THE DUMB BITCH GUY

The Dumb Bitch Guy is a bicycler, I am a runner, and we both exercise in Hudson River Park. Like a bear, the Dumb Bitch Guy hibernates all winter and then reemerges in the spring. Like a bear, too, he has a round head that sits atop a stumpy neck, and a rotund belly that protrudes from beneath his ribs. Unlike a bear, the Dumb Bitch Guy wears black athletic leggings, a blue fleece vest and a helmet.

My first encounter with the Dumb Bitch Guy was two years ago, shortly after I moved to the neighborhood. Hudson River Park was beautiful at dawn. Bits of mica embedded in the stone path sparkled in the rising sun. The river sloshed and lapped against the piers. Everything smelled like dewy grass and damp earth. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty rose like a ghost, cloaked in fog. Still, after a while, running the exact same route week in and week out began to get a little boring.

I decided to change things up. One morning, instead of running close to the water and actually in the park, I ran alongside it, on the bike path that hugs the Westside Highway. I felt a tad guilty, like I do at Whole Foods when I go through the express checkout line with one too many items in my cart. I knew I wasn't supposed to be there. The signs were clear and posted every quarter-mile-this lane was for biking and skating only.

As I jogged along, I heard tires whizzing up behind me. A biker zoomed past me on my left. "Dumb bitch!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Get off the path!" The entire thing happened so fast-in about two seconds-that I wondered if I had imagined it, or if I had misunderstood his words. Had I really just been called a "dumb bitch"? It wasn't even 7 a.m.

A part of me felt as if I had brought the abuse on myself-I was, after all, running in the bikers' lane-and I considered veering back to my usual course. But the change in scenery was invigorating, and I doubted that I would ever see the guy again. I shrugged the experience off, and began running on the bike path once every few days. A couple of weeks later, it happened again. "Dumb bitch!" he screamed as he zipped by. I stopped dead in my tracks, my jaw hanging open, as he shrunk into the horizon.

Back at my apartment, I stood in front of the bathroom sink brushing my teeth while my roommate, who is also a runner, was in the shower. "Some guy just called me a 'dumb bitch' for running on the bike path," I said. She poked her head out from around the curtain. Her hair was foamy with shampoo. "Oh my God, that happened to me, too!" We started calling him the Dumb Bitch Guy.

"Did you see the Dumb Bitch Guy today?" we asked each other. Over the years, it became a sort of masochistic celebrity watch. Every spring and summer, I encountered the Dumb Bitch Guy regularly, about once every two or three weeks. And while his name calling was offensive and startling, it was never enough to keep me from occasionally running on the bike path. Also, even when it was so hot and sticky the air felt like molasses and the pavement seemed to melt beneath my sneakers, he always wore the same thick leggings and blue fleece. Because of this-and in spite if how expensive his bike looked, and the dexterity with which he rode it-I decided that the Dumb Bitch Guy must be a crazy person, and I ceased to take his singular insult personally.

But last month, the Dumb Bitch Guy crossed the line. I was running by the Christopher Street Fountain when he shot past, like a spandex-clad bullet. "Fat bitch!" he hollered. This time, as he peddled away, I ran after him. "Hey!" I yelled. My arms and legs were flailing at my sides. "Hey! I am not! I'm a size four-a two at the Gap!" But the wind caught my words and carried them out over the river. It was no use. He was gone. I slowed down, panting.

I was furious, and my feelings were hurt, too. Being called "dumb" is a fairly blunt, benign insult, and "bitch," while misogynistic, is also rather rudimentary. But "fat"? Ouch. That's hitting below the belt. That's playing dirty. I became obsessed with getting revenge. Not just for me, but for my roommate, and all the other unsuspecting women at whom he had probably cursed. For weeks, I ran on the bike path everyday in the hopes that I would see him. Hyped up on adrenaline, I moved faster than normal, my body tense and alert. I was like a wildcat ready to spring upon its prey.

Finally I got my chance. Very early one morning, he rode up beside me. I saw his blue fleece. At the perfect moment-when we were handlebar to elbow-I hissed "Asshole!" I spat the word. It dripped with venom.

It wasn't the Dumb Bitch Guy.

The stranger looked at me with wide, startled eyes, as if I had slapped him in the face, and before I could apologize, he was gone. I bit my lip as I watched the innocent man I had just insulted disappear into the distance. I realized then that I had to let go of my anger towards the Dumb Bitch Guy. As obnoxious as he was, and as much as I wanted to get him back, I didn't want to become the Asshole Girl.