Note the Spandex

I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news that I did another race today and ran fast. The bad news is that my landlord continues to be a sexual harasser.

I didn’t really want to do the race, precisely because running is now connected with my landlord, who is part of a running team, does all races in the area, and invites me to do all races in the area. His buddies on the running team want me to join, because I can win points for the team, and, I think, because it’s exotic to have a foreigner. As, uh, my studies keep me really busy, I haven’t been able to make any of the practices, and I’ve, uh, unfortunately suffered from sickness and injury lately, making it impossible for me to join in the weekend races. I figured they’d lose interest, but – well, you already know how the “I figured ….” figuring typically works out for me here.

A “Grampa Richie” was in charge of this race and called me with a personal invite. “We really want you here.” In fact, as it turned out, he’d already gone ahead and signed me up. Why? Because the Sexual Harasser-cum-Landlord told him I’d “almost certainly do it. With 99% certainty.” Say what? Apparently I have a manager now? I don’t like the idea of that, period. I’m an independent: I think alone, I live alone, I travel alone . . . and I run alone. And what’s even more worrisome is my suspicion that he’s not managing an athlete but rather someone he thinks of as his little girl toy. But “Grampa Richie” is a nice old man, and I felt bad that he’d already signed me, so I did the race. In fact, when I showed up, “Grampa Richie” had a membership card and a racing shirt waiting for me, though I did manage to refuse the Spandex shorts. (Seriously: what’s the deal with Spandex?) Which was all very nice of him, but I just feel bad all-around. It’s the classic Italian manipulation mode: Do something exceedingly generous (if pushy) for someone, and now she's “obligated.” To perform well? To join the team? To let the Landlord get some play? I’m not that serious a runner, and I don’t want to be a serious runner. (Although I do continue to enjoy running fast, and winning.) And I'm definitely not a fan of "inappropriate touching" (as it might be called in a grammar school bust) by the Landlord. And then – get this – they have the balls to tell me how to run. You should start off faster. You went too slow at the beginning. You “lost” third place by just a bit. I’m just pissed off all-around. I’ve thought about inventing a boyfriend or a lesbian lover to get me out of the mess, but I’m pretty sure such an acquisition would be followed, vendetta style, with an immediate rent increase. Shite.

On the glass-half-full side, I ran faster than I’ve ever ran before: 8 km race, 30:30, 6:08 miles. I think that's pretty cool.