No Tolerance for A-Holes When the Running Shmood Hits Hard

I’ve officially hit “burnout” phase of Ironman training. You all know the feeling–you just want to go into hibernation mode after logging into Training Peaks and seeing what your week’s worth of workouts looks like, and even a one hour recovery spin at an easy heart rate feels like a two and a half hour threshold sufferfest. Not helping matters was the fact that I started a new job right when my last big training ramp up hit, so balancing a demanding (yet thus far exciting) work load with over 15 hours of training has left me exhausted and cranky. August 26th can’t come soon enough.

Last week I was faced with a two hour run that I very much did not want to do, but since I hadn’t had a long run on my schedule in a while (minus my Rev 3 Portland run off the bike), I forced myself to grab my running shoes because I figured the workout was crucial. Plus, since I was already mentally and physically drained before even starting the run, the workout seemed especially beneficial since it’d probably emulate how craptacular I’d feel at around mile 18 of the Ironman Canada run course.

I took off from my house rockin’ a pretty wicked running shmood (that’s “shitty mood” for those of you who aren’t hip to the Mediocre Athlete lingo). My legs felt heavy, various body parts ached, I felt like I needed to sleep for 14 straight hours, the sun was too bright, it was hot and muggy out, my stomach ached, you know the drill. Every ten minutes I contemplated throwing in the “Fuck this” towel and heading back to my house, but I forced myself to run further out and intentionally place my groggy ass far enough away that I’d have to run back without being able to cut the workout short.

You’ve all had one of those days where you feel like ass and just want to get through your workout–you’re not in the mood to talk to anyone or put up with any bullshit. All you want to do is stick your head down and swim, grit your teeth and bike, or squint your eyes and run, and you don’t even want to do the stupid workout but you’re making yourself anyway, so you’re already in a shmood before you get going and a mixture of exasperation and general irritability is all that’s fueling you to get through it. That’s how it was for this run. So perhaps the minor altercation I had with a dude in front of the Seattle Tennis Club could have been avoided or handled better, but I had been hit hard with the running shmood and my tolerance was at an all-time low.

I was running on the sidewalk approaching the Tennis Club when I saw a grubby guy who looked very much like Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force loading items from a delivery van into the building via a side entrance.

A fine member of society.

I would have paid this man no mind were it not for the fact that he was blocking the entire sidewalk with boxes and a hand truck. Not a big deal, he’s clearly working on moving supplies from the van into the building–it’s not like he’s intentionally blocking the path or anything.

As Carl pivoted from the van towards the building entrance with his hand truck of boxes, I said, “Excuse me” and ran in front of him on the sidewalk, between the entrance and the van. I couldn’t run off the sidewalk onto the street because the van was blocking me, and I wasn’t about to stop and wait a minute for him to move everything out of my way. Again, no biggie–he was in my way so I ran around him. A non-issue, right?

I passed him and began running away from the Tennis Club when I heard a disgusted and outraged voice behind me shout, “JESUS CHRIST!” It took me a split second to realize that this angry outburst was directed at me–apparently Carl was pissed that I dared to take two whole seconds to cut between the service entrance and his van. Never mind the fact that the dude was taking up the entire sidewalk–how dare I not yield to him?!

It took another split second for me to react. I could have ignored him and kept running; what the hell, it’s just some random asshole with a stick up his ass, and I’ve got another hour and 20 minutes left in my run. Or I could have channeled my inner Jill Frank and turned around to confront him, ask him what the hell his problem is and chew him out for taking up the entire sidewalk that I have just as much a right to use as he does. But I was 100% engulfed in my running shmood so, without thinking, I had what felt like an involuntary, automatic reaction and did this instead:

Instant reflex.

And that’s how I got called a “fucking bitch” during my run. Oddly enough, the incident made me feel better about my workout and lit a small fire under my ass to energize me and pick up the pace a bit. And ten minutes later, I ran past an older man who smiled at me and exclaimed, “Have a WONDERFUL evening!”, so the universe balanced itself out and all was well again. (I did not give that guy the finger; he earned a smile and a “Thank you!” instead.) Sometimes a shmood can turn itself around–all it takes is a slew of expletives from a man who looks like an Adult Swim character.

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