Drunk Dodging

It was the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day, late in the afternoon, and I was headed out for my long run. My route was from 16th and Market, down the Parkway and a full Kelly Drive loop. A lovely 10.5 miles in great running weather – high 40s, overcast, no wind. Of course I was dressed wrong. I think I will finally figure out proper winter layering after spring settles in for real.

I began seeing them immediately – the St. Patrick’s Day revelers. To be fair, most weren’t intoxicated yet, but they all had their game face on. Attired in a combination of slutty/trendy/comfort clothing, with a skip in their step and bright eyes that said “I’m going to get plastered tonight,” they were ready for their evening out.

I love/hate the drinkers when I’m running. My New Year’s Day tradition is to go for a run that takes me from South Philly across the Mummers Parade route, so drunk dodging is a sport I know well. I love them because, let’s face it, they’re funny, particularly the ones stumbling around like toddlers getting off the tilt-a-whirl. This is far more interesting than the collection of street signs and sidewalk cracks I usually see. I really love the ones wearing face paint, Mardi Gras beads and antennae with fuzzy shamrock tips who look at me as if I’m the one who’s strange. When they notice me, that’s the typical reaction, a quizzical “why would you do that rather than drinking?” look.

This brings me to the ones I hate. Ever notice that the drunkards who are truly amusing to the sober are the ones who don’t think they are being comical, and the ones who think they are hilarious are funny only to people who are similarly trashed? You will if you have to run past them only to have some Einstein yell out “look, I’m running too” and start to jog along side you to the hysterical reaction of his deeply impaired friends. Also, let’s face it, folks on the other side of six pints of beer and eight Jagermeister shots are not very mannerly. They step right in front of you, they hog the whole sidewalk without moving out of the way, they blow smoke in your face as you’re running past. Plus, my olfactory senses could do without the combination of alcohol, cigarettes and puke when I’m already gasping for air.

It’s all good, though, especially since I think I found the perfect compromise to this. Next month I am participating in a Friday night race that actually ends at a bar. I get to be a runner and a dodgee all in the same evening.