Running in Memphis

Just in case you missed the memo, husband-dear and I love to run. And bike. And swim. And work out in general. And when we're not running, biking, swimming, or lifting weights in the living room, we're talking about our latest or upcoming work out routine, and plans for future races. Our cabinet is stocked with water bottles, pre-during-and post-work out drink mixes, and all sorts of nutrition supplements that husband-dear swears will help make us faster, stronger, better, and poorer. Although he has yet to mention the last one. Anyway, in short, we're endorphin junkies.

And one of the ways in which this addiction, or I suppose obsession and/or neurosis is expressed is through the fact that whenever we travel, we have to get at least one run in. It doesn't matter where we go, or for how long, we always pack a pair of running shoes. Always. And when we don't get to run, we're mad. Even if it's because we're oh, I don't know, fighting a war, or going to conference panels twelve hours a day. And because of husband-dear's crazy career, he's got to run in some pretty neat places, like South Africa, China, all over the middle east, and Moscow. He's also got plenty of interesting stories to tell, like that one time he got horribly lost and turned a thirty-minute run into a two-hour work out (Germany), or the time he was chased by feral dogs (Moscow), or that time he discovered that running in a bullet proof vest was really not the best idea (somewhere in the middle east). And together we've discovered that Paris before daybreak really smells like urine and garbage, that Tivoli looks like a really creepy backdrop for a horror movie right at dawn, and that wild dogs are especially rampant in southern Alabama. So you see, we don't just run to keep in shape, we also run for the anthropological experience.

So when my work took me to Memphis last week, there was no doubt in my mind I would run at least once. And I did. On Saturday morning I set my alarm for 6:30am, and in spite of a less-than-friendly encounter with partying sorority girls in the hallway outside my door only a few hours before, I put on my running shoes and took off for the Mississippi. And let me tell you, running along the river was breathtaking. The sun was just coming up, and when you ignored the panhandlers cussing each other out, it was just perfect.

But besides the awesome views, I also took one other thing away from that run: I'm turning into a southern country bumpkin. You see, where I run now (for those of you who forgot, rural, backwoods, cottonfield-dominated, peach-tree swamped Georgia), everyone says "hey" to each other. And I mean everyone. People on foot, on bike, running, walking, they all greet each other. It doesn't matter whether you're in the back of a pick up truck, riding along at 40mph, and you're passing a runner killing herself doing intervals, you will call out a "hey, how ya doin'?". Ignoring someone on the street is the equivalent of social suicide in my neck of the woods. And although I know I've complained about this before, it's like spring time pollen, apparently, without really realizing it, you just get used to it.

So as I was running along the Mississippi, I smiled and said "hey" to just about everyone I saw. And instead of saying "hi" back, people looked at me like I was out of my mind. Women eyed me funny or jumped aside, apparently somehow worried that all 115 pounds of me was going to jump them and demand their money. Men would either mumble something incoherently or eye me up and down as though I had just asked them on a first date, and all in all, it was a very unnerving experience. So after about two miles, I gave up, and took to staring at the pavement, even though that made me feel so incredibly rude. How on earth could I pass all these people and not say hello? Seriously? And then it dawned on me: I have now officially turned into the country girl who visits the big city for the first time, and doesn't understand why people aren't as nice as they are "back home".

So that's just peachy. Not only do I now sound like a southerner, I act like one too. Great. Next thing you know I'll be asking for grits for breakfast and wondering why all "them professors" complain about the confederate flag on the back of my pick up truck.