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Running during quarantine has taught me a lot about my neighborhood: The hole in the pavement just before the sidewalk on 234th Street that could twist an ankle if someone isn’t careful, the pair of blue scissors in the gutter on Middlebrook Road that moves a few feet every so often but never finds its way into a trash can, the prime spot for a birthday car party at Sur la Brea Park. I’ve also learned that people in this neighborhood, my neighbors, are trying to kill me.
And they don’t know it.
They hold their phones to their ears while driving. They look down at their phones while driving, while approaching stop signs, which almost always means they roll the stop. They veer left, drift right. Some hold the phone in front of the faces, as if placing a flashing, electronic device in the spot that should be focused on the street, is a good idea. Others look into their laps, remove their sunglasses to look right, up, down, wherever the phone is.
None of these are ideal situations for runners.
Physically and mentally, running isn’t easy, especially as my miles increase. The first three miles aren’t so bad. If a driver on their phone is going to hit me, this is when I want it to happen. The first three miles are when I can react, when I can move to the sidewalk or leap onto the hood like a box jump at the gym. This is when my energy is split between mind and body: 50 percent for mind, 50 percent for body.
Miles four through six are when my mind begins to weave between coherency and kaleidoscope vision. A sober drunk. I’m under the influence of endorphins. I see the drivers on their phones. Not as well as the first three miles, but I can dodge the right distracted driver. The wrong distracted driver, at a time when I’m not fully paying attention, could be disastrous.
The next three miles are when I begin to worry about my surroundings. It’s 75 percent body, 25 percent mind. If I was a boxer, I’d tell my corner I could continue, but they’d know this was my gut talking, not my brains. A good corner would throw in the towel.
Miles ten and above are when it takes everything I have to focus on the run. One thought repeats in my mind: Keep going. This is a great mentality to have for long-distance runs. It’s also why I’m so afraid of drivers on their phones. There is no more cerebral. My stiff thighs have all but erased every thought. I don’t mind this feeling. Actually, this is a huge reason why I run. I don’t want to think.
Not thinking while running is good. Checking a cell phone while operating a 3,000-pound air-conditioned killing machine is not. I want to tell this to every driver I pass who’s distracted with their electronic devices, to take my upturned palm and flip it over, the universal sign for “hang up the phone.”
But I don’t. A month ago, I found myself enthralled with a TV show that originally aired on CBS, so I know I’m officially old. Yelling at passing motorists because they are driving while on their phones feels like the last box you have to check before collecting social security and I’m only 40. I can’t yell at the world just yet.
Instead, two thoughts cross my mind when I see these drivers.
You aren’t special.
You aren’t important.
These ideas counter so much of what we’ve been told. We’ve heard it from family and friends, seen it on motivational posters since kindergarten through high school and beyond. Our partners say that we are special, that we are important. Maybe our children do, too. At least until they’re teenagers. And they’re right. We are special. We are important.
But, chances are, the person behind the wheel looking at their phone isn’t that special. They aren’t that important. If they were, they wouldn’t be driving in my neighborhood. And someone would be driving them.
Whatever it is, whoever it is, can wait.
If someone texts to say they’re going to be late, they’re still going to be tardy by the time you arrive. A funny meme is a funny meme in eight minutes. They don’t expire. That Bumble match will be waiting for you for 24 hours. Even if you’re on a cross-country drive, you have to pull over for gas at some point. Look at their message then. And, if someone texts to say your grandparent died, your grandparent will still be dead by the time you get to wherever you are going.
So put away the phone and drive.
A few weeks ago, my uncle’s car was in an accident. No one was hurt because the vehicle was parked in front of his house. Another car, driven by someone who was looking at their phone, got distracted and now my uncle doesn’t have that car. I’m not surprised.
If you’re privileged enough to have a cell phone, you’re probably privileged enough to live somewhere beautiful. Mountains, skyscrapers, flowing water, desert—however you define “beautiful” is up to you. But I promise there’s something out there more special, more important, than a text message. Look at it. Enjoy it. Post it on Instagram.
But don’t do it while you’re driving. Some of us out here are trying to live.
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Photo: Shutterstock
