Eric Laine     Obituary of the Habitual Jogger On the road from communist cobblestones in the eastern boroughs of Berlin to the paven Cavalier streets of Charlottesville, last and first impressions are marked by scurrying people passing by. These random people give departing locals and arriving newcomers a sense of the habitual lifestyles found in each place. In the first setting, you might be gazing at the common Euro-trash trend that seems to involve various inhabitants strolling the streets during their daily grind. The thought of strolling doesn't occur to the daily swarms of Wahoo-joggers attacking the Jefferson soil from all directions. The picture-slide impressions shift from a rainbow of promenading persons to an array of orange and blue perspiring Cavaliers. Perhaps only the wise eyes of some forgotten on-looker have insight into explaining whether this Spandex scene is truly the healthier one. The busy intersection of Route 29 and University Avenue becomes a meeting point for catering trucks, sports utility vehicles, mountain bikes, and impatient bounce-stepping joggers awaiting the right of way. The converging cloud of carbon-monoxide denies these environmentally conscious, calorie-burning commuters any chance to tank up on oxygen. This spot offers voyeurs an opportunity to examine the Wahoo-jogger on display. A fairly weighted survey would be needed to compare each corner group with one another. Tanned limbs, clean school-spirited attire, high-tech footwear, and a sort of exhibitionist giddiness, temporarily restrained by a shortage of breath, are the overall first Observations. Turning left from this suffocating site onto University Avenue, the first hazard appears as some struggling, stubby guy dares the downhill cross-traffic in a determined effort to catch up to his flocking herd. Finally, Rugby Road appears, presenting the stretch of pavement soon to be known as the Champs Elysée, the Broadway -- the one and only catwalk for fitness freaks. In a few weeks the local fitness world will seem quite familiar. Like ants emerging from their sand fortresses with energy and determination, both toned and flabby bodies burst out from the southern villas to strut their stuff down the catwalk. Groups, couples, and singles are the formations that chug away at their metabolism, dodging and tail-gating hindering walkers. At any given moment of the day, but primarily after the nine to five of classes, the exhibition and reminder of self-improvement floods the sidewalks in numbers that instill wonder in a newcomer. Choosing to ride the bus to avoid the rush, the picture of scurrying people once again takes life, reminiscent of ancient Olympus. Left uncertain how to piece together this flaunting atmosphere with the great determination involved, I turned to the wisdom of Old Bull Kagle with his trusty brown-bagged Killian's, a forgotten, homeless, and gray-haired bench-sitter at the intersection of Rugby/Grady: "Should you have a chance, dare the streets a few moments before the sun dips below the western horizon and ponder the meaning of: Swoosh, React, Pump, Tortion, and Street Lights. If the stampede of cross-trainers has not yet flooded past your door, put your ear to the ground and listen for the faint thunder of a few thousand hooves, menacingly encroaching upon your personal space on their evening calorie-burning routine. Should you be infatuated with bright colors and skin tight garb, feast your eyes on the spectacle of suburban exercise. Make sure you have kept the sidewalk clear of debris and under no circumstances are you to interfere in this ritualistic mating procedure, designed to attract attention to the hypnotic locomotion of lean bodies. Once the stables are opened at dusk, clear the paths, keep children aside, and protect yourself at all costs. Joggers are easily agitated and may even turn on you to burn your calories. I make my stand here; we'll see which is faster: Air or a hot piece of lead."

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