The
car passed me with an eerie silence.
The force of my breath and the beat of my heart made more noise sluicing through the carpet of new-fallen snow than his late-model SUV. Nature's insulator and sound buffer.
“Why am I here?” is a question we've no doubt asked ourselves silently in our separate spaces outside of this early particular Sunday morning outing, before the plow operators have felt the pressure to clock in to this seasonal, over-time gig.
Are we crazy?
What we don't question is which of us has the right of way.
Each of us feels entitled to be exactly where we are in this moment. Me against the wind for a five-mile loop. He, perhaps, heading toward the warmth of companionship with a coffee and cruller. We pay our taxes. We know our rights.
I can sense the incredulity of the driver even though I can't see him clearly through the gun-turret-sized hole he'd brushed from the windshield. No one on this road welcomes runners. He feels confident he has the upper hand in his two-ton machine.
He probably wonders aloud in his empty truck why I don't use the sidewalk. (Because sidewalks are slippery. Because concrete is harder on my joints than macadam. Because they don't even exist here).
I wonder why he can't just accept I am here and slow down. I am a road condition, same as ice.
He guns his engine, hugs the white line and raises a middle fingers as he passes.
Still, I persist.
I feel righteous anger rush into every pore.
When it's cold outside, I put on an extra layer. I tuck hand warmers into my mittens. My gait changed by the conditions. My footfalls are closer together now that the ground underneath them has turned ice-solid and slippery. It's still just one foot in front of the other.
I've long stopped wearing earbuds. Even when I'm alone, I stay unplugged.
I want to hear the birds call from the bushes as well as the throaty mufflers of muscle cars.
I've see his kind before.
He's seen my kind, too.
He wonders why I don't hibernate or spin like the other gerbils on our indoor wheels.
Maybe what he doesn't know is that even if I had the room, any treadmill would gather dust. I need to leave the house and find myself somewhere half-way away if I am to return having gone the full distance.
Not that it matters.
There's no law against me here. It's not a highway or interstate. Just a country road with cold shoulders.
He knows I don't always stay on my side of it, whichever that may be. Facing traffic, or greater visibility, whichever side that may be. I migrate to middle sometimes when winter heaves the center pavement from its sides. I cross before the blind curves for better visibility.
We are unlikely neighbors. We often pass each other in wary silence. Heads down. Full-steam ahead.
So lately, I’ve been waving.
Holding up a mittened hand and tipping it from side to side in the most jovial way I can manage. Smiling to anyone who makes even the least attempt at cordiality.
Slowing your car, giving me a wider berth.
And I try to smile as I acknowledge the driver in him that is inconvenienced by the runner in me. A little gratitude for sharing the road with me this morning.
I can tell the small effort has value. Today, he waved back.
The force of my breath and the beat of my heart made more noise sluicing through the carpet of new-fallen snow than his late-model SUV. Nature's insulator and sound buffer.
“Why am I here?” is a question we've no doubt asked ourselves silently in our separate spaces outside of this early particular Sunday morning outing, before the plow operators have felt the pressure to clock in to this seasonal, over-time gig.
Are we crazy?
What we don't question is which of us has the right of way.
Each of us feels entitled to be exactly where we are in this moment. Me against the wind for a five-mile loop. He, perhaps, heading toward the warmth of companionship with a coffee and cruller. We pay our taxes. We know our rights.
I can sense the incredulity of the driver even though I can't see him clearly through the gun-turret-sized hole he'd brushed from the windshield. No one on this road welcomes runners. He feels confident he has the upper hand in his two-ton machine.
He probably wonders aloud in his empty truck why I don't use the sidewalk. (Because sidewalks are slippery. Because concrete is harder on my joints than macadam. Because they don't even exist here).
I wonder why he can't just accept I am here and slow down. I am a road condition, same as ice.
He guns his engine, hugs the white line and raises a middle fingers as he passes.
Still, I persist.
I feel righteous anger rush into every pore.
When it's cold outside, I put on an extra layer. I tuck hand warmers into my mittens. My gait changed by the conditions. My footfalls are closer together now that the ground underneath them has turned ice-solid and slippery. It's still just one foot in front of the other.
I've long stopped wearing earbuds. Even when I'm alone, I stay unplugged.
I want to hear the birds call from the bushes as well as the throaty mufflers of muscle cars.
I've see his kind before.
He's seen my kind, too.
He wonders why I don't hibernate or spin like the other gerbils on our indoor wheels.
Maybe what he doesn't know is that even if I had the room, any treadmill would gather dust. I need to leave the house and find myself somewhere half-way away if I am to return having gone the full distance.
Not that it matters.
There's no law against me here. It's not a highway or interstate. Just a country road with cold shoulders.
He knows I don't always stay on my side of it, whichever that may be. Facing traffic, or greater visibility, whichever side that may be. I migrate to middle sometimes when winter heaves the center pavement from its sides. I cross before the blind curves for better visibility.
We are unlikely neighbors. We often pass each other in wary silence. Heads down. Full-steam ahead.
So lately, I’ve been waving.
Holding up a mittened hand and tipping it from side to side in the most jovial way I can manage. Smiling to anyone who makes even the least attempt at cordiality.
Slowing your car, giving me a wider berth.
And I try to smile as I acknowledge the driver in him that is inconvenienced by the runner in me. A little gratitude for sharing the road with me this morning.
I can tell the small effort has value. Today, he waved back.
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