Long ago I joined the gym, stayed for several years, then realized it was outdoor, not treadmill, walking that I preferred. So, I quit. Didn’t worry about the machines anymore. I mean, seriously, when I was somewhere around two years old, I’d walk. My mother told me so. She said I’d walk all over the place, up and down streets, without a word of complaint.
I’m older now, much older than two, and I still prefer to walk, generally as exercise, but, hey, take me somewhere where walking is involved, I’m game. I will walk, and walk, and walk. Well, until my feet are so sore I just wish I could sit, take a load off.
Like today, when I left the house, planning to walk through the hills behind our neighborhood, into the wild blue yonder, with the idea of pumping some heart, strengthening some muscles, I veered off my path, instead walking up the boulevard, up a steep incline, turning into the ticky-tacky row of houses, you know the ones that all look the same, and continued up, up, and away, and not in a beautiful balloon. I just walked and walked, up and up, until the street ended, right at a point where a locked bar stopped car traffic from entering, but not foot traffic, and I continued to walk, up, until I reached a herd of cows, grazing, resting, and enjoying their sunny California day.
My feet were feeling it, they. were. sore. But, I had no choice, or, well, I guess I did, I could have called Rudy to drive up and give me a lift, but no, I am a walker, and I simply turned around, walked back down, and continued my journey, returning to where I had come from.
Fresh, much needed, water-bottle in hand, I walked down the long hall, to my room, and plopped my fatigued self onto the bed, and breathed, deep, feeling the bulk of my phone inside my pocket, calculating the duration and the miles I embraced. 2:12:31 hours/minutes/seconds, 6.74 miles. Long time, long miles, and those miles sure wrenched my side and reddened my feet, but hey, I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, I walk. That’s what I do.