As I approached Emmitsburg Road on Millerstown Road, I was wary. I’m always wary at this intersection. These are both double yellow line roads, which sends the message to my brain that I don’t belong here. Still, Millerstown’s speed limit is twenty-five. And the short quarter-mile section I ran connects one park road to another. I even passed a runner heading the other direction. So while my brain says no, find a different road, common sense says this is a normal place to run. Plus, I’m not fit enough to skip that cut-through and run the long way around.

Three cars passed me on Millerstown, each giving me a wide berth, with two of the drivers waving as they passed as well. But as I approached Emmitsburg, a small Honda sedan cut the corner tight and fast, whipping into my lane. I prepared to jump off the road into the grass. But once around the corner, the driver saw me in my bright yellow running shirt and quickly adjusted, passing me with five feet to spare. I watched the driver, hoping for a wave or a nod and realized it was my co-worker Gloria.

I have no idea if she recognized me, but my brain concocted tomorrow’s conversation. “Oh, hey Jeff, I didn’t know you were a runner,” she’ll say to me.

“Well, I’m in my sixties,” I’ll respond, “maybe we should call me a jogger.” And with that, I spent the next half hour thinking about Mark D’Agostino.

“Who’s that?” you might ask? He’s the guy who sent me a scathing email after reading my book Bad Ass: My Quest to Become a Back Woods Trail Runner (and other obsessive goals).

Jeff, I’m about halfway through your book and I’m not sure I can finish it. Your attitude on running pace and disparaging road running is exactly why people like me don’t go to group runs, are terrified to join the trail community, and don’t dare call ourselves runners… your flippant words on running are tough to comprehend. I hope you find ways to be more inviting and understanding.

Mark finished his email with: My 12-minute running pace isn’t a jog. It’s a run. I hope you see that perspective soon.

When I wrote those Bad Ass essays about running pace, I was losing mine. I was slipping from an eight-minute-mile to a nine-minute-mile, and then to a ten-minute-mile. No amount of training reversed this trend, and I beat myself up after every run over my falling performance. Those essays are, no doubt, vicious. The venom is directed at myself, but I can easily see how Mark (and probably countless others), reading my words, could be offended by them.

Five years later, just like Mark, I also run a twelve-minute-mile. It occurred to me one day that the reason I run is to enjoy myself. While chasing unobtainable speed goals, I wasn’t having any fun at all. I stopped trying, and now every run is a blast. I just go out and jog. Sure, I call myself a runner, and I still wear myself out. But I honestly can’t imagine someone seeing me putting in my miles and thinking anything but “oh, look at that old(er) guy jogging.”

Sorry to contradict you Mark, but this is how I see it. For me, my twelve-minute pace is a jog, and I’m proud to call myself a jogger. It seems like a civilized thing to be.

I agree with all of Mark’s other criticisms, and I think his email helped me gain some much-needed humility.

If you want to read Bad Ass and form your own opinion, the eBook is free: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/903731