The Jogging Generalissimo

Staff Note:

We believe in writing this week’s story, Steve may be having delusions of grandeur . This seems to have been occasioned by his recent victory in the Tempe Traffic Court, where he was cleared of the charges of failure to yield and litigating with far too many exhibits. In spite of his vindication by the court, we at Twin Rocks Trading Post have decided he needs a 24 hour “time out,” and have confined him to his office without lunch. Therefore, read this week’s story at your own risk. We disclaim any responsibility for your failure to yield our advice.



The day started like many others; at 5:30 a.m., I woke for my morning jog. My mind kept trying to convince my body that it was best to stay under the covers. I couldn't help thinking, “Hey, you are almost 45 years old, and the way time is flying, you may be 50 before the end of next week, so you better get a little rest.” I struggled out of bed and put on my running clothes. Little did I know today would be a jog to remember.

At 6:30 a.m., I was still standing on the porch talking with Mark about yesterday’s events. Mark and I always talk about the things we want accomplish before we fade into obscurity, and today was no exception. As Mark and I chatted, I couldn't help thinking, “We were meant for greater things, so when will they happen?” Oh sure, Barry and I publish the most widely read internet column originating from the Bluff, Utah; yes, I have become recognized as the top trading post lawyer in San Juan County; true, Mark makes a mean red trout supper and has even been mentioned in Time magazine; and it is beyond dispute that Barry and I have bought and sold a few great Navajo baskets, but I was sure there was something more.

As I waddled east toward the mission, I noticed Bishop Plummer’s flock of sheep on the highway again. As usual, the sheep wandered from side to side, munching the grass and not paying much attention to the cars that passed. These sheep, having been brought up in the Episcopal faith, are very patient, tolerant and liberal, so the traffic did not distract them from their hobbies. At least not until a brown Dodge drove onto the scene.

The flock was stuck in the middle of the road and the driver was in a hurry; obviously not as patient as the sheep. The truck horn blasted three or four times, scattering the sheep and clearing the road. I proceeded through the confusion as if nothing had happened, thinking however that we had just missed an opportunity for breakfast of smashed sheep soufflé.

The sheep reminded me of the trading post, and how slow the pace can be. People come in, and Barry and I start our approach, “Hello,. . . How are you today?. . . Isn't it a nice morning? . . . Just let us know if you have any questions. . . . We don't have many answers, but we will try. . . . “ We have convinced ourselves this low stress life will allow us to live extremely long lives, but what about our 15 minutes of fame?

As I made my turn and began my jog back to the trading post, I once again noticed the sheep. They were split into two groups, one on the north side of the road and the other on the south. All of the sudden, it dawned on me that this was the moment I had been waiting for all my life. I had always been fond of the military term, “Divide and conquer,” and I instantly knew I would conquer the flock today.

Long ago I recognized that all great men are molded by their individual circumstances, I just had not found the right opportunity. This undoubtedly would be the crowning achievement of my life to date. I could see it clearly, Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Adams, Lincoln and Generalissimo Steven P. Simpson; the jogging general of Bluff, Utah, conqueror of the flocks.

As I approached the sheep, I began to worry that my opportunity was fading. They stared at me and I could tell they were considering a consolidation. Fortunately, providence shined upon me, and a red Isuzu Rodeo with California license plates drove past, freezing the sheep in place and reminding me of the time I had ridden in the Rodeo.

I became light headed, and thought I was going to faint. Luckily my mind quickly cleared and the sheep stayed put while I quickened my pace. I split the flock with precision, waving my arms and shouting, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” I was slow to realized that I did not have any torpedoes, functional or not, and that my battleship was worn and listing a little to the left. But I wasn't taking on any water and the sheep must have recognized that there was still life left in this old battle-ax; they bolted for the safety of the boulders. From the little round nodules left scattered across the road, it was clear that I had scared the . . . , that my mission has succeeded brilliantly.

As I proceeded west, a beam of light broke through the clouds and shown upon me. A white Subaru passed. The driver, a local woman who never waves or smiles at me during my morning maneuvers, was consistently smug, and I could feel a dark cloud obscuring my victory. The next two drivers waved vigorously and redeemed my belief that the early morning conquest would be the subject of songs and legends. As Meatloaf, the poet laureate of the 1980s, once said, “Two out of three ain't bad.” It was going to be a great day.

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