That Asshole on The Boardwalk

I was on vacation a few weeks ago. You probably didn’t know it because I didn’t post 30 pictures of the beach, dinners and the boardwalk every day. Not to get too off topic here, but speaking of vacation pics, can we all just call a moratorium on the over-clichéd pictures? No more shots of your pasty white legs on the beach. No more shots of your fucking dinner. “OMG!! A PLATE OF CRABS!! THAT LOOKS LIKE EVERY OTHER FUCKING PLATE OF CRABS EVERYWHERE ELSE IN THE COUNTRY.” No more shots of drinks/beers sitting on a dock or bay or whatnot.

"Stop chasing me, you pervert!"

You know what I do when I see the endless stream of vacation pictures on someone’s social media? I march right over to that person’s unoccupied house and rub my junk on all their door handles. Car handles, too. You would think their neighbors would complain, but when they see Big Kev a-comin’ over with his junk hanging out, they know they can pool hop and raid the unlocked shed all week. You’re welcome, neighbors. Alas, this post is not about those assholes.

For the last 4 years, I have been doing this thing called the Warrior Dash. For those who don’t know, the Dash is one in a growing number of “mud runs” or Obstacle Course Races (OCR).

This girl has never run a Spartan race in her life. Guaranteed.

"Ugh, this is worse than what I do for my boyfriend!"

"OK, we're here. Where is one cup?"

Someone finally figured out that running is the most boring physical activity to do on the face of the earth. So why not snaz it up with things like cargo nets, fire, barbed wire and, of course mud. WD is really the only ‘competitive’ thing I do all year. And by ‘competitive,’ I mean something I actually train for; both running and in the gym. The Dash is by far the least hard core of any of the similar 5k runs I am aware of. I am routinely beat by guys older and heavier than me. I am also routinely beat by guys dressed as Ghostbusters, Bronies, Ultimate Warriors and Ninja Turtles. Yes, you do get a participation medal for finishing the course. But for someone who is nothing close to a “runner” or “athlete” like myself, it’s my own gold medal. Except it isn’t made of gold. But it can open beers. Fair trade. How many tall boys are your medals opening up, Phelps? Thought so.

"I'm just gonna shower after my morning run."

For months, I will force myself to run. Now, you would think when I go on vacation, I would just get hammered all day and sit on my ass. And there are some days I do just that. But, in a cruel twist of fate, I have found I actually enjoy running while on vacation. Shocking, right? So why does someone who hates running go running 3 times while on vacation?

Atmosphere. Running to and then on, the boardwalk, you just can’t beat it. My love affair with the beach is well documented. Most mornings, I can see Dolphins near the beach, which is kinda odd because you would think they would be in training camp now. So to get the rare chance to actually run next to the beach is pretty damn invigorating. The atmosphere is made up of many things; the sun, the breeze, the people, the sounds, the boardwalk shops. There’s so much going on, it’s like playing a human game of Frogger. I like it because you do have to keep your head on a swivel, and it mimics running in a real 5k. Oh, and the chicks that wear tight UnderArmour type clothes; they’re pretty cool, too. It’s really hard to ruin this precious experience.

Except for that guy. That one guy. That one asshole on the boardwalk.

I am sure every boardwalk has one. It’s probably written in the town ordinance somewhere; the douche bag law. I saw this guy twice. Imagine a bright, sunny morning. The boardwalk is bustling with activity; walkers, runners, bikers, those douchebag hipsters in the reclined bicycles. Every age group and demographic represented. There I am, huffing and puffing. Sweaty man boobs in the salty air. Even in my favorite place to run, it’s still a struggle for me. Dodging people who are oblivious, lost on their cell phones. People who just seem to exist to suddenly stop in front of me for no apparent reason. I’m doing my best. We should all be happy we’re out there, sweating our collective asses off, trying to make ourselves better. And then I see… him.

He is to the side of the boardwalk. He is under a roofed area. He has no shirt on. He has a muscular chest and six pack abs. His tan torso is adorned with a few big tattoos.

A lil' somethin' for the lady readers. All two of you.

His hair refuses to move in the sea breeze. Even though I already don’t like this guy, I am jealous. I want that body, minus the fugly tats. Here the rest of the world is running by. And this asshole is doing  jumping split squats?

Ugh, really dude? This is what we’re doing here? You can’t just run like everyone else? Sure, jumping split squats are a fantastic exercise. But that’s not what we’re doing here. We’re running, that’s what we’re doing. I don’t know how that got to be the rule, but it is. No one wants to see anyone else doing push ups or lunges or sit ups. You can do yoga on the beach, but that’s as far as it goes. But, no, this guy’s gotta be peacocking on the side of the boards. Asshole.

The next day I go for a run again. It’s another beautiful day on the boards, and I happen to fall behind a pack of tight Spandex asses where I can breathe loudly and no one is creeped out. And, then, I see him.

This time, he is modest. He is actually off the boards, on a street that runs up to the boardwalk. He is in a driveway that sinks below street level to the garage. He is walking on his hands back and forth.

"Hey ladies. Just alligning my chakras. And I just shaved my bunghole."

Really, dude, are you kidding me here? Walking on your hands? In someone’s driveway? This isn’t freaking American Ninja Warrior here. Just a bunch of schlubs running up and down on the boardwalk. I imagine this is some house wife’s Pepsi wet dream or whatnot, but i-we-don’t need to be seeing this shit. We get it, dude, you’re ripped. I suppose you did the rest of us brothers a favor by not actually running faster than us on the boardwalk. On your hands. Really, at that point in my run, if I thought I had anything left in the tank, I would have run over, knocked you literally on your ass then ran away. But I had already been running for four minutes and was pretty gassed. Lucky you.

She's running because she hears quarters jingling.

The third day I went running, and it was glorious. Sun was out, the cool ocean breezes muting the heat. Asses to tight you could bounce a quarter off them, which is why I always run with a pocketful of change. And Mr. Asshole nowhere to be seen. Maybe I had already missed him. Maybe he already spiderwalked the length of the boardwalk. Maybe he ran the length of the boardwalk on top of the hand rails, I don’t know, nor do I care. It was the best run I had all week.