The green Ford Explorer came out of left field. Literally.

I had just stepped off the shopping center curb, headed to the parking lot across the roadway. Before setting foot in the crosswalk, I had dutifully craned my neck left and right. Coast clear.

Alas, not quite.

The Explorer, which had been far enough away to allow safe passage, was suddenly bearing down on me like a motorized emissary of the Apocalypse.

Its two occupants, teen-age girls smoking cigarettes and blasting Green Day, were hurtling through a shopper-and-car slalom at 40 mph.

“Watch where you’re going, you (female dog)!” screeched the driver as she hightailed it to the mall exit, oblivious to the concept of pedestrian right-of-way.

Charming. And way too typical.

I’m a walker and a jogger, a moseyer on summer’s blast-furnace days, a rambler on brisk ones. The lunch hour finds me strolling down Norfolk’s sidewalks. My evenings are spent running the boardwalk in Virginia Beach. If I could walk the 20 miles from home to work, I would.

But whether the setting is commercial, residential or resort, one constant remains:

It’s dicey being a pedestrian.

It would be easy to chalk up my near-demise at the mall to the driver’s tender age, except that I’ve almost been creamed by businessmen in BMWs, soccer moms in minivans and – worst of all – shaggy-haired young men in jacked-up Jeeps and trucks, who deserve their own special circle in Driver Hell.

Pedestrian right-of-way theory has become the Latin of Driver’s Ed, falling into the same musty black-hole of outdated concepts as pulling over for ambulances and using turn signals.

It’s both amusing and amazing to watch self-important motorists speed up to beat a hapless pedestrian to an intersection. God forbid a driver might be delayed an extra three seconds.

To these folks, stop signs and crosswalks are mere suggestions. And to a certain extent, they’re right, since almost no one but the homeless or repeat-DUI-ers walks anywhere anymore.

In a country of automobiles, pedestrians have become an endangered species.

Why? Because, in the words of a mock country song, “I jumped in my pick-up and drove to the fridge for a beer.”

I know people who have forgotten what their legs are for. Who wail like banshees if an out-of-order elevator means they have to climb two flights of stairs. Who’ll drive 100 feet across a shopping center parking lot to go from Blockbuster to Burger King.

No wonder we’re a nation of lard-butts.

In examining our national sluggishness, humor writer and modern-day Tocqueville Bill Bryson quotes a University of California study, which found that 85 percent of us are “essentially” sedentary.

Some 35 percent are totally sedentary, meaning the only walking we do is to the kitchen and bathroom. And if someone invents a straw or urinal designed to overcome such extreme exertion, we’ll buy them by the truckload. Most disturbing? The average American walks only 350 yards a day.

Another big reason no one hoofs it anymore is suburban sprawl. Vast swaths of American suburbia have no sidewalks. Why build them? After all, we’re a rich country that can drive anywhere it wants to.

Funny thing is, with Americans ballooning into sumo wrestlers and gas pump prices spinning like slot-machine reels, walking suddenly looks attractive.

To encourage folks to stroll – or, heaven forfend, commute – without fear of becoming roadkill, Washington has finally done something worthwhile: The just-signed federal highway bill boasts $100 million for pedestrian and bike paths.

Now that’s a step in the right direction.

– Bronwyn Lance Chester is a columnist for The Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk. Her e-mail address is bronwyn.chester@pilotonline.com.