I run laps at a seedy high school track. The school is well over 100 years old, but the track is a “recent” edition that still pre-dates me. Reminders of the once state-of-the-art Uniroyal track peek through, but the glory days have long faded.
Photo Credit: Miwo76
Missing from the photo are the torn apart bleachers, trash strewn about, broken bottles, spike sticking out of the inner lane, pits that swallow you up, and a surface that tilts left then right then left again. But it is free and within running distance of my sofa. After hundreds of rotations I know where to run to avoid maiming, which is helpful as I’m often running this death track in the black of night.
With one local marathon complete and the second rapidly approaching, the once crowded track is eerily free of runners. No longer put off by the spandex-clad masses the hoodlums have returned. The out after dark, bored and up to no good hoodlums. During solo track workouts I endure the catcalls and the jeers. Which, at my advancing age, is strangely flattering the first time, but disconcerting the 27th. Last week, at every turn around the south bend, I inhaled –and due to the heavy nature of my breathing I inhaled a lot– of illegal smoke. I don’t think it helped my pacing. It certainly didn’t help my night vision. This week hordes of youth in oversized pants (why so big if not to conceal weapons?), sideways caps (probably a gang thing), and voluminous sweatshirts (decorated with skulls and other symbols of intimidation) hung about. I’m not one to judge, but they were probably eyeing up my over-priced Garmin. If only they knew it is as reliable as a Yugo.
For a while they tossed the old pigskin back and forth directly across the track, causing my heart rate to spike and triggering a duck and run posture as I went round the northeast bend. When the posse grew to a more sizeable number they took to the field for some flag football – if flag football involves running towards a giant pile of jackets. I know very little about football. I may have been hasty to judge their hoodlum intentions when it seems they were gathering for an evening of athletics, much like I had done with my own gang. Inexplicably, they played the field in the short direction, not long, which meant they took to diving onto the track to catch a pass at alarmingly random intervals. That I managed to keep my Yasso 800s on pace despite the fancy sidesteps to avoid the not-hoodlums boosts my race day confidence. I did receive a ‘sorry miss’ when I was inadvertently trampled during a burst of exuberance. Given that they missed the ball, I’m impressed I got an apology and not something more profane. And a miss trumps a ma’am any day. Then they quibbled about what to do about the play I interupted. I’m lucky to have escaped concussion-free.
I don’t worry about running injuries, I worry about being injured when running.
Title Referrence: The Coasters – Yakety Yak. 1958.
One of those guys kept eying my Lunar Glides and commented on how nice they were. I had visions of running home in bare feet.
Barefoot running, it’s all the rage.
Ah, Central Tech. Um, also by the way I think I was at the track this week the same time (thursday evening). The guys were slightly more annoying than usual.
I did spot a few other brave souls out getting in some interval work. I wish I had known, I would have said hello (during my rest interval of course
).
They called me Sir. The horror!
Not sir! I knew they were hooligans.