Midmorning I lace up my New Balance 860s (size 10 narrow) and head out on a three-mile run. I turn right on D Street past an abandoned truck covered with graffiti and cross the railroad tracks where I once saw a coyote. I head down to 28th Street where I take another right and eventually end up at Marshall Park. I loop three times around the park and head home.
I run this route at least four days a week, and each time I return home infuriated. I walk through the door seething with anger.
“When is the city going to ban leaf blowers? Why do I have to run through towering thunderheads of pollen because some idiot is too lazy to pick up a rake?”
Or: “Jesus. There was a really, really, sad scene in the park today. A homeless woman with no pants, no underwear, laying on her back with her knees drawn up to her chest – you can image what was exposed – just screaming at the top of her lungs. Jesus.”
But mostly: “So today I was crossing F Street at 21st – you know that intersection?” I say this to my husband who’s heard this rant before. “It’s a four-way stop? And I’m halfway across in the crosswalk and a guy in a white pick-up pulls up, sees me, and doesn’t stop. He guns it! He could have hit me!”
My husband is kind and patient and always says the same thing: Why do you run that route? He’s a fan of long walks and his route takes him around McKinley Park – a lovely city oasis with duck ponds and a charming children’s playground and a stunning rose garden. Or he heads a bit north and walks along the American River Parkway, where he has spotted seals (seals! In the Sacramento Valley!) diving for striped bass.
For the record, I run my route (and likely won’t change) because it’s my route – I’ve run it more than 1,000 times. The sidewalks are flat and in good shape, the tree canopy keeps it shady and cool and it’s uncrowded. I’ve run it so often that it’s become a rote route. I’ve seen every house, every tree, every apartment building 1,000 times. I don’t need to look at them now. I don’t need to concentrate much on what my feet are doing. I just run.
The only problem is the high potential that I will be smashed to bits by a car. The Sacramento area is among the top 20 regions nationwide for pedestrian fatalities. Almost 400 people have been killed by vehicles while walking in the past five years.
Midtown is prime human roadkill territory. The neighborhood is circled by freeways at the perimeters, which makes it a pass-through for commuters re-routing off the snarled, always-under-construction highways. At some point in the past, the city tried to address Midtown traffic issues by constructing traffic-calming round-abouts and planted areas called “pinch points.” Admirable, but those measures do nothing to stop people from running stop signs.
Recently our City Council representative Phil Pluckebaum held a neighborhood meeting at the nearly elementary school. I voted for Phil and we posted a “PLUCKEBAUM” sign in our front yard to drum up more support. (I thought it was a crime that his campaign slogan wasn’t “With a name like Pluckebaum, he has to be good!”). The citywide homelessness crisis was the main issue in the election. The incumbent councilwoman had suggested using a popular park along the American River as a city-run homeless encampment. Two other encampments that she championed – one in a park along the Sacramento River and another under a freeway – had drawn the ire of constituents, as they led to tent sprawl into places where people live. She was handily defeated.
The meeting was in the school’s multi-purpose room, where 20 or so people waited to sit down on folding chairs arranged in a circle. There were no snacks or beverages and even handouts or flyers. There was no agenda or sign outside the school pointing to the multi-purpose room. To find out where to go, you had to interrupt two bored looking young city staffers on the sidewalk outside the school and ask them for help.
Mr. Pluckebaum opened the meeting by saying how pleased he was that so many people turned out.
Low expectations. Noted.
He opened it up for questions and an older woman raised her hand. What was being done about the homeless? She had more to say but that sums it up.
Phil shook his head, signaling that he understood the frustration. He began to explain the city’s budget problems.
The older woman and her equally elderly friend immediately interrupted his spiel to say that they couldn’t hear him. He was sitting about 10 feet away in a silent room and speaking with a normal volume. “Can’t hear you!” the women said. So Phil raised his voice and repeated what he had said. “Can’t hear you!” they said again, this time more agitated. He stood up this time and tried again. The women turned to each other. “I can’t hear him. Can you hear him?” “No. I can’t.” They shrugged. Phil finished what he had to say and looked around.
I raised my hand.
“I run through this neighborhood several times a week,” I said, speaking very loudly. The women gave me a thumbs up. “I live right over there.” I pointed in the direction of my house.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost been hit by a car. Could the police maybe patrol this neighborhood and hand out a few tickets? I’ve only seen one traffic officer in the neighborhood in the seven years I’ve lived here. Or maybe post flashing signs that say “STOP” at intersections?”
Phil repeated that the city has a budget deficit. There are no plans to increase the police force or buy electric signs. I nodded. I couldn’t think of a good response. I decided I would just go home, having said what I came to say.
But then an older man went off and things got interesting.
“I was almost hit the other day in a crosswalk while walking my dog and I pounded on the hood the car and the driver told me to fuck off,” he shouted. “This guy said ‘Fuck off!’ And I hit his car with my fist! And he didn’t care that I hit his car. He just said ‘Fuck off!’ I’m going to start carrying rocks! I’m going throw rocks through windshields! I’m going smash windshields and knock these drivers out!”
Phil pointed out that there was an officer in the room that was taking notes (mental notes, apparently, as the cop was just standing there with his arms folded). Phil did not address the fact that this elderly man had admitted to attacking a car and was threatening real violence. He just nodded.
I got up to leave. I was hoping for a “thanks for coming” from Phil but Phil said nothing.
I still run the same route every day and still dodge stop sign-running cars. I still sigh when I see the unhoused in the park and shake my head at the sheer craziness of modern urban living. My husband is, as usual, right. I should run a different route.
Or carry rocks.
