down the cul-de-sac like he’s Jeff Gordon in about 45 years, steer clear.

5. Cell phones – You thought you were doing Nana a favor when you bought her one of those nifty Jitterbug phones. The oversized buttons, the simple menu, the louder-than-normal speaker—on paper, it seemed like the perfect solution to the communication needs of elderly women everywhere! Problem is, Nana is becoming quite the little texter. And when she’s more focused on emoticons and TTYLs than the road ahead, her chances of colliding with fellow pedestrians increase substantially. A senior citizen with a cell phone is nothing to LOL about; in fact, when you see one, I’d suggest that you GTFO of the way ASAP.

TSA: take two

As most of my loyal readers are well aware, I have a small beef with TSA. Actually, it's kind of a big beef. Like a 40-ounce porterhouse steak-sized beef. Whenever something goes wrong for me during a trip that involves air travel, I almost always find a way to blame it on the Transportation Security Administration. (And if that doesn’t work, I just blame George Bush like everyone else.)

Last weekend, I had the great fortune of traveling to Phoenix to visit my best pal from my college running days. (Who, by the way, is one of the loyal readers I’m talking about.)

From the moment I arrived at the airport, I couldn’t stop smiling. I could barely contain my excitement about (a) seeing my friend, and (b) standing (and running!) outside without seeing my breath.

I was in such a good mood that the hassles of going through the airport security line didn’t even faze me. I happily removed my coat, sweater, scarf, shoes, belt and hair pins. I grinned as I passed through the metal detector without a hitch. I think I might have even winked at one of the agents.

But when I got to the other side of the X-ray machine, I was troubled to find that my bag was not waiting for me. I was even more troubled when I saw an agent walking toward me with my bag. Then came the dreaded, “Miss, is this your bag?”

Me: [My mood instantly shifting from happy-go-lucky to visibly perturbed.] Yes.

TSA-hole: [In the dry, unsympathetic tone typical of TSA employees] Did you check a bag, or have you considered checking a bag?

Me: [Starting to get annoyed] No. It’s a total rip-off.

TSA-hole: [Ruining my immaculate packing job as he rummages through my personal belongings and pulls out every bottled/jarred/tubed product he can find.] Well, you might want to think about it, because I can’t let you through with any liquid containers larger than three ounces.

Me: [Now becoming legitimately pissed off] Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. This little airline scheme doesn't fool me for a minute. I know I could buy a whole new set of toiletries for what it would cost to check this bag.

TSA-hole: [Holding out my brand-new bottle of styling mousse in a taunting fashion] Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to dispose of this.

Me: [Contorting my face into the most menacing scowl I can muster, as I’m not very practiced in the art of menacing scowls] Fine. Are we done here?

TSA-hole: [In a fake-nice voice with a fake-nice smile] Uh-huh. Have a great flight.

I wanted to respond with something like, “Thanks. I'll think of this as a charitable donation, since you are clearly in need of basic hair products.” Instead, I pulled my things off of the table, smiled sarcastically and stomped away in my socks because I couldn’t stand to be in this loser’s immediate vicinity for another second.

When I arrived in Phoenix, I told my friend that I needed to make an emergency stop at Walgreens to purchase hair gel so that I wouldn’t look like Paula Abdul circa 1987 all weekend.

We got to talking about airport security, and she made the excellent point that when we were traveling to track meets with our college team, everyone was allowed to carry on their equipment—throwing implements, vice grips, spikes, etc.

The more we talked about it, the more I realized how insanely ridiculous it was that I made it through security on multiple occasions with these:

(Because only legitimate athletes would try to carry an item with a dozen needle-sharp metal objects protruding from its surface onto an airplane.)

Which are strikingly similar to this:

(Photo courtesy of renblades.com)

And are capable of this:

(Photo by Shawn Price/stanfordalumni.org)

But heaven forbid you try to bring this:

(Because tamed flyaways and defined curls are telltale characteristics of violent terrorists.)

Which is capable of that:

(Photo courtesy of marissa elkind/Flickr)

I guess TSA is just one more thing about the federal government that I’ll never understand.