There is Nothing to See Here
November 21st, 2008by Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES-
I went running this morning. Trying to run now. Get back into running. I want to have good stamina.
I ran up into the Hollywood Hills. Heart thundering in my chest. The Santa Ana winds were blowing. A strong wind howling in from the northeast. I was running uphill, right into it. A sunny morning. Warmer than normal.
I was listening to my iPod. This band called The Glands. One of my favorite bands from days of yore. Makes me nostalgic. It’s just this one album. Name of the album: The Glands. A self-titled release.
The Glands.
So eventually I get to the top of the hill. I’m probably 700 feet above sea level. I’m up there. I’m looking out over the city. The view of Los Angeles from the hills on a clear day is actually quite nice. It reminds you of why so many people live out here. Mountains, desert, ocean. On a clear day you can see all the way out to the Pacific. Whitecaps to the northeast. Strange megalopolis.
I’m running along the ridge at the top of the hills with this strong wind blowing in my face, and I’m looking out over the city, and suddenly I decide that I have to spit. Kind of gross, but it’s true. I decide I’m gonna spit. Air quality in LA still isn’t very good after the fires. I imagine I was huffing some heavy particulate matter. And now I needed to expectorate.
I suppose it’s a guy thing. Expectoration. Guys often spit during exercise. During sporting activities. We scratch ourselves and spit.
So I’m running along, and I’m listening to The Glands, and now, sort of half-consciously, I’m spitting. I turn my head slightly to the right and I expectorate—which in hindsight wasn’t a very good idea, because I didn’t take the wind into consideration at all, nor did I properly consider my surroundings. I didn’t look behind me, for instance, to see if anyone was right on my heels. (With headphones on and music playing at full volume, my sensory perceptions were somewhat limited.)
And so I spit out directly in front of me and slightly to the right, attempting to send it out with some force, but the conditions overwhelmed me and everything went quickly awry. The winds were too strong, my saliva too thick. It blew right back onto my chest. Pretty disgusting. This big glob of saliva, all down the front of my sweatshirt. Just embarrassing.
And so now I’m suddenly conscious of my surroundings again, and I look up and realize that four people are walking straight towards me, two guys and two girls, a couple of couples, and they’ve all borne witness to the entire calamitous exercise. Errant expectoration. Into the wind. Disaster. All of them were laughing at me. One of the girls was sort of wincing.
And to make matters worse, I tried to play it off. Remain stoic. Pretend like nothing happened. This makes it even sadder, by exponents. I’m really disappointed in myself over this part of the story. It’s like when you trip and fall in public: You should laugh. Immediately. With great authenticity and good humor. But oftentimes when this sort of thing happens to us, we go the stoic route, reflexively. We try to pretend it didn’t happen. We stand up, straight-faced, and we keep walking. We attempt to cover up. We take ourselves too seriously.
I spit on myself. And then I kept running. I was trying to wipe this glob of saliva off of the front of my sweatshirt with my sleeve. And what’s even worse is that I was trying to make it seem like it was all part of my natural running motion. Like, my arm was moving up and down across the front of my sweatshirt, wiping this string of saliva off of my chest, and I was trying make it seem like it was all part of my exercise routine.
There is nothing to see here.
I didn’t spit again the entire way home.
I almost stepped on a Chihuahua by accident as I made my way down the hill. It ran right under my feet.
Everything was okay though.
And down on Sunset I saw this homeless guy carrying a bottle of bright green liquid.
I was like: Is that a beverage? Or is it window cleaner?
There was no label on it.
I had no idea what it was.
Maybe it was Listerine.
And you?
-BL
Tags: Brad Listi, embarrassing moments, expectorating, Hollywood, jogging, los angeles, running, spitting, Sunset Boulevard, The Hills
I shit my pants once while on a run. This was in college. I was right in the middle of a 15-miler and I just shit myself. It hit me quickly and violently. There was no time to react. There was no stopping it. My little running shorts started filling up, and were brimming with feces seconds later. It was a long, embarrassing walk back to the training room.
The really bad part about it (as if shitting your pants isn’t bad enough) was that I didn’t have a shirt on. There was no way to cover up. I left my underwear by the side of the road, used my socks to clean up my legs, but there was no way to disguise the shit that had already soaked through my bright yellow running shorts.
I wanted to die at that point. Seriously.
Oh, Joshua! I’m so sorry! That is so stinky horrible in so many ways.
Lenore is running in the LA AIDS marathon in May. She’s just started training. Never ran before even for a bus. I’d better tell her to carry some extra underpants and pair of shorts and maybe a big box of diaper wipes. She probably won’t listen. You should tell her.
I think I might have to witness Lenore running this marathon.
I think she needs a heckler.
don’t you heckle me, young man. i’m curing AIDS.
but you and Kari are more than welcome to hold up a sign that says my name at the finish line. you can hang out with the people i’m forcing to do that.
It was a miserable experience, Irene. But I’m sure Lenore will be just fine. Please tell her that I wish her all the best. Anyone willing to even attempt that distance is to be commended. I ran my first and only marathon at age 14. I could not walk properly for a solid week after.
And her nipples, Irene. Her nipples might bleed. They usually do. it’s crazy, those marathons.
I think spitting into the wind and getting on your sweatshirt is totally forgivable.
I’ve heard about marathoners shitting themselves. Interesting that it came on quickly like that. That, too, is forgivable, of course!
I ran a ten mile race last May and my knees were fucked for 6 weeks. Now I run three to five, once or twice a week, tops, because otherwise my knees can’t take it.
When I first started running I constantly had the urge to spit. Never spat before in my life, but running somehow brought on the feeling that spitting was a necessity. It took weeks before I could build up the courage, and even then I had to look around to make sure nobody saw me spit. I was so concerned about it. What I looked like spitting. What people would think of this girl spitting while she’s jogging. And, of course, whether I’d be able to properly spit without ending up with saliva dribbling down the front of me.
After awhile I felt like my spitting was getting better, but then in a 5K in Long Beach I spat and, because there were so many people around, I tried to be sly about it so as to not look like I was spitting. Ended up not clearing my body and had a big wad of spit land on my sleeve/hand. I spent the next couple of minutes trying to wipe it off and was completely grossed out. All I could think was how much I wished they had bathroom rest stops along the route so I could wash my hands.
spitting gives me a gag reflex. If I’d seen your accident I’d have puked on the spot. I guess that would have made it even weirder.
please dont spit in front of me.
I’m gonna spit on you the next time I see you.
Also: Saw Australia the other night. It was, um, completely and utterly outrageous.
I did laugh. But I shouldn’t as I have done the same thing. Except remove the running part. And the wind part. I was trying to learn to spit (I didn’t get the genes apparently, as my grandfather is a champion spitter). Having failed that, I just spit gum. This causes its own issues, as I’ve had it rebound off my side mirror and come back at me. Aim is important. Practice helps.
Your grandfather is a champion spitter? Does this mean there are competitions for such things?
It almost never fails to astonish me how many inventive ways there are of spelling our name.
heh. spit.
listi, isn’t there a saying about no spittin’ in the wind?
or was that pissin’?
anyhow, i’m glad you survived.
happy weekend.
Pissing into the wind.
Story of my life.
Tales of embarrassment are the best.
And, I never have the urge to spit. Ever. Except for when Colgate or Tom’s is involved. (Tom’s is a toothpaste, people.)
Gotta go — I’m confusing my dog by sitting in his usual spot. Don’t want to unnerve him any further.
Thanks for sharing!
I was always taught never to spit, because it spreads tuberculosis. That doesn’t make much sense to me, because I don’t have tuberculosis! Maybe my parents meant that nobody should spit, in case they do have tuberculosis… I don’t know.
What are you? Amish? Is this 1812? Tuberculosis?
Not Amish….English, though, if that explains anything.
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE ATHLETE’S DESIRE TO SPIT.
No, seriously. I’ve worked out a day or two in my life and have never felt the urge. Was a kick boxer for 7 years. Nope, never. I just don’t get it.
When I went to grad school in Hong Kong, people spat all the time. It’s this sort of prolonged “hachchchchchch-spoo.” You can be talking to a beautiful, polished professional woman and she’ll suddenly let loose with one of those. Like an adjective. A comma, perhaps. A hyphen. If they are professionals, however, they usually leave off the “spoo” over there. That’s more for the lower class - or in the comfort of one’s home. Amongst friends.
I have a friend who spent several months in a Shaolin monastery on the mainland, where they have spittoons in the halls of the living quarters. It didn’t seem to matter, however, as people often walked into his room and just spat on his floor. He had to make a point out of asking people to please not spit in his room on the floor. It was a big deal.
The whole time I was over there in HK, I couldn’t help but think to myself how lucky we were in America that people had dropped this habit at some point in our history. And then I came back and started noticing the runners. I had never noticed before, but there they were just spitting away unselfconsciously on the sides of roads. Th cyclists up our mountain pass are the worst. They spit without looking around and sometimes get my car. This wouldn’t be so bad except that the horn on my Jeep is broken so I can’t express my disapproval appropriately. Cyclists, especially, should look where they’re spitting.
I am proud of you for sharing your spit story. Perhaps you will inspire other runners to not spit. Ha!
When I was in my early twenties I rode on an overnight train from Marseille to Rome, and my bunkmates in my sleeper car were from Hong Kong. Three businessmen. I didn’t sleep well that night, because sleeping in a sleeper car with three strangers is sort of uncomfortable, I remember waking up in the morning, early in the morning, and dawn had just broken, and I climbed out of my bunk and stepped out of our little cabin and one of the Chinamen was standing there with the window open, spitting repeatedly, gutturally, forcefully. Like he was clearing every last bit of fluid out of his system.
He was totally un-self-conscious about it, too. That was sort of the amazing thing. He couldn’t have cared less. I was sort of horrified and amazed all at the same time.
Where is the picture you would draw?
The picture I would draw?
I don’t usually approve of spitting, but sometimes while running it becomes a necessity. I don’t know what it is exactly; is it all that jarring on the body and loosening mucus in the chest that expectorates itself up into the throat? I think that would be a safe bet.
I spit a few weeks ago when I was out walking the dog in the early morning. A combination of toothpaste and phlegm, brought up by a little bit of running. Pretty gross. I immediately thought of my mother. I whipped around to make sure that no one else was around me or had seen my very unladylike display. And then I come online and share it with the entire internet.
On a completely unrelated note, yesterday at 4:30 in the afternoon our doorbell rang. I peeked out the window and was caught off guard by the guy who had pressed the buzzer and then retreated to the sidewalk so he would see me if I did the peek and pretend I wasn’t home. Rascally bastard. I poked my head out the door to see what he wanted. “I’m just finishing up my deliveries in the area and I’ve got some great deals on steak.” ?!???? Steak? Door to door? I politely told him I was vegetarian and closed the door. And then it hit me. He looked like Brad Listi. Heh.
That was me.
I spit on your door.
The office where I work provides two services: the first is conducting genealogical research to locate next-of-kin when someone dies and no one knows where the family might be (this is what I do); the second is managing the affairs of those who are, for a variety of reasons, no longer capable of doing so themselves.
The green bottle? Definitely Listerine…or, perhaps old-school Scope. Many of our clients would call this *both* a beverage and a window cleaner. Why stand on formality and divide our liquids, after all?
: )