Flashes of Panic

So there I was, crouched down behind a barrel which marked one side of the finishing chip-mat at the Millennium Mile with A.’s second-best camera, playing backup photographer and waiting for Deena Kastor to reach the finish.

Even with the second-best lens (26-to-80 zoom, if I understand correctly) my field of vision starts a good five meters beyond my nose, so it took me completely by surprise when I was clipped by a baby jogger and knocked sprawling into the spectators crowded behind the chute. I was so unfocused that I don’t even recall if the jogger had a passenger. (For those unfamiliar with modern pedestrianism, a “baby jogger” is a sort of tricycle stroller with eight-inch tires which provides a relatively smooth ride for underage passengers when powered by a parent.)

No damage done, apparently, and I didn’t miss my shot (at least, I didn’t miss it because of the collision.) I assured everyone that I wasn’t bleeding and couldn’t feel any broken bones, so the penalty was declined and I got back to work.

But still, what kind of thinking are you not doing to push a baby jogger in a road mile? Large races around the country specifically disallow the things on their entry forms for safety reasons, and the MM6 apparently hit 700 this year, all crossing the finish line in the space of about eight minutes. There’s no room for something that can’t turn on a toe.

And besides, if you were far enough to the side to hit me, there are decent odds that your chip shoe missed the primary reader mat. I have karmic protection.