The running detective

In the country, running gives you an excuse to be nosy. In the city, you don’t need an excuse. You can just meander along the streets and slyly peer into ground floor windows. If anyone catches you, just clasp your hands behind your back and start whistling a jaunty tune as you casually walk away. No one will be the wiser, right?

Well, in the country, you don’t really have that option. You can’t stroll along in a neighborhood, and most definitely not whistling a jaunty tune (they’ll call the cops on you for sure), unless you live there or people know you. What I’ve gathered is that people don’t really go on strolls in their neighborhoods, unless they go early in the morning (when I’m still drooling in bed) or at dusk (when I’m probably ass deep into the sofa.). Not unlike my hometown, these residential streets are empty of loiterers and the country rural roads only have the flora and fauna to keep one company. So it’s a bit hard to blend in and whistle your way up to someone’s first floor window.

When you’re running, people treat you differently. Perhaps in awe or in disgust, they give you permission to take your time to pass by their flower beds, wave at their children playing on the front lawn, perhaps pet their dog.

I went on a run a couple of evenings ago. I used to do it for enjoyment during college in Northern California and then in the city at Central Park, but when I moved to the Upper West Side for graduate school, my running time dwindled. So now it feels like a pain in the ass. But I figured I should give it a shot again since I have new terrain to cover with natural scenery and less street traffic, though I do have to contend with hulking semi-trucks, which make NYC buses look like toys. Anyway, I’ve noticed three major differences on my country runs.

The first, being that you can be as nosy as you want to be, as explained above. In my poking around, I’ve gotten a few ideas about additions to my imaginary mansion/cabin/home, but mostly I’ve made notes on decorating tips to avoid, including wild front yards with multiple lawn gnomes, rusty wheel-less cars or trailers that should be declared fire hazards.

The second, I counted MINI Coopers to pass the time when I ran south on Riverside Drive. It seemed to be the favorite car of the Upper West Side, so this made the time go by quickly. In my country runs, I count wildlife. This latest run I saw one deer, two cats and countless ravens and seagulls. Other days I’ve seen bunnies, woodchucks and cardinals. It’s a veritable zoo really.

The third, I no longer use my iPod. In the city, I had a running playlist of loud, pumping music to drown out the sounds of horns, shouts or pigeons. Here, I’ve discovered I don’t mind listening to crickets, birds and lawn mowers. It’s turned into another moving meditation. Plus I need to keep my ears sharp for the family dogs guarding the family property. Unlike the city, they’re not always on leashes and they’re not always pint-sized accessories for your purse. I breathe and cross my fingers. So far, so good.

One thing hasn’t changed, however. Running can still be a pain in the ass; the first 20 minutes are the worst, then it gets marginally better. And nothing beats my relief when the run is over, because I’ve got a whole 24 hours before I think about my next nosy escapade.