Cheating Death – October 5, 2011

“I’ve gotten old”

I was out for a 7-miler on a cool and foggy fall evening in October 2011, my last training run in preparation for the Denver Rock ‘n Roll Marathon.

As the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon, I spied a man standing in the ditch by the side of the road, staring intently at the ground.

While not necessarily the most unusual thing that I have seen while out running, the hair stood up on the back of my neck when, through the twilight, I noticed what he was holding.

A pitchfork.

My imagination ran wild when I realized that, in about 50 feet, I would be running right by him on the edge of the road … passing by him within about, oh, the length of a pitchfork.

And as I approached, I could see that he had a dark beard, which only seemed to intensify the surreal feelings stirring within me.

I took a quick look over my shoulder to see whether maybe there was a car approaching from behind, my thinking being that maybe some unsuspecting motorist could render aid, or at the very least be a witness, for the impending attack from this implement-wielding Charles Manson-like maniac.

Seeing no such Good Samaritan, I made the quick decision to veer over to the opposite side of the road, so as not to startle the man and potentially provoke him into goring me with his agricultural weapon. And I also thought that the extra distance between us would give me a head start in case he decided to attack, figuring that I could outrun him since he was wearing overalls and work boots.

As I tried to quietly sneak past in the darkness, he looked up, and our eyes met.

With a pounding heart and while attempting to appear confident, I spoke with feigned nonchalance.

“How are you doing?”

I heard him stage-whisper back.

“I’ve gotten old.”

His whispering only added to the creepiness of the encounter, and my “fight or flight” instincts kicked in as I picked up the pace.

Feeling that a response was necessary, I blurted out the only thing that I could think to say.

“Well, I guess it beats the alternative.”

As I nervously chuckled, he gave me a quizzical look, obviously not amused by my attempt at humor.

By now I was in full Usain Bolt mode (at least, for me), sprinting as fast as I could to create more distance between us and resisting the urge to look over my shoulder to see whether he was in pursuit.

Once I had run probably the fastest quarter mile of my life (which really isn’t saying much), I took a quick peek back and found that my imagined tormentor was nowhere to be found.

My mind tried to process what had just happened.

Why was this crazy lunatic standing out in the dark by the side of the road with a pitchfork?

Was he just waiting there with the hopes that somebody would come by for him to impale?

And what in the hell did he mean when he said “I’ve gotten old” ?!?

Finally it dawned on me.

He had actually said, “I’ve got a MOLE.”

He was staring at the ground watching for movement in a MOLE trail, waiting to kill a MOLE in his yard with the pitchfork!

Apparently he had whispered so that his prey (the mole, not me) would not hear him.

So now I replayed the whole scene from HIS point of view.

There he was standing in his yard minding his own business trying to kill a mole, and this crazy runner comes by in the dark acting all strange and running to the opposite side of the road.

And my response after he says “I’ve got a MOLE” ?!?

“Well, I guess it beats the alternative.”

What “alternative”?

Like it could have been a gopher instead?

NOW, who is the lunatic?

Feeling like an idiot, I considered running back to explain what I thought he had said. But by now I had run about a half mile away, and after running back to him, close to 10 minutes would have elapsed.

Plus it was getting very dark.

And even if I HAD gone back, and he was still outside, how do you begin THAT conversation?

“Excuse me … You know when you said ‘I’ve got a mole’ … well, I thought you said ‘I’ve gotten old’ … and I also thought that you were going to kill me with the pitchfork.”

I decided just to continue running on home.

Since that evening, I have literally run past that house hundreds of times, and I have yet to see “The Pitchfork Killer” ever again.

Even if I ever do, I’m not sure what I would say.

But I hope he got his mole.