A Small-Town Nimrod’s Trip to the Big City

I found myself in Seattle during the summer conference season. I had come armed with a number of running routes provided by a former member of the University of Washington track team, and early one morning I left the campus for an exploratory run. My goal was Volunteer Park, a route with significant hills and, as it turned out, significant paranoia. A few blocks of sidewalk clouded by car exhaust brought me to a meandering road, part jogging trail, part bike path, part gentrifying neighborhood full of “dot.com bungalows”. Even the traffic noise began to recede as I wound my way along the hillside, enjoying the sights and smells of a foreign land – okay, foreign to one from the high arid plains and mountains of the Rocky Mountain west. I soon encountered my first set of locals, out walking their dogs. They politely shortened their leashes and studiously ignored my greeting. The next dog walker (do people only go outside to walk their dogs here?) did little to rein in their rampaging poodle, guaranteeing that I would take a wide berth. I began to get suspicious – was I running in a bad neighborhood? Should I be concerned? All around were pristine lawns, glorious gardens, well cared for houses. Naw I thought, they’re just on their way to Starbucks for their first cup of the day -- afterwards they’ll be friendlier.

I was getting lost (a Runner never carries a map – wilderness trail running excepted). I spotted a cyclist struggling up a steep hill. I trotted over and inquired if I was anywhere near the park. He grunted assurance that I was, and turned-off at the first opportunity. Maybe it was his intended route, but my growing cynicism suggested that it was because I could run as fast as he could ride and I consequently posed a threat. I found the park, took in the views, and started back. Not learning my lesson on the outbound leg, I got lost inbound. I dropped down a promising street, only to find myself in a circular neighborhood. I approached another dog walker (German Shepherd). He regarded me warily, but was more than happy to tell me how to get out of his neighborhood. As I trotted off, I wondered what he was worried about – I’m a Runner for heaven’s sake – I’ve got well-used, high tech running shoes, real running shorts, a polypro shirt – it’s practically a uniform! I steamed on, more than slightly irritated by my human encounters. I came up behind one more dog walker (Rotweiler) and stomped rather loudly to announce my presence. By this time, I was worried about being maced or set upon by an attack dog.

I made my way back to the UW campus, where a sweaty, slightly lurching runner startled no one, although people were a bit distraught by my presence in the crowded elevator – they had every right to resent my odorous presence. In my room, I checked my reflection in the mirror – no obvious nasal or oral discharges to elicit the responses I had received. I concluded it must not be me. Perhaps these people had reason to be fearful. Maybe predators disguised as runners stalked their neighborhood. It isn’t as if I live in a bucolic, peaceful paradise – my small community is all too aware that violence isn’t confined to the “Big City”. These folks certainly had a lot to lose, at least in terms of material possessions. Seems to me, however, they’ve already lost something more important than a car or the silver. Recounting this is making me depressed – I’m going for a run.

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