Silly Joggers

I swing off the main road, doing fifty along there. Onto Platers’ Lane where it’s a sixty limit, except you’d be nuts to do much above thirty – short-cut into the village. Sure, it’s wide enough for cars to pass in opposite directions, but only with care, slowly. The tarmac is all broken; bits of it patched-up; potholes. And the road winds, does a double bend under the railway line; not a right-angle, but pretty sharp. The edges go straight into the grass verges both side: no road markings down the middle or either side. So, basically, sixty is ridiculous – should be thirty like it is a bit further on, where it goes past the supermarket into the built-up area. And that’s lit up.

Especially now – eightish in the morning, mid December, and the weather’s foul. That blustery drizzle and patches of rain lashing across. Not totally dark, just grey and misty in the air. And puddles almost right across the road. So it’s Careful Time.

Except not this careful: Pair of joggers, side by side. Doing all of five miles per hour. Weaving around the potholes and puddles. And the guy on the right starts waving his arm, like to tell me to stay back. Like he owns the road. Cos he’s a local. Or a councillor. Or a pensioner. Or on their way to work or something. Always got a reason to be demanding, folk have. Entitled Dicks.

But. No pressure. I’m in no hurry. Market don’t start for an hour and I always call for a cuppa at the Coffeet Up in the square; feet up, wind down.

But, these two, they are positively pottering along. Filling the road, like arrogant bullies, proving they’re in charge, not me in my Ford. Yea, till they get in their BMWs and Audie Murphys, of course. Then the trainers are on the other foot, no doubt. And they’ll still be looking down on me in my Ford.

What the hell. It’s only half a mile, and it’s not worth overtaking along there – seems darker along this bit – high bushes and trees; winding. The roadside’s not visible. Just huge puddles, and this pillock waving me commandingly to stay back while he jogs for the Snails’ Rest.

Then, he is really taking the piss: they stop just before the double bend under the railway line, and there’s another one! Woman, by the looks. And they’re standing there taking the piss, middle of the road, between puddles, having a natter. I am not rising to this kind of matter. I done my anger management classes and I understand the innate inferiority that drives some people to behave in sub-human-councillor ways.

I saw headlights reflecting on the underside of the bridge – just the big girder on the edge – and I’m thinking, he’ll get a shock when he sees you lot parked there, right in his way.

Me? Still in no hurry. The oncoming vehicle has right of way under the bridge: we have to give way from this side. So, patient as ever, I wait.

Yep. I thought from the lights it’s a lorry – be from the supermarket, I expect. In a hurry as always. They hardly look. Too self-engrossed. Lorry going too fast.

Static Jogger Trio? They don’t move. I see them silhouetted against his headlights. Then down. Flat. Right under him.

Now, like I said, I’ve been to anger management, so I’m not angry. And they cover “Being a good citizen” as well. So I decide I should get out and see; do something helpful, perhaps.

So I put my flashers on and got out.

Driver’s like catatonic – shocked, anyway, gibbering a bit. Mobile in his hand.

Now. I do not know if he was on the phone when he came under the bridge. Or not. He could have been intending to ring 999. I dunno. But I told him to put it away, and we’d check underneath, then I’d ring the emergency lot with a fairly precise statement of the situation. ‘Not a panicking garbled version,’ I told him.

We did. They were all underneath. Not moving.

‘Okay,’ I said to this very shaky guy, all trembling, he was. ‘I saw them run out in front of you, like they were waylaying you for a protest parade or something. Threw themselves at you, din’t they? Suicidal.’

‘Eh?’

‘I saw. They waved to me to stay back. I thought they must be planning something.’

‘But… but…’

He was gonna be alright… go along with it. There was a car pulling up behind mine. Somebody exploring on foot from the bridge side as well, to see what’s happening.

‘Be alright,’ I said. ‘Ambulance and police’ll be here soon. Not your fault.’

So we’re waiting, and I’m thinking I’ve never seen a jogger smiling yet. Not once, ever. Pack of miserable sods, they are. But lorry driver here, he’s got laughter lines across his face; looks a proper little Happy Harry, he does… Except at the moment, of course, because of this lot.

Yeah, I did the anger management and all that, but it didn’t include defining fault and blame; right and wrong; or empathising with miserable toads like joggers; nothing like that. So it’s up to me to set things right: put the laughter lines back on his face, and let them road hoggers rest where they belong.