This is an open letter to you runners that I see out there on the same roads and trails that I run on, runners who wear the same running shoes, and some of the same clothes, who I will nod to in recognition of our kinship but who seem to deliberately ignore my friendly gesture, whose faces are stone and your hearts cold to a fellow runner.
What’s the deal with you guys?
When I say “hey,” or give some small but solemn nod that recognizes you for being out there, you just keep on trucking, like you never saw me or wish you hadn’t. It kind of hurts.
I’m the one who extended the simple gesture of courtesy and respect. And somehow, I’m the one who feels like the asshole after you run by with (can I risk stereotyping here?) your Under Armour tank top and earbuds. I am usually not in the mind to feel like an asshole, and transcend the negative feelings by hating you intensely. This is still not healthy, and running is about health. Thus, I will attempt to work my way out of this dark pit of anger by examining possible explanations for why you snubbed me.
1. You were way too in the zone
Of course! I see it now. You were just sooo in the zone baby, that you couldn’t spare the minutest energy for anything besides running your hardcore best. Nope, not even a nod. Was someone coming the other way? Whoa, sorry Brah, I was getting my cardio on too hard to even notice.
Well, sorry Brah, I totally can’t accept this one. If you were so totally in that zone that you didn’t register another human being coming up the road —probably the first in miles where I live — you’d have tripped over yourself a long time ago, or even swerved into a semi truck. I’d give you a pass if we were on a track, but these are the roads and you wouldn’t last long without some capacity to notice what’s around you.
FYI, I can push myself hard too, and guess what? Even in the most brutal, blistering workout I’ve still been able to make some kind of nod of acknowledgement to a runner coming from the other direction.
The point about awareness being necessary for survival runs both ways. If you literally couldn’t see me coming because you were completely wrapped up in the Jason Mraz playlist blowing through your earbuds, there are going to be problems when that truck backs out of the driveway in front of you.
2. You’re too badass to nod.
Nod to another runner? Hah! No other runner is worthy of my nod. The roads are where men crush each other to win glory. To nod is weakness. Glorious competitive men show no weakness. NEVER!
So this sport definitely gets its share of the Type A crowd. I’ve also seen many of the same very competitive people shake hands with their competitors at start lines of innumerable races, hang out with each other and even share a cool down jog afterwards. Respect need not be obliterated by competition. Such gestures like the ones I just mentioned and the nod add a layer of meaningfulness to the sport, and make it more appealing to me then if it were merely about sprinting to the front of the pack and to hell with the rest of ’em.
3. You’re too cool to nod.
I suspect that there’s another faction, though I lack direct evidence, that has an iconoclastic bent. These are the people who make a point of not saying “how are you?” because they know that statistically most of us don’t actually give a damn when we ask the question.
Is the nod a gesture with very little effort behind it? Guilty as charged.
It’s just a gesture, just like saying, “Have a nice day” or “I’m sorry for your loss” are gestures. However, such gestures are also conspicuous by their absence. When you leave me hanging after I give the nod, I feel cold inside. It’s the same as if you told me, “Have a bad day. Dick.”
You can keep running feeling cool about yourself, but you could also listen to the Beatles who would tell you, “it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder.”
4. You think I’m trying to hit on you.
Hey, sorry to burst your bubble, but this nod’s not just for you; it’s for everyone out enjoying the fresh air like I am. It has nothing to do with how attractive anyone appears in form-fitting runner’s apparel. I’m not asking for a phone number or a too-long hug. Just a damn nod.
5. You’re just a terrible human being.
This is what I assume by default, when some one denies a nod, whether it’s true or not. Hopefully it’s not true. If it were, I would suggest that you look deep within your withered soul and try to find some good so you can cultivate it. Maybe some day you will realize that your fellow humans have as much claim on your attention as the heart rate metrics streaming from your performance watch.
6. You legitimately don’t know that nodding is the right thing to do.
Well, consider yourself enlightened. You’re welcome.
I think a lot of you nod-less plodders look kind of new to running, so maybe I should cut you some slack. I won’t tell you the absolute worst things that I’ve thought about you.
But I will say this: Running ain’t just a way to work on cardio before you hit the weight room, and it’s not just about beating everyone to the finish-line (though it’s nice to try.)
You can also add color and enjoyment to your experience by noticing your fellow travelers in fitness. I dunno, maybe you could even run with one of them sometime.
The nod is really just an opening to a much larger, communal aspect of running, the kind that you see at cross-country meets, over post-race drinks and through the years of fellowship between groups of friends that get together for weekly runs year after year.
When I nod to you, even that brief acknowledgement should tell you that we do share something as we run across this disconnected/ connected world.