It’s off-season for our running club, but many of the pace groups still meet up on Saturday mornings for a short run of ten to twelve miles. The number of people running is greatly reduced from the throngs that showed up during regular training.
Since the groups as smaller, people tend to move around and socialize. It’s almost like a two-and-a-half hour therapy session because so much talking and soul-searching takes place.
Today, our group started off with ten people and ended up with only four at the very end. The other six people turned back or turned off the path at different points. Near mile seven, our group was running two-by-two… a little box of four.
I was in the back with a lady I knew by name, but hadn’t spoken to beyond a random, “Good morning” or “Man, isn’t it crazy cold out here this morning?” She asked me what I was doing next Sunday. I told her that I guessed the family would go out to eat someplace for Easter. She invited me to “celebrate the Armenian Genocide”.
Surely I’d misheard. Why would anyone celebrate genocide? I tentatively asked how one goes about celebrating the Armenian Genocide. She said that everyone gathers together and marches over to the Turkish Embassy to stage a protest in order to force the Turkish government to stop denying the Armenian Genocide.
I half-jokingly asked her if we had to throw rocks or anything and she gave me a bit of a glare. I admit that I’m not up on a lot of historical events… not even on those that apparently are very well-known.
Next, I asked her if she grew up in Armenia and I guess that was my second chance, because all the Armenians were deported to other countries and she grew up in Lebanon. Our mentor told us to stop talking politics. That was a relief, because I had no idea what I was talking about and it was nice to get back on track with our discussions of sexual intercourse positions, yeast infections, the pros and cons of marijuana, and whatever else it is that women talk about in their spare time.