I confess. I have running fantasies. I’m not talking about my sub-3:30 marathon or sub-20 5K type-fantasies, or even the more grandiose Tracey Morris-esque out-of-the-blue Olympic qualifier type-fantasies, though I most certainly have those. I’m referring to something altogether more embarrassing. I occasionally daydream that one day, for some dramatic reason beyond my control, my running abilities come to the rescue.
I dream about outrunning would-be assailants, or of running down somebody attacking another stranger. Alternatively, I run long and fast to deliver a life-saving message or to fetch emergency medical help for someone, when no other means of transport are available. Or, thanks to an explosive burst of speed and agility, I rescue an errant child from oncoming traffic. Much to the grateful surprise of less athletically inclined onlookers, or to the chagrin of the malevolent participants of my imagination, my talent for running fast and/or far gets us all out of a sticky situation, or saves somebody’s life, or my own life, or just plain saves the day.
Who among you competitive runners out there will not admit to entertaining at least one such fantasy? Can you honestly say, that during the many hours a week you have for such reverie, you have never imagined yourself forced into a situation which showcases your athleticism, speed or endurance, and ending up a hero because of it?
Well in a minor, twisted way, this daydream of mine came to life on Monday in New Orleans.
It was the third day of our holiday, and we were just starting to really relax and settle into that N’Awlins frame of mind. My husband and I were sitting, minding our own business, and having a drink or two in Lafitte’s, a chill bar on Bourbon Street. It was 6pm, bright and very, very hot out. I was watching the world gently trundle by through the open window beside us. I had a pleasant buzz on. Suddenly, our peaceful moment was ruptured when, out of nowhere, a long arm shot through the window, grabbed my bag that lay between us on the table, and shot back out again. This arm was attached to a tall man who proceeded to charge off at full speed with half my worldly belongings.
Without giving it one iota of consideration, I must have sprung out of my seat, swung around 270° to the exit behind me and bolted out the door after him. I don’t remember any of that – all I knew was that one minute I was sipping quietly on a frozen strawberry daiquiri and the next I was chasing this rogue at full tilt down Bourbon Street.
I ‘came-to’ after about 10 seconds when the cries of spectators who had flattened themselves up against the walls of the old street buildings to let me pass broke my trance.
“Did he steal your bag? SOMEBODY TRIP THAT MAN!”
“HEY – SOMEBODY STOP THAT GODDAMN, FILTHY THIEF!”
Just about this time when I realized what was going on, I saw the man jerk his head around to look back in my direction. It shot through my mind that he probably wasn't expecting to see a sub-5-foot blonde in pink flip-flops and a short skirt to be running him down.
I remember cursing my decision not to wear sneakers that morning, as I was acutely aware that these flip-flops were significantly hampering my stride. But I would nevertheless hazard a guess I was moving at around a fair 8mm clip. The bandit had gotten a good 50-yard head start on me, but I was closing in on him.
Was it not for my choice of footwear that morning, I believe I would have gotten to him before the end of the block. He was clearly somewhat overweight and out of shape, or, as Matt less delicately put it - “A fat bastard.” But I had not given one smidgen of thought as to what I would have done to this man, who was probably about 10 years my junior, and 10 inches and 80lbs my senior – had I actually caught him.
If I remember my 1st year university psychology correctly, the definition of “instinct” is stimulus followed by action without any intermediate thought process. I’ll wager it’s pretty rare that we, in today’s society, act on pure instinct. I also believe that that’s probably a very good thing. Omitting the ‘thought’ element can result in serious problems. In fact I don’t see the difference between this definition of “instinct” and “mistake” really. Aren’t mistakes just actions we take with no thought given to their potential harmful consequences? What was I thinking? How desperate could this overfed and unfit malefactor have been to choose the middle of the day in the middle of tourist-ville to snatch the bag from under the noses of two relatively young and healthy adults? I wasn’t thinking at all - that’s the thing! He could have been carrying a weapon, or been willing and capable of doing just about anything.
Fortunately for me, just as I was rounding a corner in hot pursuit, my husband flew by me at tremendous speed. Unlike me, he was suitably shod and attired for a sudden burst of frenzied activity. I was most surprised at his athleticism. He is a dark horse! I must get him up to the track one day. I think Hellgate should actively recruit him!
Upon realizing that he now had another person chasing him down, this time of the perhaps slightly more threatening, obscenity-screeching, tall, and male persuasion, the thief decided it was a good time to drop the bag and head for the hills. Matt could easily still have caught him, but made the better decision to collect what was rightfully ours and call it a day. We bounced our way back to the pub, buoyed by our victory over crime, all the way being congratulated by the many startled witnesses.
The little daydream I mentioned always concluded with my being able to declare something along the lines of “well, he/she/they sure picked on the wrong girl!” I was therefore very satisfied when Matt informed the police: “my wife runs marathons so he wasn’t going to get away with it.” In a war of attrition, it’s true; I was always going to catch him, flip-flops or no flip-flops.
Oh – so you were expecting a post about some ordinary training runs in N’Awlins? Well, in spite of all the drinking, eating and partying, I did manage two morning outdoor 7-milers and one 5 on the treadmill in addition to that unscheduled 300-meter afternoon sprint. Our hotel’s concierge recommended I follow the soft tracks of the St Charles Avenue streetcar – out through the Garden District and uptown. This worked out well. My absolute favourite thing to do when I’m visiting a new place is to get up before everyone and go explore the town on a run. I’ve become familiar with a great number of places that way. It always seems so much better to discover a place on a quiet early morning run, than just a few hours later when throngs of tourists can spoil the experience. I have often woken Matt up on my return with a full list of things we must go see, things I would not have been aware of, had my running route not taken me past them.
NOLA was no exception. I will not however, be complaining any more about the New York City heat and humidity this summer though, I promise. Feel free to chastise me if you see/hear me doing so. It was RIDICULOUS down there. I'm talking 111F with the heat index ridiculous. The typically avoided-at-all-costs treadmill session came about on Tuesday after laziness rendered me unprepared to hit the roads until 7:30am – far too late if I wanted to avoid dissolving in a pool of my own salty sweat 5 minutes after stepping out the door. It was like swimming though soup.
Since the ‘episode’, I have not stopped giggling intermittently to myself, picturing my "Hurricane"-fuelled husband careering past me on that corner, screeching at the top of his lungs “WOOOOOOOOOOO – I AM GOING TO F**KING KILL YOU!” Such a concept and such language from the gentlest, most peace-loving guy you could ever hope to meet! When I relayed this story to a colleague today, she countered with a very similar incident involving a good friend that took place on Bourbon Street a few years back. He however, got shot twice through the chest and nearly killed for his trouble. I haven’t been giggling quite so much since then.
From now on, I hope to reserve running for the rather more civilized purposes of training and racing =)
It was nevertheless fantastic to catch up with numerous people yesterday morning, including the impressively large contingent of Hellgaters. After a considerable bout of post-race socialising, a small splinter group and I took a sun-scorching jog back to Astoria via the Flushing Bay esplanade.
