The people you meet while jogging in Bellingham

I wrote this 7 years ago, on my first week living in this city. It still feels true.

The Hipster
There are two kinds of mustaches: the creepy kind and the playful kind. His is the later. His bike is second-hand, or maybe third. It is rusty enough to be loud, but not quite enough to be dangerous. He does not ride in a straight line. He waggles inefficiently, grinning. A pair of Happy Birthday streamers tied to his seat, trail behind him. He is young, carefree, effortlessly stylish and friendly; he is everything good about this city.

The Zombie
He does not shuffle, but he does walk slowly, mouth open, dead arms hanging, dead eyes fixed on nothing. Every piece of clothing that he wears is ripped, and he wears too much. The stuffing from his winter coat is slowly escaping from a broken seam on his shoulder. It's 80, I am sweating despite my short-sleeves and modest pace, but he looks clammy. I am more athletic than most, and not easily frightened, but a chill runs down my spine when I jog past him, hoping that he will look up, make eye contact and assure me that he is still human. He doesn't.

The Athlete
She is fast, much faster than me. Thankfully we are running in opposite directions, so I can be humbled in private without being passed. She runs with all the accessories and gadgets that I do, plus a few extras that I do not recognize. Lean and tan, she is beautiful but far from effortless. She sweats like I do, maybe even more, and today she's favoring a sore knee with a slight hitch in her stride. If we were friends, I'd tell her that I noticed. But we're not. So I smile and wave, a two fingered east-coast wave that makes me stand out.

A Homeless Lady
I've never seen so many homeless women as I see in Bellingham. It unnerves me even more than homeless men. She pushes a shopping cart, wearing an army coat, and doesn't know or care about the cliche.

Mr. Mom
I see either he or his wife every day. I know they are a couple because they are never together, but one of them is always pushing a stroller, and they dress alike. They both wear sunglasses. I'm not sure if they are hers or his or if they are held in common, but I think between them there is only one pair. I trail him for a long time, and ponder whether I would have the right combination of generosity and commitment to run with a stroller to give my wife a few moments of peace. When I finally do pass him, I do so admiringly.