#RunnerProbs
The other day I decided to try something new. I decided to try a morning run. I got up at the crack of dawn and patted myself on the back for beating the neighbors AND the sun out of bed. I stumbled out of the house into the dark and down the road. I’m pretty sure my legs were running on autopilot. I couldn't see much in between the morning haze and my half-closed eyelids, let alone recall how I exited the house.
I forget that I’m not the only one who gets inspired to greet the dawn of a cheery new day. I also forget that some people are rudely awakened by an alarm (to beat the garbage man to the end of their driveway with yesterday’s trash). And most importantly, I forget that along with early morning comes the hour of the dog. The hour that dogs spend all night anticipating by lying in front of the door, just waiting for the master of the house to arise from his slumber and open the door. If Master pushes the snooze button just once, Dog is compelled to remind the snoring humanoid just how small his bladder really is.
I’m pounding the pavement rhythmically. As if from a dream, I hear muffled noises. I am struggling to focus through the narrow slits of my eyelids. I keep pounding. I am blasted to reality by barking on my right. My eyes fly open and I whirl to face whatever it was that was responsible for disturbing my morning tranquility. I see a large barking machine and I am instantly flooded with memories of “The Beast” from The Sandlot.
Instinct tells me to gun it and run faster. But I look at the massive paws. There are four of them. I look down at my two trainers and I remember that dogs have twice as many legs as I. As much as I would like to think otherwise, I wouldn't even bet on myself to outrun a dog.
I stop. And just like out of an old spaghetti western we freeze and measure each other up. I can almost hear the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly playing in the background. The mutt licks his chops and one disgusting slobber of drool drips to the ground. I raise my right hand to stop my stopwatch. The ‘beep’ brings on another round of barking. The owner, panting, runs up and yells at him. I learn that the beast is named Freddy. Perhaps it is because I am still half asleep or perhaps it is because I have learned such an intimate detail about this hunk of fur, but I realize that I feel a sense of power over him. I am not afraid.
The master yells at me. “Don’t worry! Freddy won’t hurt you! Just walk away.”
I look at the dog and resist the urge to stick out my tongue. And I walk away. Five steps in, I break into a trot. I am wide awake the rest of the run.
This blog was contributed by Stephanie Berger, a Public Relations and Marketing intern at Hedstrom - Ball, Bounce and Sport. She studies at the University of South Carolina and is addicted to breakfast foods and sunshine.
