I am fairly even-keel when it comes to my emotions. I have a thick skin (having three older brothers will do that), and it is difficult to make me angry.
Distance running tends to be relaxing. With the release of endorphins in the brain that aerobic exercise generates, it is a great way to de-stress and to temper negative emotions.
So I find it ironic that I often become most riled and angry during long, extended runs—selfish, irresponsible, and sometimes downright malicious drivers: Thank you very much!
It annoys me when, as a pedestrian patiently waiting to cross the street, I wait for an oncoming car to pass, only to see the car suddenly make a turn before it reaches me. Had the driver used a blinker, he would have alerted me to his intentions allowing me to cross the street. But no—no blinker—so now I have to wait for the giant, continuous stream of traffic from the other direction to pass by before I can attempt to cross the street again. The use of a blinker is not to let yourself know what you are about to do as a driver, it is to let everyone else know. Such is the selfish driver.
It frustrates me when drivers turning right into traffic only look left, ignoring the possibility of a pedestrian to the right who may be entering the crosswalk. Then they lurch forward almost hitting you with a deer-in-the-headlights expression as though to say, “Hey, you just jumped out in front of me from nowhere!” And I give a stern glare as though to say, “No, I ‘jumped’ out in front of you from your right, a direction in which, in your negligence, you failed to look!” Such is the irresponsible driver.
And then there is the malicious driver. This is the type who, on a wide, sparsely traveled country road driving toward you (you as a pedestrian are running on the left-hand side of the road like you are supposed to), rather than accommodating for your presence by nudging the centerline a bit or even remaining in the neutral position within his lane, instead this driver upon seeing you swings all the way over to the edge, grinding the shoulder of the road as he sends his giant murder-machine barreling toward you in an unconscionably inhumane game of chicken.
It is in moments like these that my emotions boil over in rage. I usually feel that mine is a righteous anger, that I am entitled to be angry, and if given enough warning, to throw rocks at the car or something. Then I wonder if I really have the mind of Christ in these situations. What would distance-runner Jesus do?
I guess I’m not totally sure, but recently after yet another frustrating run of playing hop-scotch with terrible drivers, I ran past a man waiting at a bus stop who looked just like Mr. T. As I went galloping by, a big, beaming grin spread across this man’s face as he started pumping his arm back and forth as if to say, “Rock on, little dude!”
“Mr. T” was the perfect antidote to my mounting frustration. Perhaps this man can’t afford to own or drive a car of his own, but O that the streets of America
