It was a mild Sunday afternoon, a spring zephyr was blowing, and
the newly arrived robins were having a go at reducing the worm
population in the still-wet field. I was sitting on the porch
ruminating, my sleeves rolled up to take full advantage of the
warmth of the sun. I saw the dog's ears perk up, and I swung my
head and squinted my eyes to see down the road. Lo and behold,
a man was jogging up the hill!
Understandably, I was shocked. That's not something
you see a lot of, here on our dirt lane. Oh, the neighbors go
out for an occasional evening stroll, and throughout the fall we
have an abundance of hunters who amble up and down the road and
back and forth through the orchard. But neither of these groups
tend to break much of a sweat, and don’t make much noise. They
just sort of blend into the scenery. And yet, here was a fellow
decked out in spandex--very serious stuff-- head down, legs
pumping, pristine sneakers slap-slapping on the gravel.
It was apparent that I wasn't the only one who was
in awe of such a sight. Sadie, who rarely ever barks at
four-legged critters, set up a cacophony of barking at this
two-legged one, whose knees were jack-knifing in triple time. I
shushed her and attempted to do my civic duty by exchanging
pleasantries. That's just something you do in the country.
When someone passes by, you nod, smile, maybe even wave. You
say hello, joke about the black flies, comment on the weather,
and then pull your children off them so that they can get on
with their business. But to my consternation, my merry hello
was poorly received. The gentleman gasped out a "hey,” tucked
in his chin, and was past the house before I could even offer
him a Gatorade. For many minutes I sat there, waiting
impatiently for his return so that I could have my chance to be
friendly and pleasant. After all, he had to come back by,
didn't he? I live on a dead-end road. Unless he took to the
woods and jogged up the mountain, he’d have to return. Nobody
can be that dedicated to self-inflicted torture.
Obviously, I don't jog. I firmly believe that
running should be reserved for dangerous situations, when fear
and the need to escape are the driving forces. If a volcano was
spewing lava at me, then yes, I'd kick up my heels and head for
the hills. If a grizzly was "bearing" down on one of my
children, I'd be all over them in a flash. But, not without
reason. Not for the FUN OF IT.
It's not like I'm passing judgment without having
ever experienced the running phenomenon. I tried it once. In
glee, just for the joy of living, I charged down a path in
Acadia National Park. All of a sudden, the trail hooked to the
right, but my momentum forced me straight over a cliff on the
side of Cadillac Mountain. I say "cliff” and that sounds
extreme. The drop was only about twelve feet, but to my
concussed head, bleeding knees and chipped elbow-- it was a
cliff. Running had completely taken the fun out of my day. Had
I walked sedately beside my sister, I would have enjoyed
terrific ocean vistas instead of a black and gray fog. I would
have heard the cries of seagulls and the crashing of waves in
Thunder Hole, instead of high pitched ringing in my ears and the
sounds of Chris and my grandmother moaning over my predicament.
Nope-- if ever there was a sign given and well received, that
was it. Running isn't for me.
And it's not just me who has had to learn the
hard way. I remember one evening when Guy was a pre-teen. We
were walking down the hill from our camp to the farmhouse, and
Guy challenged Papa to a race. Off they went down the gravel
road. To my amazement, I saw something I wouldn't have believed
possible. Steven could run faster with his head and torso than
he could with his legs! Sure enough, my husband’s body was at a
forty-five degree angle with the road! He looked like a
professional ski jumper just clearing the ramp. For a split
second I watched in awe as he leaned, leaned, leaned. And
predictably, gravity won. It pulled his face and belly smack
into that road, and his feet caught up with him shortly
thereafter.
