In a note a few weeks ago perceptive Caren correctly diagnoses my disease: I love to run with the ladies! The pattern is obvious ... ultramarathons with Amanda, Caren, Mary, Ruth ... memorable long-distance treks and training runs with Betty, Christina, Dina ... shorter excursions with various impromptu acquaintances of the fairer sex. Reasons are multiple:
- Proximity — at the back of the pack, where my pace generally places me, there are usually more female runners than males
- Conversation — whether it's brain chemistry or socialization, most women tend to chat more freely, about more diverse topics, than most men
- Noncompetitiveness — if I ever had an urge to "win" it's virtually all gone now, so I find it pleasant to ramble along with comrades who likewise don't want to crush egos, set records, or otherwise defeat any opponents besides themselves ... and often those relaxed runners are female
- Safety — although the odds are long against disaster it's always wise to have someone nearby in case of slip, fall, broken bones, animal attack, or other accident, especially where cellphones don't work and the crawl back to civilization is long; women in general are patient and cautious, good qualities to have in the wilderness
- Encouragement — even though most races are wide open to all, the crowds at start and finish are predominantly male; it's nice to help a wider spectrum of people feel welcome and happy to participate
- Reciprocity — some of the kindest and most valuable running assistance I've received has come from ladies; it's only fair for me to return the favor in some slight degree (thank you again, Cathy, Morgan, Rayna, ...)
- Defense — for a constellation of reasons women are more subject to verbal assault or worse by jerks, creeps, and outright criminals; even a feckless escort like me can perhaps deter such problems
- Chivalry — it's fun to act polite, gallant, honorable, and otherwise knightly towards a fair maiden (you can call me Don Quixote)
And finally, I have a selfish motive:
- Protection — when dryads, sylphs, nymphs, and sprites are attracted like moths to a flame by my freakishly overdeveloped masculine physique ... when they emerge from field, stream, and wood to attempt gross indecencies on my nearly-irresistible body ... when they try to distract me with corner-of-the-eye glimpses of their feminine charms ... when they are tempted to thrust rock and root into my path, to trip me and bring me down ... well, if I'm accompanied by a girl, those naughty pixies tend to back off and leave me alone. Professional courtesy, you know!
TopicHumor - TopicRunning - TopicPersonalHistory - 2007-12-30
(correlates: DogWork, StagesOfCredibility, Projectile Precision, ...)
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