Lunchtime Jog through Downtown Tulsa

“Ouch, damn it!”  I grab the back of my head.  I look at my fingers and see blood.

“Was that a rock?  Who hit me in the back of the head with a rock?  If that homeless man outside the YMCA throwing rocks in the street hit me, so help me …” I turn around.

“Oh crap.”  I duck …

I admire lunchtime joggers.  That’s true dedication.  I especially admire the ones that jog daily.  If I exercise more than once a month, I call that healthy living.

I’m not a fatty-fatty two-by-four, but when I turned 30-years-old and started a desk job, it added some weight.  It’s time to get back in shape and start a new habit.

It was noon on Monday.  A humid summer day.  The first day of the week.  The first day of my new lifestyle.  I joined the lunchtime joggers. 

Like most people, I drove to my jogging destination.  I didn’t want to waste my energy jogging to my jogging location. 

I park near 8th and Cincinnati. 

I step out of my car.  Cell phone in left hand.  iPod in right.  Keys in … no pockets.  Ok, cell phone and keys in left hand.  iPod in right.

Oh yeah, my wallet.  If I’m killed or die of heat stroke, the authorities will need a way to identify my body.

Cell phone and keys in left hand.  iPod and wallet in the right.  I start my jog, jogging north on Cincinnati Avenue.

It’s good to be outdoors.  This is nice.  Fresh air.  Well, fresh-ish air.  It smells like new asphalt and grease.  I’m sure it’s safe to breathe.

I make it to 7th and Cincinnati before I need break.

I walk a few more blocks.  I spot a possible homeless person walking toward me.  I jayjog across the street.  I get a better look at him and realize he’s African-American.  Great, now I look racist.  I’m not. 

I pick up the pace and jog into road construction.  The sidewalk is a dead-end.  I have two options.  Neither one feels safe.  My choices are:  1.  Possible knife-wielding thug that may think I’m racist, or 2. Family of hillbillies at the bus depot.

I choose the bus depot.

I move my wallet to left hand, and my keys to the right.  I make a dagger with my keys.  It’s something I saw on Oprah.

With key dagger in hand, I casually walk through the bus depot.

I smile and nod.

“Hi.  Hello.  Enjoy your trip.”

That was close.

I’m back on 3rd street, one block away from Yaw Eno.

I pass Yaw Eno.  Still standing. 

Outside the Double Tree Hotel, protestors hand out fliers.  I don’t know what they’re protesting, and I don’t care.  All I care is the man handing fliers is African-American.  I can make up for the jayjogging incident from a minute earlier.

“Would you like a flier?”

“No, thanks.  I don’t have any pockets and I don’t want to carry anything else.”

“It’s just a sheet of paper.”

“Well, since it’s just a sheet of paper, you should have no problem holding it.”

That didn’t help.  Time to jog.

I turn left at the BOK Center and jog toward the YMCA.

Outside the front door are three possible knife-wielding thugs.  One is skipping pebbles on the road like stones on a lake.

Maybe he sees something I don’t.  I’m sure he’s insane.  His eyes scream baby snatcher. 

I’m about 25 feet past the YMCA.  Something hits the back of my head. 

“Ouch, damn it!”  I grab the back of my head.  I look at my fingers and see blood.

“Was that a rock?  Who hit me in the back of the head with a rock?  If that homeless man outside the YMCA throwing rocks in the street hit me, so help me …” I turn around.

“Oh crap.”  I duck.  A bird swoops down and tries to hit me.  I’m being attacked by a bird. 

I run fast toward my car.  I’ve never knew I was capable of this speed.

The bird is not easing up.  He hits me again.

“Ouch!  Get away!”  I’m running with my arms flailing above me.  I look like those annoying sky dancer advertisements.

I think I have bird mites.  I can feel my head itch.

While runnig, I pull out a handful of hair and inspect it. 

I jump into the safety of my car.

Jogging’s more dangerous than I thought.  I need a safer exercise.  Maybe Tae Bo.

First, I need to shave my head.  Something is crawling.