It's a little country two-lane road, paved, but effectively shoulderless, with lots of blind curves.
No sidewalks, no bike lanes, no jogging lanes.
Not a lot of wiggle room in either driving lane.
No street lights and, since the houses are very few and far between, not much front yard lighting either.
To illustrate, here's a picture of the beautiful countryside we passed that afternoon as we drove to dinner:
And yet . . . and YET . . . on Thanksgiving Day, an hour after sunset, in the thick woodsy wilds at this globe's 42nd parallel north in late November . . . we passed half a dozen joggers swinging along jauntily in the [perhaps] eighteen inches of snow-covered space between driving lane and four-foot-deep ditch or brush-covered earthen bank.
All of them were dressed head to toe in dark colors, with only their faces uncovered to reflect the light from our car's headlights. Not a strip of reflective tape, nor a little light anywhere to be found on their bodies.
From my seat in the car, it was like having ghostly figures appear in a haunted house: nothing, nothing, nothing, movement, movement coming, turning into a human and then gone.
I am left believing that people who jog at night wearing black spandex and black caps and black gloves and black footwear have their priorities somehow awry. If I were a jogger, drivers would be able to see me coming from half a mile away. I would be decked out in battery-operated multi-color flashing lights. I would look like a smallish traveling carnival. Drivers would slow way down, fearing that that they were about to come upon some spacecraft, glowing there up ahead. I would be an oddity, but I would be visible.