The last half of my usual run begins along a fairly busy, four-lane street. Ordinarily, I run in the morning, but the path is mostly shady all day. I run on the sidewalk; to my left—a small section of grass broken up by an occasional tree, to my right: expanses of flowers and landscaped bushes and ground cover.
And there are always, in the morning, many snails. Maybe every five to ten feet, you’ll see one making its way, left to right, across the dampened sidewalk and headed for what must seem like a wilderness at their height. In addition to my usual worries (breathing, not falling, not having a stroke), I have to watch for the tiny grayish shells on the gray sidewalk. Because stepping on one would make me feel very badly, and possibly would make me fall and/or stroke as well.
I wonder about what I imagine is a daily trek for the snails. From the density of the bushes to the grass patch (the street?), then back uphill to the bushes. Is it water they’re after? The gutter typically has a steady stream but you’d think they could get enough dew under the brush canopy. Are they avoiding predators—rats, rabbits, possums? But wouldn’t it be more safe to stay partially hidden than to expose themselves in the open? I’m no zoologist, obviously. (I did, however, pick up some snail knowledge at http://www.snail-world.com/).
For whatever reason the snails complete this arduous, daily journey—water, reproduction, survival, to gaze at the night stars—it seems like a lot of hassle. The sidewalk is dangerous, lots of foot traffic, and they risk life in a number of ways to make the trip. A ritualistic effort, probably tied to primordial urges, repeating and repeating, despite the fact that any moment, an unexpected sneaker can end everything. It’s life, that’s all.
