By Jake Vest
It is doubtful that anybody who has ever seen a track meet might call what I do “running.” Or even “jogging.” Maybe “slogging” would be the word for it.
My guess, just from what little eye contact I can make, is that the people who share the road with me would simply call it a “dadblamed nuisance.”
This particular day I was on Sugarloaf Road in Hendersonville, N.C., a country lane about wide enough for two cars from ditch to ditch, or maybe most of one big pickup truck and a little over half a car.
The vehicles alone have enough trouble with each other. Nowhere in anybody’s traffic plans was room left for one old man who is doing something that might one time have been called running.
The law supposedly favors pedestrians, but I’ve been doing this since I was in the Army over 50 years ago, and I have yet to meet a motorist who is aware that I have the right of way. Sometimes I wonder why I keep this up.
I have been told that I look like someone who is hurrying to the restroom, so it is apparent that I am not out to impress anybody. I’m certainly not making myself popular with local motorists.
The standard justification is that I am exercising because it is good for my health, but I don’t think that holds up to close scrutiny.
I breathe enough exhaust fumes to qualify as a heavy smoker and there’s not a part of my body that I haven’t injured. My Achilles tendon causes the doctor at the VA hospital to make exasperated noises, and my meniscus one time did whatever it is that a meniscus does to cause it to swell up and hurt, and I had to hop 3 miles home in a hailstorm.
Another time in Kansas City a rabbit darted across my path and I tried to jump over it, which left me with a sprained wrist, a torn hamstring and some blood on my baseball cap.
Poison ivy, dog bites, bee stings and a tree branch in the eye have been other health benefits. I have donated blood to sidewalks around the country while scraping off enough knee and elbow skin to build a whole new idiot.
I guess I could claim it is educational. A few thousand miles of hoofing along in running shoes on the same pavement used by cars and trucks has taught me how much I really matter to other people.
I have come to realize that my life is worth about four miles an hour of speed. That’s how much the average driver will slow down in an effort to not kill the average pedestrian. Any more than that would be an inconvenience well beyond the value of anybody who gets in the way.
This can be depressing, but sometimes there is at least a little bit of grim humor involved. I just happened to be the third occupant of this little road when a car and a pickup truck passed going in opposite directions. The car was on my side kicking up gravel and dust. I tried to get over but there wasn’t much room on the roadside. A rearview mirror came by at about 50 miles per hour, just a few inches from my face. The driver showed no sign of noticing me.
I could just make out the words on the bumper sticker as it sped away:
ALL LIVES MATTER.
Left unsaid was the message he delivered with his driving: EXCEPT YOURS, IF YOU GET IN MY WAY.
