- date: 05/11/05
- time: evening
- weather: 57 ºF, clear, wind S at 8 mph
- mileage: today-8, week-11, year-183.3
- resting (bpm): 62
- after workout (bpm): ***
- weight: +24
Mostly, a good workout. I wore a watch for the first time this year. The first 3 miles were faster than I expected. I slowed for the final 5, but threw in some gradual pick-ups to keep up with people on bikes and in-line skates. My time for the entire run reflected a pace that was only 40 s/mi slower than my realistic goal for this fall’s marathon. Legs were good, and there was none of the lethargy held over from yesterday. (rant below the fold)
Towards the end of the workout, I found myself on a residential street that is easily three SUVs wide. I was on the right shoulder as there was no sidewalk. I heard a car accelerate behind me. No parked cars or oncoming traffic, still I edged as close as I could to the curb. The car whizzed by me, its passenger side mirror grazing my shirt.
“MOVE YOUR ASS MOTHERFU$%&R.” Punk and friend howled as they proceed to ride the curb, return to the middle of the road and then speed off.
After the adrenaline wore off, I was sad. Sad that, either through ignorance, indifference or neglect, Punk’s parents failed so spectacularly to teach their child how to behave. It’s sad that the neutering tendencies of suburbia has produced yet another mean spirited person. So Punk, I pity you and offer these nuggets for your enfeebled mind to ponder:
- You’re not original. Many dipsh%ts have come before you. Unfortunately, many more will follow.
- You’re not anonymous. License plates are easy to remember, especially in cases like this. Oh, and that rust bucket you call a car isn’t exactly discrete. If you had drawn blood or I develop a bruise, you bet your ugly pimpled face I’m going to press charges. Yeah maybe you’ll get your license back in a few years, but good luck getting insurance with a hit and run or reckless endangerment on your record.
- You’re not thinking ahead. The joggers you accost could be your future employer, drill sergeant or corrections officer. They may sit on admissions committees, preside over traffic court or mete out bank loans. They may be the parents of the only woman that you could fool into marrying you. They may be a future you trying to stem the progress of diabetes or emphysema. In short, Karma’s a bitch. Best you learn that now.
OK, so aside from being sad I’m also still a little angry.
*** post-workout heart rate was anomalous