Most of the runners snaked their way along the sidewalk of the city center, negotiating the course with relative ease. But a few – the few who couldn’t keep pace – weaved out onto the main road as they struggled to keep up.
“Get out of the street, you idiots!” squawked the man. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is? Morons …”
Once a serious runner himself, Jeremy Browning had made it his mission to serve as something of a monitor, spending every Monday and Friday eyeing the crew from the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club – and yelling at them. The runners from the organization put in two mini-marathons per week, starting their journey under the cover of early morning darkness and finishing just as the city came alive with both human and vehicular traffic.
At the outset, they were often the only people anywhere near the street, save for the occasional dog walker or casual jogger.
Jeremy would give them a loose follow during the predawn jaunt, just to make sure they were staying in line.
His role as a keen observer increased dramatically, however, as they neared the end of their run. This was the point where many became tired – and careless.
“Hey, Pink Guy,” he bellowed at the pale, sweating man who was bringing up the rear of the line of marathoners. “Get your ass back on the sidewalk before you get run over.”
There was no acknowledgement, although once the runner side-glanced the slow-moving car as it moved past, he stumbled back toward the walkway.
“I can’t always be your eyes and ears,” Jeremy said. “At some point you have to show some common sense.”
Jeremy didn’t know the names of any of the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club members; there had been so many different ones over the years, it would’ve been difficult to remember them all anyway.
Instead, he identified them by their appearance.
“Pink Guy” had been around only a couple of months, and Jeremy didn’t think he was fully committed to the discipline and stamina needed to be in such an organization.
Then there was “Fish Britches,” the sobriquet he had given the man who always wore salmon-colored running shorts (and matching headband) and seemed more interested in fashion than exertion.
“Richie Rich,” “Sweaty Butt,” “Pencil Legs” … Jeremy was always able to identify a few who didn’t follow the rules of the road, and he wasn’t at all shy about shaming them when they got out of line.
“I guess I need to start calling you Road Kill instead of Sweaty Butt,” he shouted as the fellow with the perpetually damp shorts foundered toward the thoroughfare. “Mark my words … the next time you stagger out here on the asphalt will be your last. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Jeremy remembered another occasion when Sweaty Butt was clipped by a Honda Civic when he ran in front of the compact in an effort to keep pace with the rest of the group. The injury wasn’t serious, but Jeremy was livid.
He’d anticipated the event moments earlier and hollered as loud as he could to warn the runner. Sweaty Butt looked up in time to avoid a more serious crash, but had he been paying attention he could’ve steered clear of it altogether.
“Why don’t they listen?” Jeremy would often mutter to himself.
Of course, he had to believe they were listening, even if they might not even realize it.
They never so much as looked in his direction when he started vocalizing his displeasure, but somehow, he always seemed able to keep them out of harm’s way.
Yeah, there was Sweaty Butt’s incident with the Honda. And then several years earlier there was the guy – “Terrycloth Drawers” Jeremy remembers calling him – who was on a collision course with a minivan before darting out of the road and into a sticker bush.
Jeremy screamed with such force he was certain he’d busted a blood vessel.
When he thought about it – and it was basically all that he thought about – everyone in the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club should thank him for what he did.
Every time they did their weekly runs, he was serving as their lookout. And when Monday and Friday were done and the same number of harriers who started also finished, Jeremy felt as though his goal was accomplished.
And that was a good feeling, albeit a bittersweet one.
Because if he’d had a ghost looking out for him all those years ago, maybe he’d still be alive today.
