It's Not a Contact Sport (an Email reprint)

(I wrote this a few years ago when Char was one and a half and my knees were in better shape.)

While running in the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick 5K road race last Sunday, I noticed that a lot of the runners are people I recognize, but I don't really know them. I like to create names for these people based on what I see and hear. They all sound like mobster names for some reason. For instance, I spotted "Johnny Tourettes" (he constantly swears to himself as he runs), "The Mouth Breather" (the man sounds like a slow locomotive forever moving uphill), and the self explanatory "Hairy Back Boyd."

Now I get to add two more names to my list.

Sunday's record high temp prompted a lot of men's shirts to be shed (sadly, I got to see the rug Hairy Back Boyd wears from the shoulders down), and there were quite a number of tattoos on display. Like the cereal box at breakfast time, I'll stare at these tattoos as if they're the most interesting thing I've ever seen. I'll admit to being ink-free and out of the tattoo loop, but I thought only girls got tattoos centered at the base of their spine. Apparently not: this guy had a stylized globe adorned with two tribal lightning bolts.

New Name #1: "Tramp Stamp Terry"

Around the second mile marker I caught up with a runner who had sprinted the first mile, but was fading fast. As I was safely passing him, I felt this guy put his hand on my tramp stamp, if I had one, that is. The contact wasn't a bump or the result of his arm swinging in stride either, he had his fingers on me for about two seconds. That might seem like a brief amount of time, but it's not if somebody has their unwanted, sweaty fingers on you. "Hey! Watch it." I growled over my shoulder, but he didn't even react - he just kept plodding along looking at the road beneath his feet.

New Name #2: "Bennie the Bad Touch "

Hands Off! Music Link

Update 2017: Found video footage from this day. Char was also anxious to get in on the running action after watching all the runners. Her little legs carried her from Daphne, past me, and stopped at Grandma Deb who asked, "Are you running the race?" 

These races were a family affair. I miss those days, and I know Daphne does, too. 

Stupid knees.