It all starts so innocently.  A daily workout with my family.  Fun times, lots of  laughs.  But no one’s laughing anymore.  Not since we crossed paths with . . . The Lady in Purple.

My wife, two daughters and I (henceforth known as “we”) jog or walk in a recreation “bubble” here in suburban Minneapolis.  These bubbles are very common up in this part of the country because only the occasional moose trying to impress one of the gals and lunatic Minnesotans (also known as “loons” which happens to be our state bird) in shorts and t-shirts who insist -20 degrees has no affect on them jog outdoors.  I just want to know what makes these folks tick.  -20 degrees, a windchill of -35, shorts, t-shirts . . . and gloves.  Why gloves?  What’s that thought process?  “Yeah, I wear gloves.  You think I’m nuts?  Ever jogged without gloves?  Your fingers get cold, you know?”  Sure, you betcha.

At the recreation bubble there’s a track that encircles a soccer field.  About five laps equals one mile.  It’s a nice, padded field turf that’s easy on the knees.  One thing though – it’s very narrow.  Navigating the track requires great skill.  The ability to move in and out of walkers/joggers traffic is something that can’t be taught.  You either have it, or you don’t. 

We put our two daughters in one of those three-wheel workout buggies.  They look like rocket-powered vehicles without an engine.  Since the front wheel doesn’t turn, going around curves can be treacherous, if not downright life-threatening.  You first need to lift the front wheel off the ground, though not so high that your children get catapulted out of their seats.  Then, after straightening out, you need to land the vehicle.  The entire process is similar to a pilot taking off and landing a jet plane.  In fact, it can be argued operating a two-seat workout buggy is not a whole lot different than actually flying a 747. 

When you go to one of these places you start to know the people working out with you.  And although no one says it, there’s a little gamesmanship that plays out:  No one likes being lapped.  Even the walkers.  When they see you coming they’ll “accidentally” move directly in front of you, nearly knocking you into the soccer field netting that surrounds the field.  Keeping you at bay, and after they’re once again about 30 feet ahead of you, they’ll casually turn around and say “oh, I’m terribly sorry” as they continue walking.

We don’t have too many problems in this area because with our little workout buggy, people move.  No, they scatter.  Compared to them, we’re an out-of-control 18-wheel truck without breaks.  As we come upon someone who doesn’t want to move, I whisper to my 5-year-old “ok, now!”  She begins saying “DADDY, DOESN’T THIS THING SLOW DOWN!”  People move aside as if a presidential motorcade is coming through.

But the game changed the other day.  A new face was in the bubble.  It was . . . The Lady in Purple.  I’m still having dreams about this woman.  That’s why she gets mentioned in upper case.  For the purposes of this piece, we’ll call her . . . Miss Purdy.

It seems Miss Purdy, a healthy-looking woman of some 65 years or so, likes competition.  She not only likes it, she feeds off it like a shark going for blood.  When she came into the building heads turned, hearts began racing and paces picked up.  From what I was able to piece together, Miss Purdy enjoys passing you . . . and letting you know about it.  She’s a trash-talking, grandma jogger. 

I’ve run across a few of them over the years and make no mistake:  They need to be dealt with.  They need to be put down, and put down hard. 

If Miss Purdy wanted to mess with us, she was going down.

She came onto the track about a half-lap behind us without stretching, without warming up . . . nothing.  Miss Purdy needs none of that.  Curiously, the second she got on the track, we made eye contact across the soccer field.  The game was on.  I felt it.  I knew it.  And so did she.

As she began mowing down one person after another, her eyes appeared to glow.  The look on this woman’s face bordered on maniacal.  My daughters were talking to me about something – I’m sure it was important.  I think one of them had to use the bathroom but I didn’t hear a word.  We were in the final of the Olympic 400-meter hurdles and my country was depending on me.

As she started closing on us, I found another gear.  My kids were strapped in and nearly clutching the life out of their Strawberry Shortcake dolls.  My wife looked terrified, running stride for stride with me, as people became the hurdles for our workout buggy to blow by.

Nearing our final lap, Miss Purdy gave up.  Her pace slowed, her eyes stopped glowing as she waved her fist at me . . . I had broken her.  My wife was spent.  My daughters were speechless, their Strawberry Shortcakes in need of a little repair.  I was jubilant.  The gold medal was ours.

Miss Purdy may be a delightful woman.  I’m sure her kids and grandkids adore her.  But trash-talking grandma joggers need to go down. 

I’m off to the bubble again to work out.  My wife and daughters have decided to stay home and do something less stressful.  I heard talk of putting on a new roof.  My 22-month-old kissed me as I was leaving and said “bye-bye Daddy Loon.”   

Daddy Loon.  Fair enough.  Sometimes in life you have to draw a line in the sand and take a stand.  The loon made a stand, but I didn’t get frostbite.

illustration, courtesy wackystock.com