He was walking his dog on the other side of the street. The morning fog, silently floating underneath the street lamps and briefly glowing orange, blurred his facial features.

I ran past, hearing the soggy leaves underfoot emit a soft squash with each of my steps. I had about a mile left of my run and a stitch was beginning to develop underneath one of my ribs.

The man yelled something.

Concerned, I looked over my shoulder. The man continued his stroll. I spied a white cord sprouting from his left ear. Noting that he was not in distress, I refocused my attention on the seemingly endless sidewalk ahead.

It was only when he continued to yell that I understood (1) what he was yelling and (2) that he was yelling at me.

“TRIP!” he had shouted.

“FALL DOWN!”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“FALL ON YOUR FACE!”

“GET FAT!”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE WEARING BLACK, I HOPE YOU GET FAT!”

I kept running, mildly disturbed and grateful that I would soon be out of his view. I smothered a smile—here was a man who was heckling me before dawn for running.

I soon turned a corner, relieved that he had stopped yelling at me. I mused about the event: Was he psychotic? I shook my head—he was likely a jerk. Obnoxious behavior need not be pathological; often, it’s just annoying. I silently gave thanks that I hadn’t fallen down—I had yet to stumble since adopting this cardiovascular habit.

Refocusing on my breathing in an attempt to assuage the stitch in my side, I cruised down the hill, eagerly approaching the flat ground that lay before me. I turned the corner—

—and my foot caught on an uneven tile of sidewalk. My body lurched forward and my limbs flew into the air in an attempt to maintain my balance—

—and a few steps later, I realized that I had tripped. And had nearly fallen on my face.