Concrete at Alewife

Back in my energetic thirties, every few years I’d get the urge to become a long-distance runner. One sunny day in February, I made a new start. I drove to East Arlington, for a replacement windshield. The shop is about a mile from the Alewife T station (subway), the end of the Red Line. The snow was brilliant in the late winter sunshine, the sky azure, the puffy clouds matching the snow, and the temperature about ten degrees above freezing. I jogged down Varnum Street to the commuter bike path, then past the wide expanse of empty playing fields and under Route 2. My end goal was to touch Alewife’s exterior wall. I crossed the final street with my fists balled and arms pumping. Focusing on a strong finish, I sprinted across the wide sidewalk. Only as I took my third step did I sense something was wrong. Glancing at my feet, I realized with horror that my ankles were embedded in fresh, wet concrete. Behind me were two deep footprints. I started to bolt in guilty panic, but looking up, I noticed, for the first time, three workmen, in splattered tan overalls, watching intently. I was trapped; the young one could easily outrun me. Police lights flashed before my eyes and I saw myself facing jail time, and a huge fine, for destroying public property. How much did a new sidewalk cost? I sheepishly squished back into the street.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I grimaced and shook my head in sincere contrition.
“No problema, no problema. The back of the truck.” The smiling workman was pointing to a large tanker truck parked next to the sidewalk. Seeing my confusion, he pointed again.
“Water.”
I saw an old red hose wrapped around a steel wheel on the back of the tanker. Another workman walked to the truck and put his hand on the tap.
“No, it’s okay, I’m okay.” Mortified, I turned back toward the bike path.
“Water, water!” he said, helpfully.
Since they didn’t look poised to call the police, I walked over to the hose. The man turned the tap and I hosed down my legs; the concrete was caked halfway to my knees.
I admired my sneakers, whiter than they’d been in a couple of years. As I pivoted around to face the sidewalk, One of the workmen was smoothing the concrete with a long two-by-four, my transgression completely erased.
Blushing with embarrassment I apologized once more, then resumed my jog back toward my car. Feeling my ankles flex with each step, I gradually realized that by then the concrete would have been hardening around my sneakers and up my jeans. How would I ever have escaped the concrete boots? I was grateful for the kindness of strangers.