I Walk the Lane

One of my earliest running memories is of my brothers chasing me with a garter snake. In my teens I ran in gym class. You remember gym class? Our kids and grandkids call it P.E. now. In gym class we girls had to run sprints, 100 yard relays, and the 600 yard dash. The real “dash” was usually to the track sidelines to throw up. Back then, very few young women thought of running as something you chose to do. It was necessary in order to pass gym class and get out of high school.

In my twenties I began running like countless thousands of Americans when the jogging craze kicked in. I ran on the track beside Yost Field House, now Yost Ice Arena, on the University of Michigan campus in Ann Arbor. In my thirties I ran on the par course and track at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo, California and at Ala Moana Beach Park on Oahu. I’m the first to tell you I never ran very fast or real far, but I swear on my fifth grade white canvas high top gym shoes, I did run.

I was slowed down considerably in my forties, but I still ran—after my toddler, Robert. It was more like darting than running, but that boy kept me on the move and that kept my weight down. The countless trips up and down the stairs of my two-story house, carrying Robert or running up and down after him were great exercise, but those days are over. These days I walk the lane: Snakey Lane, the scenic, winding, asphalt paved road behind my house.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

Even though I’ve seen my share of snakes on the road, Snakey Lane is named for it’s winding curves as it snakes alongside Lake Grapevine, in Grapevine, Texas. Putting the rattlesnake and water moccasin sightings aside, it’s still one of the most beautiful and scenic little walks in the county. Only a few cars and pickup trucks travel on it each day. Along the route I’ve encountered hawks, wild ducks, geese, roadrunners, herons, ibis, foxes, a coyote, and an occasional lake turtle. There are even rumors about alligators in the lake, but no one seems to know for sure if it’s true. The lane is lined with mesquite trees dripping their six inch long dart-like spines at passersby. There’s poison sumac, ivy, and oak, and an occasional prickly pear cactus. The wildflowers in the spring and the brilliant colors in the autumn are inspirational. But the wildest creatures of all, the ones I dread a close encounter with some days, are the other humans.

While I admit I don’t move all that fast any longer, it seems to me that I still appear to be a serious exerciser. I wear good athletic walking shoes and socks, sweats in winter, age-appropriate, modest shorts and tees in summer, and always a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. And I’m not strolling; I’m hustling. Apparently, others don’t see me as the jock I imagine myself to be. “Don’t get in the runner’s way!” a man on a bicycle shouted to his daughter one time. She promptly turned her bicycle directly into my path and cut me off in order to let a man jog by us. I was so stunned that I could not speak for a moment.

It’s not my fault, it’s the asphalt.

The city cleared several bike and foot trails in the nearby woods and built us a concrete trail for bicycle riders, skaters, and pedestrians between Snakey Lane and the lake. “Why are you on the road when we’ve got this trail?” an old man shouted at me one day from the concrete. “The asphalt is easier on my knees,” I called back. He just shook his head disgustedly and mumbled something inaudible. I felt as if I’d been chastised. I had a child-like urge to chase him back down the path and tell him that I’ve been running, jogging, and walking for five decades, all over the planet, and I’ve earned the right to walk in the road without being scolded like a reckless or unappreciative teenager. Actually I do walk on the concrete trail along the lake quite often, but when my knees are bothering me, it’s back to Snakey Lane.

Not all the runners, walkers, and bike riders are lacking in courtesy. Occasionally there’s a bicycler who calls out, “on your left” or rings a little bell on their bike. I always call out a thank you to those rare people, hoping that by encouraging courtesy, it might catch on. One of the most frustrating, unexplainable behaviors that I encounter are those folks just starting their walks or runs, who see you hustling along the trail or road, and step out in front of you instead of waiting for you to go past them. It’s kind of like pulling out from a side street onto the highway into moving traffic and causing all the drivers to have to stop or swerve to avoid a collision. You know how it makes me feel—it’s that “invisible woman” sensation again.

We're catching on.

Things have changed over the nearly twenty years that my family has lived in our home on Snakey Lane. The city built a beautiful community activity center with a multi-lane indoor track, and I use it when the Texas weather or pollens are at their worst. The folks from the older neighborhoods have grown accustomed to seeing runners and bike riders race up and down the neighborhood streets and roads. The drivers don’t swerve at us or throw longneck beer bottles at us any more, and most drivers give us a little extra yardage on the side of the road when they pass us. I haven’t seen a poacher’s sack full of discarded deer parts on the lane in years. I love my adopted town of Grapevine, and I love Snakey Lane with its wildflowers, wild animals, and wild people. If you drive along Snakey Lane and see a slightly past middle-aged woman hobbling along with a contented smile on her face, that’s me walking the lane.

Donna