The man in the middle of the road

We roll. He trolls.

For context, this is the bustling metropolis where I live.

There’s a man in my tiny mountain town who I think about all the time.

I don’t know him. I’ve never had an actual conversation with him. I don’t even know his name. But he takes up a small piece of my headspace every time I drive into town. 

I find him fascinating.

This man spends his Saturdays the same way every week. 

He carries an old camp chair into the middle of his residential street, sits in the center of the road, and yells at cars to slow down. 

That’s it. That’s what he does.

He wears a big hat and keeps a water bottle under his chair, proof that he is there for a while, prepared— even dedicated— to his cause. He will not stop fighting this fight.

This mountain town we live in has always felt remarkably safe to me. The speed limit is 15 mph. Plus, during summer, the town installs strategically-placed planter boxes full of beautiful flowers throughout the streets to keep tourist traffic slow.

And… we have this guy.

I always stare at him in amused curiosity. “Why,” I wonder, “does he do this with his Saturdays? Why did he appoint himself the gatekeeper of this road?” 

I watch him scream “SLOW DOWN” at a van lifer going perhaps 17mph.

I smile.

This man also posts up with his camp chair in my brain.

Our time on this planet goes fast. And yet, this guy spends his making sure people slow the F down on an already-slow road. 

I want to interview him.

I wonder if he actually feels disappointment when cars drive the speed limit because he has nothing to yell at them. I wonder what else in his life he tries to control.

I mostly wonder what in his life he cannot control.

Does he have a family? Friends? Hobbies other than this one? Did he lose someone important in a traffic accident? Did his dog get hit by a car on this quiet street? What makes him choose to do this with his time on the planet? Does he hate tourists? Has he ever been on a vacation?

I don’t wonder about these things from a place of judgment. I’m genuinely curious.

The existence of this guy almost seems symbolic. 

If you think about it, social media “advice” is basically the same thing as this guy, just in digital format. Instead of a camp chair and water bottle, the tools are Canva templates and digestible self-help quotes, with self-appointed influencers projecting their unsolicited shit upon our scrolling thumbs. Apps full of people telling us how to live in a way that feels more comfortable to them, telling us to obey the rules, futile attempts to gatekeep our experiences. This guy simply embodies it.

In many ways, maybe we are all like the man in the middle of the road. 

I think about ways I have tried to create order in the world, one block at a time. I think about instances where I have shared my beliefs on social media even when no one asked for them. I think about the irony of sharing these words with an audience that chooses to support my work and drive down my funny little crossroads of philosophy, creativity, and action sports. I think about all the roads I purposefully go down to high-five my friends in their own versions of camp chairs, proud that they are sharing something they believe in. I think self-expression is important and necessary.

We all just want to be seen, right? That’s a big part of being human.

Maybe next Saturday, I’ll bring a chair and a sun hat and post up a block down and try yelling at cars with him to form a small army of road trolls on the street. No one will hit speeds of 16mph on our watch. No one. Ha. No, I won’t do that. But I like thinking about it and imagining that he would yell at me to get out of the damn road.

Maybe instead, I will hang out of my truck window and high-five this man for expressing his truth and doing what he thinks is important to protect our town. Maybe I will buy him an iced coffee or bring him a jug of fresh ice water.

Maybe I’ll just ask him his name so I can use it and say hi every time I drive down his quiet road at 14mph. That’s probably enough.

Here for it,

Lisa