Close Encounters of an Awkward Kind: Maybe It’s ‘Yogging’ with a Soft J

Every day after work, I enjoy a leisurely, uninterrupted run on the streets of New York. If you’ve ever attempted this yourself, you can probably sense my exaggerated eye-roll through the internet wires. The experience is a gigantic pain in the ass. On a grand scale of NYC-specific pain in the ass moments, it’s higher than delivery boys who don’t obey streetlights but lower than the European tourists who attempt to clothesline you on the sidewalk. Sure you can run in the park or on the river, but really only during daylight hours or you risk being kidnapped by a camp of hobos. (Clearly, the hobos kidnap you because they value your running skills, which increase your chance of making a fast escape after they dispatch you to steal a rival hobo camp’s dinner.) So, due to late hours at work and an intense fear of hobo kidnapping, being confined to the city blocks is a pain in the ass experience I have no choice but to endure.

After my gym tried to get me to sign away my first-born in exchange for treadmill privileges, I decided to give NYC running culture a try. I hadn’t given much thought to the possibility that East Village streets might provide different running challenges than my college campus or the my parent’s quiet neighborhood. In the ‘burbs, the most awkward thing you chance is giving your childhood best friend’s Grandma the finger when she beeps at you because you think she's a skeezy townie checking you out (true story). But running in the city provides endless opportunities for human interaction, which means endless opportunities for awkwardness. My favorite scenarios include, but are not limited to:

The “Shall We Dance”: I often assume that, since I’m moving faster than the she-turtle walking toward me, it’s her responsibility to divert her slow and steady path out of my way. Well, more often than not, Secretary Sally is too focused on the McDonald’s fries she’s milking to give a crap about anyone else on the sidewalk. This means that, before you know it, you’re face to face with old Ketchup tooth, engaging in the little mirror image game of two steps to the left, two steps to the right, pause in the middle, laugh awkwardly and repeat until someone smartens up. Sometimes I attempt to avoid this by taking a hard left straight away. But like a good game of Rock, Paper, Scissor, there’s always a chance that your unsuspecting opponent is going to attempt the exact same move you dreamed up to fake them out. On the sidewalks of New York, two hard lefts often result in a head on collision, or worse, some sort of accidental boob graze.

The “Startle the Tourist”: Years of living in Manhattan have taught me to be suspicious every time I hear footsteps running up behind me. I know it’s a bit neurotic, but I’ve conditioned myself to be very aware of my surroundings. As soon as the pitter-patter catches my ear, I casually move to the side, while discreetly protecting my belongings. There are only so many reasons why someone would be sprinting through the city streets: A) They’re running away from their crack dealer after stiffing them on a payment. B) They’re running away from the police after being caught dealing crack. C) They’re trying to steal your purse and/or worldly possessions, or D) They’re out for some leisurely exercise. The overwhelming probability that it’s not D is why I’m astonished more people don’t get the eff out of my way when they hear me coming. I will literally (and I mean literally in the actual sense of the word not in the teenage girl reverse-exaggeration sense of the word) be twelve inches behind someone before they realize I’m there. Try standing twelve inches behind one of your coworkers. It's really close. Sometimes I’ll shout, “Excuse me!” as I make my way past them (the shouting part is usually unintentional – undoubtedly a result of listening to “Halo” too loudly on my iPod), catalyzing a chain reaction of a startled jump, followed by the dropping of shopping bags and a long, steady stink-eye. Sometimes I apologize. Sometimes I keep running. The one thing that remains constant is my desire to actually steal their purse or at least a small shopping bag. I’d return it later, but would consider it a small contribution to the NYC running culture as that person would probably move out of runners’ ways for the remainder of their lives.

The “Holy Shit Why Is Your Toy Yorkie on a Ten Foot Leash”: Let me preface this by saying that, like so many Manhattan residents, I am a dog lover. This does not mean, however, that I believe dogs should be given free reign of our already crowded sidewalks. It’s hard enough that during a long run, when you have plenty of other obstacles to deal with (like your own imploding chest, for example), you have to be on vigilant look out for abandoned puppy poo. The last thing I want to worry about is crushing some Ugg clad, Louis carrying, cell phone chattering Murray Hill girl’s newly minted Maltese. I know its difficult to listen to Sharon complain about her Friday night at the J-Tree and watch your dog at the same time, but little Muffy just sprinted across the sidewalk creating a trip-wire/hurdle with her Burberry leash. A scraped knee and accidental dog murder would really put a damper on my evening jog.

A gratuitous photo of a tiny dog next to a soup can!

So, to that end, I’d like to propose an NYC Runner’s Bill of Rights – much like the Taxi Rider’s Bill of Rights, but way more selfish and less universally applicable. Considering I just expressed how what starts as a casual jog through the city streets evolves into ruminations of old-lady shoving, souvenir theft and canine homicide, I think that taking this precaution would make the city a safer place. As long as every amendment is some variation of “Get Out of My Way, “ that is.