There's something about a crisp, sunny Spring morning that calls for a little run.
Donning a running outfit and running shoes, going to a popular greenway alongside a street, and communing by putting as much of nature past you as you feel like. It's before the noonday sun bears down, and there's a little moisture still in the air so I figure I'll pass on wearing a light jacket along with my shorts and tee.
Dew is still on the grass, and light moisture still in the air. Stillness prevails. In all, it's a fine morning for a run along the side of the road. Going for the burn before breakfast!
And then the sound of brakes. A jeering voice: "Hey, Bay-bee! You got-a some nice legs." Outside of shin splints or blisters, this is the occasional blight of the runner. The catcalling creep.
Yes, another sighting/hearing of Anus americanus vulgaris: The common American asshole. Still, you can't physically confront these overstuffed specimens, just hope that they will go on their merry, obtuse ways.
No, he is a dawdling pest. Now he goes, "Hup, two, three, four!" in full volume at me.
So I did the ill-advised: I shot him the digital avain.
Screech! He came to a sudden stop, and got out out of his car. Like wow! He's a big bloke!
I ran across the neutral ground, and dared him to get me.
He finds out he's not up to a chase. Being called 'lardass' doesn't improve his mood.
Runner 1, Heckler 0.