Am I the last person in New England to realize how cool The Trading Post is? You could spend a 3-day weekend in this joint (and some do – we call them “tourists”) and still not see everything. And c’mon now, these days you can get a frigin Flo’s hotdog, or three, or seven, if you need a lunch break from shopping at “The Post”. (FYI: I like mine with hot sauce and mayo. And yes, of course, I can eat seven of them).
So we’re roaming around the top floor and I stumble upon the rack filled with “lights”. I stop in my tracks, grab my goatee, and begin contemplating my triathlon training (it’s an hourly occurrence). Lights? Hmmmmmm. Ones that wrap around your waist and attach to your Fuel Belt, headlamps, ones that strobe red, ones that adjust peripherally, and ones that even double as a distress whistle. Yeah, if I were lit up light a Christmas tree just think of the possibilities. I could train at night, in the dark. I could have access to all 24 hours of the day. That’d be one less restriction. I’m already restricted by The Works Athletic Club being nearly 40min from my house and the Seacoast YMCA pool having horrible hours for adult lap swims.
“Hey Hon! I should really get a light so I can go out on early morning and later evening/nighttime runs without compromising safety!” (There, the seed has been planted). Now where are those compasses and canteens?
For reasons I will not get into, Father’s Day was exceptionally special for me this year. My Dad and I enjoyed what has become our annual trek to Fenway. I simply do not spend enough time with this man, so it seems that every time that I do I learn a little something more about why I am who I am, and after each encounter I know that I am about to become a better father because of it. Another individual who regularly has this affect on me is my wife. Her and I completely understand that we will never love each other like we love our kids, but we have come to realize in recent months that it’s a really close second (a photo finish if you will). I love her more now than I ever have in my life. On Father’s Day, aside from the most special handmade gifts from my kids, heartfelt cards containing verses chosen with care, and time together I’d never forget, a small red envelope holding a gift certificate to the Trading Post was opened. Suddenly, tunes from Dexy’s Midnight Runners fill my noggin. Thank you, Karen. A Christmas tree I will become.
A few weeks back (I think it was a Friday), Karen got home from work a little later than usual. I had fed the kids dinner and gotten them in their jammies. We had planned on a movie (On Demand) and some of Karen’s famously delicious homemade salty popcorn in a brown paper shopping bag. When I try to make the popcorn it never comes out like hers. It sucks. No one wants to eat it, and she just ends up making a new batch. Her peanut butter sandwiches are the same way. Her boiled water always comes out better too. I don’t get it. It’s gotta be chromosomal.
I asked her if she would mind putting the kids to bed while I went for a run, then I’d shower while she did her Reddenbacher thang. She agreed, so off I went to go get dolled up in my fluorescence and new “running lights”. Although very late August and still almost 80 degrees, 8pm is more similar to midnight than it is 6pm. I’m planning a 6.5 mile run tonight, my first “night” run, so I’m strapping on both my lights – the one that will attach to my Fuel Belt and has a 60-meter front beam and a red strobing rear flasher, and also my 80-meter headlamp that I’m wearing over my visored cap. I venture through the kitchen toward the door, but then pause as my hand reaches for the knob. Looking over my left shoulder, the scent of garlic spaghetti still roaming the air, I redirect my gait and head to the sink where Karen is rinsing some dishes. I pull a bright orange sheathed paring knife from the sill abutting the faucet.
“What are you doing?” she says with one eyebrow raised.
“I don’t know. Just in case, I guess.”
“Just in case what? You come across a skunk?” Ha!!! If you have to kill a rabid skunk with that ‘lil thing, don’t you dare come home tonight!”
She’s kidding (I’m hoping). OK, maybe not so much. But a skunk is the last thing on my mind. I can out run a skunk. I’m thinking bigger, badder. I’m thinking horror flick gone terribly wrong and I’m the “B” actor tripping over the pine needles without an ability to scream for help. Actually I’m thinking, “Damn, I hope this thing is big enough.”
The first 100 yards are merely just walking down my driveway to get to the road. I found myself continually scanning left and right to be sure I wasn’t interrupting the course of any fanged nocturnal predators. This caused some vertigo, much like I suppose sitting at a tennis match at Wimbledon would. Once at my mailbox, a final adjustment to my headlamp, a few stretches, and I was off. It doesn’t take long and I am now “between” streetlights – of which there are only two on my entire road. Quickly the “freaking out” thoughts begin. At this point just the sound of a cricket doubles my heart rate. I easily unsheathe my knife a half dozen times over that first quarter mile. I can’t decide if it’s best to run with the blade exposed, or if I should just keep it in it’s sleeve. I am practicing desheathing it now. How fast can I do this? The next thing I know I am running in the middle of the road, equidistant from the trees lining each side of the street. This is the furthest from danger that I can be. This gives me the best chance to prepare myself for an attack, no matter what direction it comes from. Wait. Shit! Except from behind. Great, now every 20 yards or so I find myself pirouetting to do a quick posterior scan. My form is clearly suffering. I’m expecting pain in places I didn’t know I had thanks to the spontaneous dance moves I’m forced to perform just to curb my anxiety. Despite this though, I’m currently setting a record pace for the fastest mile in North America. In no time I have made it to Rte 27. This road is twice as wide, has a large breakdown lane, abuts Rte 101, and contains streetlights every few hundred yards. Thankfully I no longer feel like I’m competing on Survivor or filming an episode of Man vs. Wild and I can now just get into a good running groove. These lights are awesome. I can appreciate them now that I’m in a zone. Still a little humid, a light mist starts to fall. This just adds to the eerie feeling that I can’t seem to rid myself of, although it’s improving with each foot strike. It no longer feels necessary to run on top of the double yellow lines so I cruise over into the breakdown lane. I’m seeing traffic now, and they are surely seeing me. As each car approaches, I get that high beam flash so the driver can get a quick “better look” at what is coming at them. They usually slow for a moment until they’ve identified that it’s just me. I can’t be missed. Even if you’re texting, driving with one knee, sipping a beer, and eating a Big Mac, you’ll see me. Sneaking up on 8:30pm, I hit my turn around point, unaware that I’m about to use my “fight or flight” response a few more times than I had planned.
During about a 200 yard stretch, shortly after my turnaround, I pass through (or under) some power lines. The area is open on either side of the road. No trees exist so you can see for almost a good half mile. Around the next curve a set of headlights are approaching. No high beam flash, but the vehicle is slowing a bit. It’s slowing more. It’s crawling now. It’s still about 100 feet in front of me. It’s gotta realize I’m a runner by now. I give him a courtesy wave and motion for him to keep going. Within 20ft of me it comes to a complete stop, right in its lane. It’s a white cargo van. I stop dead in my tracks. The hum of the engine is all that I hear. I am completely blinded by the headlights. What the fuck is this guy doing? I take a quick look behind me. I can run and hide into the power lines if necessary. It’ll suck, but it may be my only chance. I’ll need to turn off my lights so he can’t see where I go. Like, right now. Just go. Now! Don’t chance it. Seriously, what is this frigin driver doing? OK, if this were a 1958 red and white Plymouth Fury I’d have more of an appreciation for the Stephen King scene that I’m taking part in, but it ain’t, and now I’m feeling a wee-bit threatened. I cower and lean away from the van, nearly walking in the ditch as I hear the passenger window go down. A few mumbled words I can’t comprehend fall out onto the pavement. I desheath my hunter-orange paring knife, brandish it in the beam from my headlamp, towards the jargon, and with my best Jack Nicholson impersonation, “Don’t ever stop a runner at night! I’ve got a knife, Man! Now get the fuck moving!!!” Before my last F-bomb reaches the kidnapper’s getaway car, I am in an all-out sprint, running 4-minute miles (even if it was only for 20 seconds). The van guns it, ripping up the pavement, surely leaving it tattooed. Shit! This freak is gonna turn around and come back for me. Run. Roosta. Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuun!!!!!! I get to the next street light, turn off my lamps, and crouch down behind a tree and some shrubs. Waiting . . . waiting . . . nothing. No car. Just more crickets. OK, I’m fine. He’s not coming back for me. Lights back on. I start running again – a faster pace of course - all I want to do now is get home and have some popcorn.
As I navigated the turn off of Rte 27 and back onto my “side” road, the apprehension rose. It was gonna rise anyway, but thanks to my recent encounter, it felt more exponential than insignificant. The next 9/10 of a mile contained 2 streetlights. Oh, by the way, for the record, I never resheathed my knife. It was ready for carving and filleting at all times. Anyway, it was back to running in the middle of the road. If anything was going to ambush me, I wanted a little bit of reaction time as well as a 15-foot head start. Without incident the next half mile slides under my feet, up the big hill, around to the left, and I can see the first of the two streetlights, glaring down onto the road through the steady thick drizzle. Then . . . I see it. Before my heart has a chance to rattle off another compression, I become motionless. The profile of a large black four legged figure struts out from under the light pole into the roadway. The moment that I freeze, so does “it”. Obviously, we’re both curious. “What are you?” I’m thinking. “How would you taste? It’s thinking. Turning to face me, it lowers its head and raises its back. I can sense the aggression mounting in its fur. “Oh Shit! Great! Fine! So, this is how it is going to go down tonight, huh? Okay, do what you gotta do. I’m ready to dance.”
The staring contest only seemed like it lasted about 30 seconds. In actuality, it was surely more like three, but I’m probably exaggerating. Creeping, head down, as if rehearsing aerodynamics, he slowly worked his way toward me. I quickly realize that I need to make a choice. If he continues forward, soon he will be out of the light and into the dark, and it will be very difficult to see him, despite my headlamps - a clear disadvantage for me. I may need to actually show some aggression and head towards him as he is still within the best lit area on the road (and get there soon!). I take a couple of quick hops in his direction and I can begin to hear and see the lights of a car approaching me from behind. Yes, my first thought was, “Watch it be a white cargo van.” As it got closer I walked into the middle of the road with my left hand raised, signaling it to stop. When it clearly was disobeying my commands, I raised my right hand and started waving it to slow down. Nothing. No response. In fact, the bastard actually sped up, swerved around me, and left me for dead. Appreciating that I was wielding a knife while attempting to get this Samaritan to stop at 9pm on an extremely poorly lit road, I quickly forgave them, but as the taillights faded, I realized that I had now completely lost sight of my stalker. He was gone. He surely knows where I am, but where the Hell is he?! I frantically began performing one quadruple Lutz after another, trying to capture this beast in either of my two Tikka lights. “Where are you? Dammit! C’mon!”
I’ve got to bolt. No, I’ve got to Usain Bolt! If I can make it to the next street light I should be fine. Don’t turn around. Just breathe. Don’t stop for nothing. And don’t fall and impale myself on this dinky little piece of weaponry. Now GO!!!!
Before my heels even make it out of the streetlight glow and into the black, I can sense that I’m in a rundown. How much of a head start did I get? How much time did he afford me? Where did he come from? Am I slower than I think? Do I have a HammerGel I can rip open with my teeth and toss to him? Will that appease him? Should I suck down the Gel myself (and consider it my last meal?). Run Roosta Ruuuuuuuun!!!!!!!!! I’m no longer contemplating my first ocean swim next month at The Lobsterman triathlon and the recurring nightmares I have about the movie “Jaws”. I’m now suffering through replays of another movie, “Cujo”, that scene where he is ramming his frothy disheveled head into the side of a Ford Pinto. The smell of his breath is crawling over my shoulders. His claws tapping the pavement are syncopated with my Mizunos, and becoming more pronounced. If I look back to calculate my shrinking time advantage it might cost me an arm. Finally captured by the gleam of the last street light, I can see my mailbox. It’ll be a sharp right then down the final rock-covered, tree-lined chute to the house. There are hundreds of screaming fans and volunteers. Andy Schachat calls out my number and name from my front porch. The calves of three other triathletes in the chute come into view (marked with a “41”, “43”, and “40”) and I reel them in one by one as if they were running backwards. The rocks turn to pavement, darkness disappears as my motion sensor light locates me, and I raise my arms, fist still clenching my open blade. I slap my stopwatch and collapse onto the stairs of my mudroom. I’m breathing and not bleeding. I must have won tonight. I made it. I'm alive. After fumbling for the hidden key to get into the house I take one last look out of the window down the driveway. Before I have the opportunity to scan the yard for sets of glowing red eyes and foaming mouths, the sensor light gives up, once again casting the house in darkness. Lancing the kitchen door open I unexpectedly suffer one last chill. Karen turns to me, “How was your run?”
Placing my knife back on the sill, “Um, if I do that again, I’m gonna need a bigger gun.”“Huh?”
“I’ll shower and tell you all about it over a bag of popcorn?”
It was You, wasn't it?
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