Running From the White Car

This morning I woke up to drizzle and grey - perfect morning for a run. I headed left on North Cartwright Road and just kept going towards South Ferry. We take the North Ferry to get to Shelter Island so I've actually never been near the South Ferry until today.

I got my hair cut on Friday and I have a lot of short layers. One has decided to stick up Alfalfa-style. Cute...

My mother was attacked in close proximity to wild turkey hens on Saturday. I've never seen her move so fast and I'll admit that they were ugly and frightening. This morning I found their husbands.

When I turned back from the ferry landing, I saw a white car slow down and pull over, giving the car behind it very little warning and almost causing an accident. I was a little ticked off that they stopped the car right in front of me, but I moved over to the middle of the lane and kept running. Then I noticed that some idiot in the passenger seat had been shaking her hand at me and it crossed my mind that they thought blocking my path would make me stop. Since I don't live on Shelter Island and can't really answer questions, I went on my merry way.

Less than a mile later, the white car makes a left in front of me into a driveway and stops. I figure that perhaps this is their destination. As the car doors open, I focus on the road ahead of me and keep my pace steady.

About a quarter mile after that, the white car pulls to the side of the road and this elderly woman gets out and tells me she has to ask me something. She's dressed vaguely Amish and has a frayed leather book, and my first thought is, "Shit, the Jehovah's Witnesses found me," but then she says she's lost. I tell her that I don't live on Shelter Island but ask what she's look for anyway. I don't know where South Thompson is and tell her so. Her passengers and she are creeping me out enough as it is so I don't offer to look up South Thompson on my iPhone. I apologize for not being able to help and keep running.

And then they pull up behind me again. That's when I got over my 9+ minute mile pace and started trucking at around 7s. By this time it's pouring, and while I normally enjoy running in the rain, I can't help but tell myself that if someone is going to cut me up in little pieces and play with my liver, I'd rather it be the gastroenterologist than some ugly old woman in ugly old shoes.

I made it home in one wet piece and made a beeline for the shower.