An Exploratory Essay on Why People Yell At Runners (Rough draft)
If you are reading this, you no doubt have been the object of any number of “run Forrest run,” one-liners shouted by sardonic junior high kids. Interestingly enough, theses immortal words were uttered before their birth. Oh, how a single line can change a sport!
So, “why are those strangers yelling at me?” This is, without a doubt, one of the toughest questions a runner can ask him or herself. How something so normal as running on a street can attract such attention is considerably harder to answer than one might believe. Everyone has something to say. From the frat boys around campus with their enthusiastic sarcasm, to crude hicks, foul mouth gangsters, giddy girls whooping as sleek, tone masculine bodies flash by; or how about the guys that lean out of car windows to get a better glimpse of that sports bra on the swishing female? It is uncertain how long this trend has been around, but it’s not hard to imagine an Olympian of ancient Greece passing by the Acropolis during a hill workout when some dude wearing a toga shouts, “You’re gay!”
I recall distinctly, after a local rodeo in the Lubbock City Coliseum, there was traffic up and down University Street. This of course means that with the constant shift between green and red lights, a runner may pass a car several times before said cars finally exit to less confined asphalt pathways. To a runner trying to get the rest of his mileage in, I began dreading having choosen this street; here’s why.
I passed a large, dark Ford F150. Country music blared from inside the cabin and grew distinct as the passenger rolled down the tinted window. The driver leans over the passenger and shouts, “Why are you running? It’s too late out to be out running!” Part of my internal self had already made that conclusion, yes, starting an hour and a half run at 9:30 on a Saturday night was a little late and obviously not ideal, but when circumstances dictate the day, sometimes you have to suck it up and run late. I now return to our inquisitive driver.
First, may I say that I love rodeos, they are exciting and entertaining; a perfect weekend activity in west Texas. This particular driver had also very much enjoyed the rodeo, his breath smelled of sweet liquor, it was so impressively strong that I could smell it from my position on the sidewalk a half mile later as he yelled, “go get laid, man!”
Now we can give him the benefit of the doubt that he was slightly inebriated, that he was in a great mood; or that he wanted to impress some southern belle sitting in the passenger seat; but through all this, this essay still begs the question, “Why do people yell at runners?”
So as to not drag on an inconclusive essay for pages on end, possible reasons follow: poor self-image, sheer jealously, guilt, inculpable mental handicap, and sometimes just plain ol’ strong pheromonal influences and a plethora of others. In short, everyone has their own reason for shouting at runners.
I’ve had a lot of run ins with Corky. Each one has been an interesting one. While we were in Arkansas for indoor nationals, Coach Murray and I would wake up every morning and goes power walking on some trails in the middle of Fayetteville. On one of these mornings, Corky came with us. The whole time he had stories from years past, and of the first Kenyans he had brought over in the 70s. He talked about meets in the Southwest Conference. Even the hat he got in Scotland on one of his trips for Texas Tech. He fell down once, but got up and kept on going. I’m embarrassed to admit that the entire time his pace was faster than both Coach Murray’s and mine. Later after breakfast the stories continued, this time with Coach Kittley. We went to Charlie’s Chicken. Corky had a reputation that he knew every little restaurant that no one had ever heard off across the entire nation…and it was true. That place was good. This guy that I had met only hours before was by lunch trying to get me to try stuff off his plate, and when he spilled stuff on his shirt, it was me and my tide pen that got it out. I’d heard a lot of funny stories about him, and after this encounter, I knew that most were probably true.
Most Akward Car Ride Ever!!!! Last year I had the chance to go to indoor nationals. This involved Two flights and two hour car ride. Our day started by getting to the airport at 5:15. This is no easy task if you are not a morning person. The 7 of us set out. Coach Kittley, Coach Felkins (throws), Brandon (media relations), Chelsea (the trainer), Patience (the thrower), Chris Kittley, and myself. When we landed in Tulsa we got our rental car. Instead of the van, they had an Expidetion. Stuffing 7 people with a week's worth of bags into an expedition was not easy, especialy when two are throwers. We were crowded to say the least. I got to enjoy the middle seat. We were all still happy and joking around. We got on the highway and were off. Coach Kittley asked Coach Felkins to read the direction. This went well for a while, until Coach Felkins told us to take the interstate....which was not listed on the directions. It was about an hour and a half later that we realized we were completely lost. There we were, crammed into a tiny car, each of us with or bags litterally in our laps...and no one said a word. The boss was mad that we were lost. For the remaining 3 hours that it took us to get there...no one said a word, no one made a sound, and no one moved. We could tell Kittley was furious...and no one wanted to say a word. To make matters worse, someone in the car was not wearing deoderant...and we could all tell. We pulled up just in time to see Coach Murray and Joe walking out of the hotel...when he asked how the car ride was, no one said a word, and that about summed up the most akward 3 hours I've ever had in my life.
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An Exploratory Essay on Why People Yell At Runners (Rough draft)
If you are reading this, you no doubt have been the object of any number of “run Forrest run,” one-liners shouted by sardonic junior high kids. Interestingly enough, theses immortal words were uttered before their birth. Oh, how a single line can change a sport!
So, “why are those strangers yelling at me?” This is, without a doubt, one of the toughest questions a runner can ask him or herself. How something so normal as running on a street can attract such attention is considerably harder to answer than one might believe. Everyone has something to say. From the frat boys around campus with their enthusiastic sarcasm, to crude hicks, foul mouth gangsters, giddy girls whooping as sleek, tone masculine bodies flash by; or how about the guys that lean out of car windows to get a better glimpse of that sports bra on the swishing female? It is uncertain how long this trend has been around, but it’s not hard to imagine an Olympian of ancient Greece passing by the Acropolis during a hill workout when some dude wearing a toga shouts, “You’re gay!”
I recall distinctly, after a local rodeo in the Lubbock City Coliseum, there was traffic up and down University Street. This of course means that with the constant shift between green and red lights, a runner may pass a car several times before said cars finally exit to less confined asphalt pathways. To a runner trying to get the rest of his mileage in, I began dreading having choosen this street; here’s why.
I passed a large, dark Ford F150. Country music blared from inside the cabin and grew distinct as the passenger rolled down the tinted window. The driver leans over the passenger and shouts, “Why are you running? It’s too late out to be out running!” Part of my internal self had already made that conclusion, yes, starting an hour and a half run at 9:30 on a Saturday night was a little late and obviously not ideal, but when circumstances dictate the day, sometimes you have to suck it up and run late. I now return to our inquisitive driver.
First, may I say that I love rodeos, they are exciting and entertaining; a perfect weekend activity in west Texas. This particular driver had also very much enjoyed the rodeo, his breath smelled of sweet liquor, it was so impressively strong that I could smell it from my position on the sidewalk a half mile later as he yelled, “go get laid, man!”
Now we can give him the benefit of the doubt that he was slightly inebriated, that he was in a great mood; or that he wanted to impress some southern belle sitting in the passenger seat; but through all this, this essay still begs the question, “Why do people yell at runners?”
So as to not drag on an inconclusive essay for pages on end, possible reasons follow: poor self-image, sheer jealously, guilt, inculpable mental handicap, and sometimes just plain ol’ strong pheromonal influences and a plethora of others. In short, everyone has their own reason for shouting at runners.
I’ve had a lot of run ins with Corky. Each one has been an interesting one. While we were in Arkansas for indoor nationals, Coach Murray and I would wake up every morning and goes power walking on some trails in the middle of Fayetteville. On one of these mornings, Corky came with us. The whole time he had stories from years past, and of the first Kenyans he had brought over in the 70s. He talked about meets in the Southwest Conference. Even the hat he got in Scotland on one of his trips for Texas Tech. He fell down once, but got up and kept on going. I’m embarrassed to admit that the entire time his pace was faster than both Coach Murray’s and mine. Later after breakfast the stories continued, this time with Coach Kittley. We went to Charlie’s Chicken. Corky had a reputation that he knew every little restaurant that no one had ever heard off across the entire nation…and it was true. That place was good. This guy that I had met only hours before was by lunch trying to get me to try stuff off his plate, and when he spilled stuff on his shirt, it was me and my tide pen that got it out. I’d heard a lot of funny stories about him, and after this encounter, I knew that most were probably true.
Most Akward Car Ride Ever!!!!
Last year I had the chance to go to indoor nationals. This involved Two flights and two hour car ride. Our day started by getting to the airport at 5:15. This is no easy task if you are not a morning person. The 7 of us set out. Coach Kittley, Coach Felkins (throws), Brandon (media relations), Chelsea (the trainer), Patience (the thrower), Chris Kittley, and myself. When we landed in Tulsa we got our rental car. Instead of the van, they had an Expidetion. Stuffing 7 people with a week's worth of bags into an expedition was not easy, especialy when two are throwers. We were crowded to say the least. I got to enjoy the middle seat. We were all still happy and joking around. We got on the highway and were off. Coach Kittley asked Coach Felkins to read the direction. This went well for a while, until Coach Felkins told us to take the interstate....which was not listed on the directions. It was about an hour and a half later that we realized we were completely lost. There we were, crammed into a tiny car, each of us with or bags litterally in our laps...and no one said a word. The boss was mad that we were lost. For the remaining 3 hours that it took us to get there...no one said a word, no one made a sound, and no one moved. We could tell Kittley was furious...and no one wanted to say a word. To make matters worse, someone in the car was not wearing deoderant...and we could all tell. We pulled up just in time to see Coach Murray and Joe walking out of the hotel...when he asked how the car ride was, no one said a word, and that about summed up the most akward 3 hours I've ever had in my life.
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