Air quality is an important issue in the Salt Lake Valley. It is everywhere, but since my family lives in Salt Lake Valley, it’s the only place really important to me.
First, the science. With an oxygen baseline of 15 parts per … You know what? In the interest of space and average human understanding, I’ll merely announce the results.
During a winter inversion, the air quality in the valley is so bad that it’s the equivalent of breathing roadside dirt.
What? Yes, including dead bugs, chewed gum and cigarette butts.
We have to remove pollutants from our air. So, whenever possible, commuters are encouraged to use public transit, alternate forms of transportation, and even consider walking to wherever we need to go.
They (whoever the hell that is) say it is up to us as individuals to improve our air quality.
So last week, in an effort to do my ecological part, I sold my truck. It was a bittersweet parting. I owned the thing for 17 years and put a quarter of a million miles on it.
Cleaning it out was a series of flashbacks. It produced two knives, half a box of 9 mm rounds, 8 feet of cannon fuse, a sack of marbles, a Salt Lake Tribune employee manual from 1998, three speeding citations (Arizona, Montana and Utah), my wife’s emerald earring, about 50 bucks in spare change, and half a pound each of black powder and Dog Chow.
Without personal transportation, I am now dependent entirely on my wits to get me from one place to another. Afoot, as they say.
I started out small and relatively witless. On Sunday, I walked to and from church instead of driving. It was rough.
The chapel is directly behind my house, but because there’s no gate, I previously drove around the block to get there. Today, my knee hurts and one of my lungs is freezer burned, but I made it.
Work is more problematic. It’s 29.7 miles from my front door to The Tribune. That’s if I don’t take the freeway, which is illegal to use as a pedestrian. Or so the Utah Highway Patrol repeatedly drubbed into me when I was in high school.
By my calculations — which include three 10-minute stops to onload and offload fluids — I could walk to work in 13 hours and 43 minutes.
Coincidentally, this is the exact amount of time I would need to immediately turn around at the office and walk back home. Assuming I didn’t die of exposure or get struck by traffic, I would have time for a small snack before setting off for work again.
Walking to work is obviously not an option. Given my age and the distance to the objectives, I should save walking for church, light trips to the store, possibly the library, and family.
Soliciting rides — or hitching, as it is more commonly known — seemed a possibility. Just to be on the safe side, I called the Herriman Police Department and asked if there was a law against thumbing for ride.
I spoke with Officer (name withheld), who checked the statutes and said it was perfectly legal for the average citizen to hitchhike on city streets.
Me • “So if you guys see me hitching on the side of the road, I’ll be fine.”
Him • “No, your a-- will go to jail. I said ‘the average citizen.’ Pay attention.”
Well, OK. At least we have an understanding I can work around. Next Tuesday’s column will cover begging for rides.
Robert Kirby is The Salt Lake Tribune’s humor columnist. Follow Kirby on Facebook.