A Walker in the Suburbs

I’ve missed trail walking this summer. It keeps me grounded; it keeps me sane. But heat and humidity have scrambled my schedule. Many days I hoof it right after waking up, when there’s still a trace of nighttime coolness in the air.

Walking at this hour means I stroll the streets of my neighborhood. Driving to walk seems strange enough midday or later; at 7 a.m. it’s too ridiculous to contemplate.

Or is it?

Yesterday’s immersion was so pleasant that it made me want to trail walk every day. I’m not alone. There’s parking along the road, and my car usually has company.

It was late afternoon by the time I escaped yesterday, and the air was full of moisture and cicada song. Which is how it is right now. And so … I’m off to trail walk.

There’s a new speedometer in town, or at least in my neighborhood, one of those portable gizmos that’s set up to remind motorists to slow down. This one has colored lights that blink when you go more than 10 miles over the 25 miles-per-hour limit.

I walk past this speedometer every day. At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. Was that a number up there as I approached? A single-digit number, true, but still, a number — 6!

I wasn’t speeding, not by a long shot, but my puny pedestrian footfall was being picked up and measured. Yes, officer, I’ll slow down. I could have sworn I was only doing 5.

Truth be told, I probably did clock six miles an hour when I ran the occasional 10K road race, covering the 6.2 miles in 54 or 55 minutes. But that was long ago. Now I’m lucky to make 3.5 miles an hour. The machine seems to round up. It’s bad news for motorists, but good news for walkers in the suburbs.

I spent the day before May Day preparing for a busy weekend at the writers conference I help plan, and, as it turned out, taking a long walk. The Capital Crescent Trail runs from Bethesda to Georgetown, and yesterday it was hopping with 80-degree temperatures and a feel of summer in the air.

I thought I’d take a brief stroll, but walked almost to the District line. I noticed more e-bikes on the trail (as I notice more e-bikes everywhere), which kept me on the slightly-safer cinder path beside the main trail. It was warm enough that I felt the temperature drop as I reached Little Falls Stream Valley Park.

As I ambled I thought about all the walks I’ve worked in through the years: while the girls were at cello, clarinet or voice lessons — or much earlier, when they were in preschool. I discovered many of the trails I walk now during those first early forays on the Reston Trails.

Working in a walk means making do with where you find yourself — and that can be an adventure.

I’m walking longer these days, and when I don’t drive to walk (which I often do), at some point I must cross a busy, four-lane road. During off hours I might wait for a pause in the traffic, dash across to the median, then wait for another opening to cross the rest of the way.

It’s not what I taught my kids to do, and not something I’m particularly proud of doing. It puts pace before safety. Which is why these days I’m more likely to push the button and wait for the “walk” sign. What a wimp, I tell myself. But a living wimp, so worth the trade-off.

Still, I miss the halcyon days of urban walking. I miss being part of a pedestrian tribe propelling itself from block to block, fidgeting whenever a red light stopped our progress. We were fearless; we had strength in numbers. And sometimes, we walked right through those “wait” signs.

An early walk in the gloaming, porch lights shining. Some white, some yellow. A globe bulb on a lamppost. Fixtures as varied as the people who chose them.

There are no streetlights here, so nighttime illumination is to order, unless it’s inherited from previous residents. Coach lights flank garage doors. Solar-powered strips mark driveways and garden paths. Doorways flaunt the brightest bulbs. Here we are, world, they seem to say, enter here.

And then there is window light, scarce in the morning hour, but I saw a few examples on my stroll, especially in one house, the only one for sale in the neighborhood. It was almost certainly left on in error during yesterday’s open house. It spoke not of habitation but of vacancy, preternaturally bright.

To drive the road is to miss these particulars. To walk is to imbibe them, like so much warm dawn air.

(Streetlights in Chicago, 2016)

Yesterday’s walk was along the Glade Trail, which lies in a protected valley but offers a workout at the end, two uphills and two downhills. I’m looking now for paths with elevation gain. The muscles grew accustomed to it over the last several weeks — and it’s bound to be good for you, in the way that all things that don’t kill you make you stronger.

Living near the fall line as I do, there’s only one direction I can head — west. Even in western Fairfax County the landscape grows hillier. In fact, my neighborhood sits atop a rise that is painfully apparent if you walk alongside Fox Mill Road.

Still, it seems strange to seek out the difficult. It’s so much easier to tramp the level trails, and there are plenty of them around here. I hope I can keep pushing myself to hike the steep and narrow. But I’m not counting on it.

(There’s plenty of hill hiking an hour’s drive west of here in Shenandoah National Park.)

For 11 days on the island of Madeira my primary mode of transport was shank’s mare. We walked to town, 30 minutes downhill, and home from town, 40 minutes uphill. In between we sauntered (untimed). We ambled around the Lido area where out hotel was located, down to the shore (15 minutes) and back up again (20).

Apart from a few bus trips and the final taxi ride to the airport, we made our way entirely on our own steam.

Need I say how delicious this was for a walker in the suburbs, someone whose strides are hemmed in by busy thoroughfares and whose forays are never for picking up a quart of milk at the corner store?

Yesterday, I was back in the saddle, back behind the wheel of our modest sedan. I drove 30 minutes to see one daughter, 20 minutes from her house to a grocery store, then 20 minutes to see another daughter. The visits were short, the drives were long but worth it. That’s life (for the most part) in these United States.

(Luckily, I was not driving in Madeira, where roads are steep, narrow and hair-raising.)

A cold and blustery walk last week took me by this enchanting tableau. It was just one of several. Nearby was a fairy house, painted rocks and a little free library.

It was my kind of place! As a dreamy child, I looked for fairies under the forsythia bush in our side yard. I sought them among the weeds in the empty lot. I fully expected to glimpse them dancing in the moonlight.

That I never saw them didn’t convince me they didn’t exist. I just hadn’t looked hard enough. Last week, on an ordinary walk, I found further proof of their existence.

A long walk yesterday as the earth warmed around me. Families were ambling together, young children running ahead, babes in arms.

It wasn’t exactly the paseo, the leisurely evening strolls you see in Portugal, Spain and other European countries. It was too early and too diffuse for that. But it was movement for the sake of movement, not to get anywhere in particular.

Compared with these folks I must have seemed a woman on a mission. But at the end of the walk, I may have been as relaxed as some of those slower strollers. I know I was looser of limb, more open to life’s possibilities. And that, I think, is worth ninety minutes.

(The lights had come on but people were still strolling on this June 2022 evening in Lisbon.)