A Jogger, A Cyclist, A Hot Dog and Repentance

I was living the dream when I got my license. Dad had a work vehicle so I pretty much took over his boxy, blue Toyota Camry. My part-time gig paid just enough money for gas and some pocket change for Friday night pizza and salad at the local pizza parlor and some tunes to play in the tape deck.

I lived a short distance from what I still consider one of the hippest little cities in the Northeast and me and my buds, with little money to drop, hung out, on warm nights, in the local parks as well as the sidewalks outside the coffee shops and stores that lined that main drag.

After checking out all the older hipsters drinking their lattes, coming and going from the local artsy movie theater (you know, the one with three aisles that only played foreign films), we got bored so we'd jump in the Camry and cruise to the grocery store. When I got my license, I always felt empowered at Stop "N Shop because I could buy whatever I wanted! I didn't have to stand with mom at the meat counter, holding our ticket so we could buy a pound of baloney. I could get chips or a Clearly Canadian! We'd joke about buying whipped cream for whip its (because we were naive and had no idea it could kill you) and ended up getting some various snacks, and on a few occasions, a pack of hot dogs.

Now, as an adult, I am not proud of many of my past actions, and having been a dumb teenager, I did a lot of dangerous stuff for which I am lucky that I survived and didn't harm anyone else in the process. I'm also thankful that there were no smart phones or social media because I probably would have never gotten into college and instead may have ended up in jail. Back to the grocery store-we'd take our snacks and started the cruising process, rolling down the windows, blasting TLC's Waterfalls from the tape deck, shouting at people and giggling incessantly.

But what about the hot dogs? you ask. You wonder if we were eating them unheated and you are wondering if that was a weird Western Mass thing or mid 1990's fad. My answer is no, we did not eat the hot dogs, but instead used them for entertainment purposes. This cool and amazingly trendy town, that was a playground to tons of teenagers, was home to many college students and adults who were often, in the warm summer evenings, biking around town, most often less for pleasure and more because it was their mode of transportation to and from work, or the local market or maybe the hipster coffee shop or artsy theater.

As we drove around town, I'd slow down a bit, and a forever unnamed accomplice tor two would lob a a hot dog out the window. Depending on the aim of the accomplice, sometimes the hot dog would land in the grass, or maybe on the side walk, but sometimes if might just hit a person biking or walking. I can only imagine what the person outside thought when they were smacked with a slimy,, cold hot dog and what impact that had on what was likely either a very lovely evening, or stressful end to a day.

You are now thinking that I am a bad person and that I was a bad teen and my parents treated me like a free range chicken. I shall not argue with you on any of these points, but I hope I counter acted being a teen asshole by growing up to be what I think is a kind, helpful human being who strives to support others, and oh yeah, gave birth to two girls who are soon to become teenage assholes. Pay back in a bitch.

I also know that I am not the only teen to have participated in such activities. In preparing to write this post, I asked Andy if he'd thrown anything at people while driving. While, being the good nerd that he was, he said he hadn't, but he did recall a story of one time riding his bike in his neighborhood, only to be taunted by a group of teens driving past him. Before speeding away, the unruly teens threw a bunch of ice at him, hitting him in the face and causing him some minor injury to his eye.

I should be upset about that story. I laughed when he told me the first time and I just laughed while writing it down.

Like I said, in my older age, I've repented and have not thrown anything, at anyone, from my car window. I don't throw anything, not banana peels or leftover warm drinks or anything at all. Ever. Scouts honor.

But I've wanted to.

Since I stopped running, it hurts my heart and soul when I drive down the road and see a runner. It can be a slow runner, a jogger or a super athlete hauling butt. I'm so sad because I imagine how happy they are, feeling the pavement under their feet and tasting the salt of their sweat. I know that, after I pass them, they may launch a snot rocket or adjust their running shorts from between their legs. As I slow down (because people who don't are major dicks), I stare at them, longingly. How far have they run? How far are they going? What type of water belt are they wearing? What kind of sneakers? Oh, are those Hoka One Ones? They must have nice arches. I am suddenly seething because that runner should be me. I should be tasting the salt and feeling the heat of the pavement. I should be sending solid snot rockets into the grass. I should be on mile ten with five more to go, taking a swig from my Gatorade and chewing an energy gummy. I shouldn't be injured in perpetuity, stuck riding a stationary bike, walking, or hiking intermittently. I want to run.

I also want to throw a hot dog at them.

I think I'd feel better if I could just do that. I should go to Price Chopper and pick up a pack right now. Runners of my town, beware.

It's been twenty five years since I drove Frank's Camry around the streets of that hipster city and I have worked so hard to make up for all of the wrongs of my teen years, so I know it is wrong to feel jealous and it is wrong to want to hurl a hot dog at someone who is just trying to get some exercise. I'm truly happy for them and I am excited to see more people participating in a sport I love dearly. It brought me joy, clarity of the mind, a sense of self worth and grit. I hope running does this for others to. So, to all you runners, keep running. Do it for me. Don't stop for anything.

Even if you get hit by a hot dog one day.