The Trail In Detail
Illustrations by Tifani Carter
Columbia is home to some seriously awesome trails. Whether you’re craving a scenic bike ride down the MKT, an invigorating jog along Bear Creek or a leisurely stroll on the beautiful Scott’s branch, there is a trail for everyone in CoMo. As a frequent trail-user, one of my favorite parts of traversing our fantastic trails is the people watching. Once you become a regular, you start to see other regulars, and eventually patterns emerge. For instance, it’s most crowded on Saturday mornings before 10, weekdays at about 8:30 a.m. you get the stay-at-home moms and retirees, and after 6 p.m. the uber-serious bikers mix with after-work runners and people walking their dogs.
I’ve been thinking about some of the recurring characters I often see on the trail and had a little fun writing up their profiles. Do you see yourself in any of these archetypes? Or others that I missed? Share your favorite trail types at:
The Guy You’re 78 Percent Sure is a Serial Killer
You’re strolling along the MKT Trail and taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of nature when you realize you are suddenly quite alone. At first, you relish this solitude, until you see a figure walking the trail up ahead in the opposite direction. Is he coming right for you? You tell yourself it’s probably just a person like you, out enjoying the scenery. But as the figure gets closer, you check to see if anyone else is around. Any potential witnesses? You try to remember if you told anyone you were coming out to the trail. Do they even issue Amber Alerts for 41-year-old women? The figure is almost close enough for you to make out his features. Oh, God, he has a mustache. Didn’t you read somewhere that 93 percent of all serial killers have a mustache? Your heartbeat speeds up, and you curse yourself for leaving your dog at home. Mini-daschunds are scary, right? You mentally calculate the distance from where you are on the trail to the closest house. Would anyone hear you scream? The figure is just feet away by now. You try to remember your moves from kickboxing class. You start thinking of what picture of you they will flash on the 6 p.m. news. You hope it isn’t the one with your left eye closed that makes you look like you’ve just downed three pinot noirs. The figure is getting closer and closer…
“Hello! Nice day out, huh?” The figure smiles. He is wearing a Mister Rogers cardigan and an “I Heart Puggles” button. You scream and sprint past him, leaving a puff of white smoke in your wake. Didn’t you read somewhere that 78 percent of people who like puggles are axe-murderers???
Middle-aged Women Chasing Their Youth 
I have a special affinity for this group of women because I am this group of women. We’re 40-plus and trying like hell to fight gravity. We jog, bike, and speed-walk up and down the trail as we chase the fading, elusive glimmer of our younger selves —the selves who didn’t have to work quite so hard to stay fit. And the trail provides the perfect setting for us to kill three birds with one stone (Birdwatchers, please note, I am only speaking metaphorically). We can exercise, enjoy nature and catch up with one another, provided we aren’t too winded to actually talk, which is a distinct possibility, depending on how many glasses of wine we had the night before (age has its compensations, after all). But we lace up and head out there several days a week to fight the good fight against age and diminishing bone density. And usually we feel pretty good about ourselves — until a couple of 22-year-olds whizz past us like gazelles in the savannah, leaving our gasping, wheezing old bones in their dust. This is the exercise equivalent of being called “ma’am.” And it happens every time.
There’s one on every trail: some individual who thinks it is his or her job to make sure trail etiquette is being observed. They tell you to slow down. They point out when your dog’s leash is over the allowed 4 feet. They shout, “ON YOUR LEFT!” after you pass them without any verbal warning, despite the fact that they are so far over to the right you could drive a Prius next to them without touching. These people are the self-appointed trail police (not to be confused with the actual Park Patrol volunteers who wear the yellow vests and are quite pleasant!).
One day I was out with my daughter, who was 6 years old at the time, and a man stopped to tell her she was being too loud when she fell off her bike and started crying. Yes, that right. He stopped and didn’t ask if she was OK. He just said, “Quiet down now, honey, or you’ll disturb everyone out here.” To a 6-year-old who just skinned her knee. The upside of these types, I suppose, is that they also often pick up stray trash, and they’ll jerk a knot in the tail of anyone who dares to flick a cigarette butt, so their cantankerous nature does serve a purpose. These folks are both kindly stewards of our fair trails and grouchy old men (and women) who have had it UP TO HERE with the disrespectful ways of young people today. And don’t even get them started on cellphones. Why would anyone need to talk on a cellphone when they’re out on the trail?!?
The Guy Who Thinks He’s on the Tour De France
This guy may be my favorite trail type. Everything from the sleek reflective skin suit to the custom gloves to the alien-shaped helmet — and of course the Lance Armstrong-esque Oakleys — makes me giggle when they pass me going roughly 55mph. And they’re always in multiples. “On your left!” “On your left!” “On your left!” “On your left!” I’m never quite sure if there is an actual race going on or just a pack of 15 middle-aged men out for a super-intense cycling session, but either way their sincerity is admirable. You can tell they love what they’re doing, and they certainly look the part of a team biking through the French Alps, drafting off one another, using hand signals and shouting things to one another like “Crank!” “Jam!” “Hammer!” and “Full tuck!” They are, as Stephen Colbert once said of Lance Armstrong, in it to Schwinn it. And we love them for it.
I used to think bird watching (or “birding,” as the cool kids say) was not a real thing. But then I saw the movie The Great Year, and I realized how wrong I was. I myself have a complicated relationship with the avian species, stemming from some personal “targeting” incidents, so I don’t bird, but Columbia has an active Audubon Society and many ornithological enthusiasts. You’ll see many of them walking the trails, binoculars slung around necks, floppy hats in place, tossing around terms like “cerulean warbler,” “yellow-bellied sapsucker” and “blue-footed booby.” I’m always a little intimidated by these folks and their sciencey, library-quiet approach to the trail and often wonder what treasures they’re spotting through their binoculars off in the trees. Personally, I like to think they’ve spied something cool like a bald eagle or a pterodactyl. Now, that might get me interested in birding.
Every single time I’m out on the trail, I see at least one dog walker being pulled along by a pack of energetic pooches. But she never sees me. Probably because she’s busy monitoring the business ends of anywhere from five to 10 dogs. Watching a dog walker work is like watching King Triton be carried along the sea by a majestic wave, except the wave is a bunch of wriggling, furry bodies, and King Triton is a woman carrying a bag full of dog schnitzel. OK, so it isn’t exactly like King Triton. But still, there is something majestic about being able to control upward of 20 legs, 10 floppy ears, at least five bladders and as many sets of sharp teeth. And usually, the dog walkers I see out there on the trail make it look easy. Until a squirrel darts across the path. That’s when the dog schnitzel can really hit the fan.