The minds of men and of women
As a man, I am still not impervious to making bone-headed comments to women; a form of argument, one would suppose, but more than likely a pathetic excuse or explanation to try and stave off trouble for doing something truly stupid.
The male of the species just can’t help it. We’re accused, and our brain synapses turn into thick molasses and we’re reduced to blithering idiots who will reach for excuses like low-hanging fruit and when called on it are left with clever retorts like, “Oh, yeah?” and Yeah, well…”
I worked an aid station during a 50-kilometer race Saturday. That’s a race of 31 miles for our non-metric friends. I was at the only station that runners came through twice, once at about 14 miles and again at 21 miles.
A kid drove into the dusty parking area on a motocross bike; the woman runner followed about five minutes later.
“Matt, do you have my backpack?”
“Dad locked the car.”
“OH, YOUR DAD.”
My station was fully stocked with snacks, essentials and fluids; salted peanuts, trail mix, almond bars, three kinds of cookies, Starburst jelly beans, Hershey’s candy-covered kisses, water, electrolyte-replacement drink, electrolyte pills, boiled, salted potatoes, energy gel packets (in a flavor my buddies call “Dutch hooker”), bananas, Kleenex, paper towels, four kinds of soda, Pringles and cheddar-filled pretzels.
“I’ve probably got what you need.”
She looked at me and huffed.
“You have a tampon?”
I confessed that I did not.
“OH, MATT, YOUR DAD.”
I have never experienced a menstrual “incident;” I do however, have many, many close, personal woman friends (and three sisters). I have gleaned enough knowledge to know that running 31 miles in a such a womanly condition would be bad.
(And by bad I mean ick.)
She drank another cup of water, had a fistful of chips and started up the trail.
“Matt, you’re sure you checked all the doors?”
“Locked.”
“OH, YOUR DAD.”
Matt got himself a cup of water.
“I think your dad is in trouble.”
Matt blew a long breath over his teeth and slowly shook his head in the affirmative.
I thought that maybe once the last runner had past my station that I could make it to the finish and casually overhear the inevitable argument that was to ensue.
Just to see the guy try and explain why he locked the car in the middle of an U.S. Bureau of Land Management recreation area that was populated only with about 50 ultramarathoners. On foot.
“Oh yeah,” he’d say. “Yeah, well...”
The male of the species just can’t help it. We’re accused, and our brain synapses turn into thick molasses and we’re reduced to blithering idiots who will reach for excuses like low-hanging fruit and when called on it are left with clever retorts like, “Oh, yeah?” and Yeah, well…”
I worked an aid station during a 50-kilometer race Saturday. That’s a race of 31 miles for our non-metric friends. I was at the only station that runners came through twice, once at about 14 miles and again at 21 miles.
A kid drove into the dusty parking area on a motocross bike; the woman runner followed about five minutes later.
“Matt, do you have my backpack?”
“Dad locked the car.”
“OH, YOUR DAD.”
My station was fully stocked with snacks, essentials and fluids; salted peanuts, trail mix, almond bars, three kinds of cookies, Starburst jelly beans, Hershey’s candy-covered kisses, water, electrolyte-replacement drink, electrolyte pills, boiled, salted potatoes, energy gel packets (in a flavor my buddies call “Dutch hooker”), bananas, Kleenex, paper towels, four kinds of soda, Pringles and cheddar-filled pretzels.
“I’ve probably got what you need.”
She looked at me and huffed.
“You have a tampon?”
I confessed that I did not.
“OH, MATT, YOUR DAD.”
I have never experienced a menstrual “incident;” I do however, have many, many close, personal woman friends (and three sisters). I have gleaned enough knowledge to know that running 31 miles in a such a womanly condition would be bad.
(And by bad I mean ick.)
She drank another cup of water, had a fistful of chips and started up the trail.
“Matt, you’re sure you checked all the doors?”
“Locked.”
“OH, YOUR DAD.”
Matt got himself a cup of water.
“I think your dad is in trouble.”
Matt blew a long breath over his teeth and slowly shook his head in the affirmative.
I thought that maybe once the last runner had past my station that I could make it to the finish and casually overhear the inevitable argument that was to ensue.
Just to see the guy try and explain why he locked the car in the middle of an U.S. Bureau of Land Management recreation area that was populated only with about 50 ultramarathoners. On foot.
“Oh yeah,” he’d say. “Yeah, well...”
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