A few years ago when I was mostly running short 5 and 10K races, pushing hard for speed not distance, I'd occasionally do too much, try too hard. My body let me know: exercise-induced asthma. It's an asthma attack like any other except it occurs in people who don't, by any traditional definition, have asthma but have simply pushed their respiratory system beyond its limit. It's horrible, like drowning on dry land. I don't recommend it.

I hadn't had an attack in a long time until today.

I was in the last mile of an eight-mile run that takes me through the marina and down to the Pacific where the pelicans and the seagulls fight over clams, a relatively short and beautiful run. I'd gotten a late start. I had things to do, and I was pushing the pace hard to get home. On top of it, I've had just a touch of a chest cold. Nothing serious, just enough to be annoying. But the two together were, unknown to me, setting the stage.

I always, always obey traffic signals when I run, for all the good it does me. I've been nearly hit more times than I can count, even once by a guy in a business suit who appeared to be trying to run over me. God knows why. It happens so often it's no longer noteworthy.

Except today.

Today was the first time someone came at me so fast, cut it so close, actually put her bumper to my kneecaps. I was on the sidewalk crossing in front of a driveway. She was in a minivan and paying absolutely no attention. Scared the crap out of her. Scared the air out of me. Literally. The heart-stopping gasp pushed me over the edge. With the pace and the cold, I was a goner. I jumped clear of her tires, which was all I could manage to do. My heart was pounding. I was doubled over, gasping for air I couldn't get.

You think she stopped?

I'll give you one guess.