Road Rage....I Mean Race

I did everything right. Or at least, everything that usually passes for right when you’re trying to get out of Joburg and into Hartbeespoort before the sun has a chance to ruin your hike.

Early start? Check.

Coffee? Aggressively consumed.

Mild optimism? Present and accounted for.

My hiking buddy, Sage, even warned me the night before: there’s a road race.

Be mindful.

Mindful, naturally, translated in my brain to: “Leave 15 minutes earlier and you’ll breeze through like the responsible adult you occasionally pretend to be.”

Reader, I left half an hour earlier.

What followed was not “mildly disrupted traffic.”

Not a slow crawl.

Not a polite delay.

A complete and total stop.

Engine off.

Soul leaving body.

For 45 minutes.

Possibly an hour.

Time lost all meaning somewhere between minute 5 and my second silent (mostly) cursing.

And then came the runners.

Not a few runners.

Not a manageable, staggered trickle of Lycra-clad enthusiasm.

No. It appeared that the entire country had collectively decided that this was the day to pursue cardiovascular excellence - directly down the one road I needed.

Wave after wave after wave.

A human marathon hydra.

Now, to be clear: I get it. Community events. Fitness. Fresh air.

People doing wholesome things before 7 am.

Lovely.

What I don’t get is the traffic management strategy, which seems to be:“Stop everyone. Completely. Indefinitely. We’ll let you know when society resumes.”

No staggering.

No alternating flow.

No “let’s allow the trapped motorists a single lane so they don’t age visibly in their vehicles.”

Just a hard pause on reality.

It’s less “traffic control” and more “traffic hostage situation.”

I refuse to believe this is the best we can do.

We have apps that can deliver sushi to your door in 20 minutes, but coordinating runners and cars requires a full shutdown of civilization?

Surely there’s a middle ground between “run free” and “no one else moves ever again.”

By the time I was released back into the wild, the hike had lost its early-start charm and gained a new undertone - simmering resentment with a hint of disbelief.

Next time, I’ll leave earlier.

Obviously.

Or, more realistically, I’ll just start training for the race.

It seems like the only guaranteed way to get through.