Being mistaken for one of those runners
While I'm waiting for the Limoliner to take me to Manhattan, I thought I'd do a little rumor control in case any of my dear readers come across some world-class Asian athletes.
You see, this week I stayed at the same hotel as some Boston Marathon runners, including the Korean Marathon Team. I didn't get in until well after the race, and I kept a low profile that evening. However, when I went out the next morning for a run, I immediately came upon some of the Koreans doing a little recovery run in their brand-spankin'-new neon yellow BAA windbreakers. I smiled as I zoomed past and they waved. A few blocks later, I ran into them again and this time I said hello as they gingerly moved up a hill that I plowed through. I did the same to a few more packs before heading a little farther out.
When I returned 40 minutes later, the Koreans had all gathered in the lobby. As I entered they all smiled at me and then the buzz began. As I waited for the elevator, I looked back and they were whispering while looking quickly in my direction. A quick inventory of my appearance revealed nothing embarrassing. Then it dawned on me: They think I ran yesterday with them. Not only that, but I still had a spring in my step, suggesting I must be one of the elites.
I immediately thought of a time in the 1980s, when my parents went to some pre-Olympics swim meet in Japan and were mistaken for an American swimmer's family. The Japanese swarmed them for autographs and while my mother protested, much to everyone's surprise my father obliged the crowd -- even suggesting that they line up so no one got hurt. My mother was mortified.
Well, I am my father's daughter. So when the elevator doors opened, I turned to the Koreans, gave them the thumb's up and shouted, "Go Boston!"
You see, this week I stayed at the same hotel as some Boston Marathon runners, including the Korean Marathon Team. I didn't get in until well after the race, and I kept a low profile that evening. However, when I went out the next morning for a run, I immediately came upon some of the Koreans doing a little recovery run in their brand-spankin'-new neon yellow BAA windbreakers. I smiled as I zoomed past and they waved. A few blocks later, I ran into them again and this time I said hello as they gingerly moved up a hill that I plowed through. I did the same to a few more packs before heading a little farther out.
When I returned 40 minutes later, the Koreans had all gathered in the lobby. As I entered they all smiled at me and then the buzz began. As I waited for the elevator, I looked back and they were whispering while looking quickly in my direction. A quick inventory of my appearance revealed nothing embarrassing. Then it dawned on me: They think I ran yesterday with them. Not only that, but I still had a spring in my step, suggesting I must be one of the elites.
I immediately thought of a time in the 1980s, when my parents went to some pre-Olympics swim meet in Japan and were mistaken for an American swimmer's family. The Japanese swarmed them for autographs and while my mother protested, much to everyone's surprise my father obliged the crowd -- even suggesting that they line up so no one got hurt. My mother was mortified.
Well, I am my father's daughter. So when the elevator doors opened, I turned to the Koreans, gave them the thumb's up and shouted, "Go Boston!"
