Take a Right at the Dead Guy

by Rick Bohn

People who run often talk about the beautiful scenery they observe while putting in their weekly miles.  Some, in fact, run particular races just to experience nature they cannot normally partake in during their normal practice routine.  While I have had my share of trees, mountains, lakes, deserts and even oceans, what sticks out most in my mind is what I came across during a leisurely run earlier this year.

The scene was rural mid-Michigan amid the many beet and bean fields in the area I used to call home.  I had decided to get up early and try to cover about 15 miles, starting off just after 6:00 a.m. on a slightly overcast but warm Sunday morning.  The temperature was about 55, perfect for the distance I had chosen and there was absolutely no wind making it easy to hear the animals that resided at each farmhouse as I passed. 

I had chosen a zigzag route from my parent’s home, venturing about 4 miles out of town, passing the home of my early high school years, the home of my first girl friend, the home of my grandparents and then back through the grave yard where my grandparents and baby cousin are buried (a real down home-type run).  The pace I was running was fairly quick, a direct result of the lack of beer consumption the previous day which is normally the custom when visiting my childhood home.  I had covered nearly 10 miles when I turned down the road where the first milestone existed, my childhood home.  The deer on this road took my by surprise.  As a teenager, the only deer I recall ever seeing was

the buck that ran into the side of my neighbor’s Suburban on our way home from a football game my Freshman year.  I even saw a couple of owls that morning as well.  I remember watching a movie once where it was told that seeing an owl at a certain time of day meant that someone was going to die, but of course, that was South Dakota and it was a movie .  It wasn’t a particularly terrific role for Val Kilmer anyway.  Who would have imagined that there might have been some truth to that superstition with the owl.

I passed my old home, passed the home that once was my Grandparents home and passed the home of my first girlfriend (no, it wasn’t the same home for all of the sicko’s out there).  After turning on the outermost road, Portsmouth, I headed towards my final turn which would ultimately lead me smack dab into the Bridgeport Cemetery where I could pay my respects to my family and then head home and then on to Starbucks.  The Portsmouth stretch was the longest without a turn, nearly two miles, and the longest without farm houses as well.  The turn I would make would be a right onto Herzog road, named after one of the prominent farming families in the greater Bridgeport area.  Their farm was so big that they had three barns built to park all of their farming implements.  Quite a big deal for Bridgeport. 

Running on Portsmouth, nearing the intersection of Herzog, I noticed something in the road ahead.  I am surprised I noticed it as soon as I did since I am a head-down running, normally looking no more

 

than 50 feet in front of me or maybe from side to side at best.   I was several hundred yards from the turn, but there was something there.  I thought it might have been a deer, based on what I had seen throughout the run.  It was light enough to see the distance easily, but I wasn’t close enough to make it out.  We all fill in the blanks of such things with information we have collected throughout our lives.  I was busy running through the list of potential road kill winners that were large enough to be seen from a quarter mile away, but nothing prepared me for what I was about to run up to.  As I got closer, the list of possible kills were being checked off as the physical make up of whatever it was just didn’t match.  I began to think it would turn out to be the dreaded dead garbage bag or something similar when it dawned on me what it was………a person.  I was only 50 yards away when it hit me.  Holy crap it was a body, lying in the middle of the intersection.  Not knowing exactly what to do, I did what I could from 50 yards away….  I started yelling at the person.  No response.  No movement.  No nothing.  I then ran through the list of CSI do’s and don’ts and walking up and moving this person was not going to happen.  I still got no response as I got close.  The good news was there was no spattered brains or oozing intestines or the like, and I could now see it was a male (or at least a person dressed like a male… a 50/50 proposition for current day Bridgeport).  Still, no response from my hollering.  I now heard a car coming from the direction I had just come.  At the time, I was contemplating my options and calculating how long it would take to run to Herzog’s farm as I could see they were up and about already, but that was another half mile or so away.  I didn’t want to leave this person, body, in the road and have a car run over it, so I was relieved to hear the car coming.  As it got closer I moved away from the body towards the oncoming car and started waved to have it slow down.  It slowed as it got closer and to my surprise, it pulled off the road and a woman jumped out wearing a hastily thrown on sweat suit and one slipper.  She ran up to me and asked if “he”, was okay?  I told her that “he” had not responded to any of my calling and that was about it up to that point.  As we walked up closer I paused to take a good look at him.  I could see that he was, in fact, breathing which I mentioned to the woman.  With that she went up to him quickly, knelt down and yelled at him “Philip, wake up!”  She gave him a less than gentle nudge on the side and yelled again to which his eyes peeked open, hesitating to take in the full light of the morning.  I finally said, “Do you know him?”, to which she replied “Yes, he’s my son”. 

Had I been sitting in a chair I would have fallen out of it.  As Phillip was beginning to rise from his “road coma” they were discussing why he had not waited for her to pick him up at somebody’s house and why he had elected to stop, drop and not roll in the middle of a country road, miles from civilization.  What was even more amazing was that once he got up, I realized that this Philip turned out to be my cousin Philip, son of my Uncle Jack (not really but that would not have been a surprise if you knew my cousin) Hearing all of this I came to the conclusion that Bridgeport, the town I call my hometown and the home of many of my family (still), is a great place to visit, but I am certainly happy I don’t live there.