Sometimes when I want to run unnoticed, like when I was told just over 24 hours ago to avoid running at least for a week because of my bruised ribs and then posted about it on social media, I run in less trafficked areas. The doctor’s advice was well meaning and I know he’s right, but to take away my running routine is like taking away my morning cup of coffee. I’m lost without it. I’m grouchy. And it’s all I can think about. So instead, I relieved my angst by lacing up for a few hilly miles with Heather, and only slightly wincing in pain with each downhill stride.
In the almost three years that Heather and I have been running together, we nearly always run in the same formation: I’m on the right, she’s on the left. With the slope of most roads, closer to center is easier on my bad hip, and when running through neighborhoods nearly devoid of traffic, we opt for the road over the sidewalk, but always on the left side. So imagine our surprise when today, as we are slogging up another hill, we hear a horn blaring from more than 100 feet back. Is that car honking at us? Clearly not, it’s too far away. Maybe I’ve been caught and Mario has come to haul me back home. Nope. That’s certainly not it. As the car approached, so too did the voice and anger of one unhappy soul. We knew she was angry by the tone of her voice. But it was nearly impossible to understand the words coming out of her mouth. My best guess is that she was missing anywhere from four to eight teeth, and it really just sounded like mush mouth with an attitude. The words “left side” were somewhat decipherable and I gathered she didn’t approve of us running in the road. Heather, in a hey I’m not letting you ruin my day kind of tone, continued to respond okay, lady have a nice day. My only witty response was, that’s not necessary, and as she approached the stop sign to turn right, anger took over. What just happened?
The angry driver, henceforth known as Snaggletooth Bertha, was mad. Like really mad. And for no reason. We were running on the left side. Yes, I was slightly closer to the middle, but those neighborhood roads are wide enough for an airplane to drive through. (To be fair, Snaggletooth Bertha did drive a tank.) The rage she spewed at us was completely unwarranted and in turn, it made me angry. Like I wanted her to drive back by so I could tell her where she could take that tank. Our best guess: she was having a really bad day and we happened to be the unlucky recipients of her wrath. But here’s the thing: she was a grown lady who clearly did not know how to handle her emotions. My children are 6 and 8, and they have emotional outbursts like any other 6 and 8 year old. But as a parent, one of my many jobs is to help them work through the complexity of their emotions. We name our feelings. We say what we need. We take deep breaths. We go to our safe space. We recognize that all emotions are welcome, but all behaviors are not. It’s not always pretty, but the point is we are trying.
As I let out one angry yell after Bertha had disappeared, I felt better. No, I wasn’t actually going to tell her where she could drive that car of hers, and now that I write all of this out, I have empathy for her. To yell at two random women who are out trying to get in a little movement - you must not be in a good place. Maybe next time I’ll respond like the Buddhist monk I aspire to be. But in the meantime, let’s all work on our emotional intelligence. The world needs us to try harder.