Went for a little jog around Columbia tonight, like I have been for a few weeks. Yesterday, I began a Men’s Health workout that’s supposed to up your metabolism and shred fat off your body, &c., &c. Well, fine, it works wonders; but I still hurt—badly—in places I thought were unsusceptible to that level of pain. As a n00b, you can expect to be sore; well, God bless MH, they shattered my hubristic illusions of average health! As I left the gym, I thought I heard the MH editors whisper, “pwnd!”
Anyway, tonight was particularly active. Running up the initial hill from Pickens to Assembly on Blossom, I was honked and hooted at by some drunk college kids in a black sedan who thought it would be cute to scare the living daylights out of a pedestrian. Normally, I’m braced for that sort of thing, because as I’ve learned, Columbia has more than its share of assh—er, jerks who love to pick on runners; but tonight, I was too focused on proper form in light of my tender back and hamstrings from the day before. It took me another mile and a half to stop fantasizing about what I’d like to do to everyone in that vehicle, up to and including things only fit for the likes of Sin City, and so forth.
Main Street was an absolute mess tonight. The drug dealer on the bike pedaling southbound toward the statehouse flipped the bill of his cap around so I couldn’t see his face; a few blocks up, no fewer than four cop cars were lined up and a group of ladies and gentlemen were variously handcuffed and/or pacing along the sidewalk (on the opposite side). As I rounded the bend at Elmwood, more cop cars were on the way, flashing lights and all.
Even the homeless guys were all up and at ‘em. Usually there’s a guy that sleeps nights, feet-outward, in a little store-nook on Main; he wasn’t there. The gentlemen at the bus stop at Taylor and Assembly on the way back were chatting up such a storm with one another that my half-breathed salutation went completely unnoticed, and another couple of guys with bags actually returned my “Hey, howyadoin’” with a hearty “Mhmm, all right.”
So how is it that a lanky white boy wearing no shirt, grey knit shorts, some old running kicks, and a beat-up near-dead Timex watch can run through the city at three and four (… and five) in the morning without getting accosted or shot? I think they think I’m nuts. Really. There’s just that little something that goes off in your brain that’s like, “Ok, white dude running downtown in the wee hours; not normal; stay away.” Can’t say I blame them. But they’re nice to me, for all that. Homeless dudes during the day or even early night, especially in Five Points, will solicit you for all you’re worth and then some, and try to lay a guilt trip on you for not handing them your wallet, shirt, and keys with a blessing. At the really late night, though, there’s a genuineness to the interaction: I’m obviously crazy and not carrying any money at all; most probably don’t even see the keyring I keep in one hand. The smiles and greetings that pass between us are mutually suspicious but also mutually honest: I want nothing from you, these salutations say, and though I’m naturally wary at present, I trust you enough to look you in the eye and greet you. It’s a unique experience.
So if you ever get the chance, run through the urban (uhm, well-lit would be the disclaimer here) part of your city in the dead of night. You can talk to God, yourself, and whomever else happens to show up along the way without flaming beams of sunlight ripping your energy from you, and without having to dodge too many cars (obnoxiously intoxicated kids aside).
