I am running along the Charles River, rowers are calling out their cadence to my left. I am in Boston, a great running city, very proud and supportive of its marathon. It’s a glorious morning for running, just the way I like it: crisp, clear, about 35 degrees, no wind, not quite light.

There are lots of runners and bikers out this morning. There usually are along this path. It is a popular place to run in Boston. Bikes sneak up on my left startling me at times and whizzing by with a whoosh. Two runners, side by side, are heading toward me on the path. They are both men and they are chatting companionably. They are taking up the width of the sidewalk but they are still some distance away. I move slightly to the right and prepare to smile and call out my cheery good morning, but as they get closer I see that they are not going to close up ranks. They are going to force me right to the edge, perhaps off the path. They are oblivious to me as though I am invisible although the one closest to me makes eye contact for a split second. I’ll show them, I think. I maintain my position. I prepare myself for a head-on collision but at the last possible second the inside runner shifts almost imperceptibly and our sleeves swish each other as we pass. I don’t bother saying good morning. Instead I mutter an expletive under my breath but they have already passed me.

A little further on a single runner approaches from a distance. She’s wearing, surprisingly, a short sleeved T-shirt and shorts. Hearty soul. When we’re within five feet of each other she makes eye contact and I think, finally, someone with some running spirit. I smile and say good morning but her facial expression doesn’t change. And she’s running down the exact center of the sidewalk forcing me to the far right. She passes me without even a grunt, a grim determined look on her face.

This is the attitude in Boston: I am entitled to all of the available space and I can’t possibly be bothered to speak or smile.

Since my work requires frequent travel I run in various cities and have noticed regional differences in attitudes toward runners. Even runners encountering other runners react differently from city to city. The three cities I visit on a regular basis are Boston, Orlando, and Los Angeles, and I live in Chicago. All are distinctly different from each other. Each city seems to have its own running tenet, and is consistent almost to a fault. When I am in Orlando I run along International Drive, a wide boulevard lined with hotels, restaurants and the Convention Center. It’s often hot and humid in Orlando, even early in the morning before the sun rises. My singlet is usually soaked before I’ve covered my first mile. There is not always sidewalk along this section of I-Drive and the grass in Florida is very spiky and thick and difficult to run on, so I run in the street for part of my run. I always run on the left facing traffic and stay as close to the curb as I can. I usually go early, around six a.m., when there is not a lot of traffic. But no matter. Orlandoans hate runners and the drivers refuse to share the road with us. They aim for us. I-Drive is two lanes in either direction but when a car is heading my way, in my lane, and there is not another car around for miles it will not move an inch to accommodate me. It comes so close that I have to jump up on the curb to avoid possible death and certain dismemberment.

This is the attitude in Orlando: kill runners.

I travel to Los Angeles and run in Santa Monica. I run along the esplanade that parallels the ocean and meanders through the beach cities. It is typically clear and cool and the ocean roars on my right as I head south. Street cleaners are out picking up candy wrappers, beer cans and condoms and they smile at me appreciatively. If they are in their street sweeping vehicle they stop politely and allow me to pass. Many call out greetings, some even whistle occasionally. I don’t mind this. I work hard to stay in shape and I accept admiration in any form. As I pass other runners they not only make eye contact, they smile, they say hello, some wave. And they do it first before I even have the chance to think about it.

This is the attitude in Los Angeles: Let’s do lunch.

Call me prejudiced but as I run along the lakefront in Chicago or along the North Branch trail on Saturday mornings nearly every runner I pass smiles and says good morning. Even walkers and roller bladers. And most bikers call out "on your left" as they pass instead of sneaking up on you like a soldier in armed conflict.

I am almost at the end of my six mile loop along the Charles River. As I approach the Arthur Fiedler footbridge there is a group of five men running toward me, blanketing the path like a marching band. I steel myself to maintain my position and face down my adversaries, but as we get close they move gracefully to their right, smile, and say good morning. "Good morning!" I say, surprised.

Obviously they are out-of-towners

Contributing writer & runner Samantha Hoffman
resides in Chicago IL and can be reached at SmnthaHoff@aol.com

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