Outburst Embarrasses

It probably coincided with one of my jogs when I saw the old Japanese couple.

I’d seen them on a handful of occasions during the late spring. I wondered if they were tourists or transplanted residents. They were obviously husband and wife, an old married couple. They were, to my mind, Japanese. I suppose they could have been some other Far Eastern nationality, but I don’t think so. There was something about them that spoke Japanese to me. I’m not sure what. He wore a shirt that was probably an old golfing shirt, orange with thin horizontal blue stripes and a white collar. She wore a white, cotton visor. They held hands as they made their early morning walking loops around Green Park.

On the first crossing of our paths, he and I made eye contact; maybe we shared a tentative hint of a good-morning smile. On the 2nd loop around, it was an unmistakable smile. On the 3rd loop around, he gently nudged his wife, they both waved, and I waved back. That’s how it was each morning I saw them.

Jogging, however, isn’t all good. The sense of morning civility I try to foster in myself is sometimes overshadowed by a sense of righteousness and perceived right-of-way. The repetitive pounding of foot to pavement, the sustained reverberations up through the knees, the sense of exhaustion toward the end of a long run instils me with the belief that pedestrians will yield. They will – or ought to – see my pain, admire my hard work, and move to make my journey just a little bit easier.

Of course, this is rubbish. I know it, and knowing it, I fight the base, delusional sense of entitlement that jogging fosters.

On that particular day in late spring, my higher senses had been eroded. I imagine I greeted the Japanese couple. The world was right. The sun was shining. Daffodils popped up willy nilly throughout the park. I plodded on through my last Green Park loop and crossed in front of Buckingham Palace over to the south side of St. James Park where I turned left. In the distance Big Ben flitted in and out behind the trees. Down and around and up to Pall Mall where I turned right to make my way along the final stretch, which would lead me up to The Strand.

My feet pounded. My heart pounded. I had to work to control my breath. I saw a petite blond walking in my direction in the same groove where I had found my rhythm. As we approached I sensed – as I suspect she did of me – she didn’t want to move out of her groove. Her intransigence – imagined or not – made me dig in my heals.

A quiet, little voice inside whispered to me, “Give way.”

I prepared to partially heed this advice.

If I give a step, she should give a step too.

Childish.

Her face looked set. She wasn’t going to yield. I imagined a collision or a real life manifestation of the North-going Zax and the South-going Zax in the Prairie of Prax.

I’m not the bullheaded.

At the final moment, I skirted to the left, but not without audibly articulating my thoughts.

“What a bitch.”

She heard. She turned and stared. Two constructive workers heard, and turned to stare.

I carried on. I felt no better for my outburst.

In fact, I felt ashamed. I still do.