Hot Dog

The scenario depicted below didn’t happen often, and it happens even less the older I get, but it did happen, and it does happen . . . sometimes.

I joined the Stone Mountain Running Enclave in 1975. This group of runners doesn’t actually have a name; I just made that up. If the group had any organizational structure it would be an appropriate name. However, our only rule is, “There ain’t no rules!” We’ve been meeting in the main parking lot of Stone Mountain Park on Saturday and Sunday mornings since, well, prior to my arrival in 1975. My running buddy Joe is the longest active member. I would be second.

A pretty fair number of runners start their workouts in the main parking lot. Most run around the mountain in a counterclockwise fashion, much as they would if it was their local high school track. It’s a hilly five mile route.

Our group has varied in size over the decades. Sometimes only one or two show up, but back in the day we’d get as many as 15 adults, college kids, high school kids, and middle-school kids like my daughter Ann or Joe’s son Chris. (Now 28 and 30+) While our group has varied in size over the years, the routine is generally the same.

Saturday is a long hard run. Sunday is a shorter recovery run. The Saturday run starts out with a 2 to 3 mile warm-up, and then we jack up the pace to something challenging for the distance we are traveling. This is followed by a 2 mile warm down.

During our warm-up we just amble along at a slow jog. There is no sense of urgency. There is no hurry. It’s a warm-up. You are supposed to take your time and just mosey along, allowing your muscles and joints to loosen up in preparation for the work that lies ahead. It’s considered bad form, rude, a breach of running etiquette, to push the pace the least little bit during warm-up. There is plenty of time to bust chops and establish the pecking order during the meat of the workout.

Occasionally there will be a young Hot Dog who passes us during our warm-up. We notice his passing, but don’t care because it is, after all, just the warm-up. Joe says good morning to every person we pass in either direction, and invariably grants Hot Dog that courtesy. Hot Dog moves on ahead of us and we continue our warm-up and conversation.

We don’t say anything, but Joe and I are taking note that Hot Dog is carrying his arms too high or low, his stride is too long or short, his chin is too high or low, or he leans too far forward or back. He just doesn’t look right to be running in front of us. He doesn’t look like he can handle that pace, or a quicker pace, for the entire route. Joe and I are both wondering if we will see Hot Dog later in our run.

By passing us Hot Dog has silently asked the question, “Am I better than these old farts?” In fact, it is less of a question and more of a declarative statement like, “I AM better than these old farts!” While this is just another training day and not a race, Joe and I are keenly interested in helping Hot Dog discover the true/false nature of his declarative statement.

Joe and I are, by nature, competitive beasts. I would be happy to beat Joe in any and all contests, and he would gladly do the same to me. Instead of beating on each other during the run it is a pleasure to have Hot Dog offer us an entertaining diversion via his declarative statement, “I AM better than these old farts!”

We do not mind being passed by better runners. We do mind being passed by lesser runners. It has to be proven to us that Hot Dog is a better runner.

As we begin the meat of our workout it is such a pleasure to see the diminishing distance between us and Hot Dog, who is several hundred yards ahead of us by the end of our warm-up. I don’t know about Joe, but I feel like a wolf chasing down my prey. I don’t smell blood, but I do see weakness, and I want to expose it. Joe and I might actually discuss the fact that we are closing the distance on Hot Dog, and make a conscious push to catch him. Sometimes we just go about our business and let the unspoken mission happen.

The best part of this scenario is catching Hot Dog before he gives up. Sometimes we will blow on by him with a little extra effort and bury him deep in our wake. However, our experience has been that it is much more fun to get on Hot Dog’s tail and torture him.

When Hot Dog hears us approaching from behind he invariably raises his pace to avoid being caught. It’s a futile effort and adds to our fun. We can match that surge and more, but we don’t go by him. We stay on Hot Dog’s tail. When Hot Dog speeds up, we speed up. When Hot Dog eases up just a hair, so do we. Our objective is to keep Hot Dog running as long and as fast as he can until he gives up in abject defeat. We want him to reach a state of utter exhaustion where he has to slow to a near walk, and we have no choice but to blow on by him.

I love it. I absolutely love it. It’s the most fun you can have standing up.

Several months ago Ann called me a Velociraptor; maybe so, but so is Joe.