A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday I walked from my daughter’s house to my own. It was an impromptu decision, though mapped out earlier. There was one tricky part, involving passage on what I thought was a trail but could not be absolutely sure wasn’t a driveway.

My trespassing days are over (though never say never) so I was hoping there were no fences to scale. I was relieved that there were not. I walked the three miles absolutely legitimately.

These were suburban miles, to be sure. Not a bucolic woodland trail but a paved path along a four-lane road where motorists drive 10 or even 20 miles above the posted 40 miles-per-hour limit.

Still, I’d achieved what once I could never have imagined — I’d made my way, on foot, from one home to another. It felt like a break-through. In fact, it was.

I’ve developed a cautious approach to reading the newspaper these days. I want to be informed, but refuse to let the news dictate my day. I’ll scan the headlines, dip into stories that interest me, perhaps read a few op-eds, then call it a day.

This morning I lingered over a story that fits perfectly into the philosophy of A Walker in the Suburbs. A counselor at a Maine high school, transformed by her own hike on the Appalachian Trail, decided to offer a hike instead of detention to students caught skipping class or talking back to their teachers.

While students grumbled and some parents worried that this wasn’t punishment enough, the counselor persisted. A year later, students report that the hikes have enlarged their perspectives. They feel soothed and encouraged by the three-mile expeditions. Some feel invested in school for the first time. Others hike even when they’re not in detention.

Solvitur ambulando is the unofficial motto of this blog. “It is solved by walking.” It is also solved by being outside, watching the play of light on trees, joining the parade of seasons, trudging the extra mile.

I’m always heartened to find further proof of these truths.

Some days, I walk to stretch my legs, to get my muscles moving. Other days, it’s mental exercise I crave. The ideas flow best when the body moves through space.

But yesterday, I walked for none of these reasons. Yesterday, I walked for tomatoes.

I took the long way around, ambled one half of a circular trail, crossed and recrossed the Glade, went up a hill and down some stairs. And, close to the end of my route, I stopped in at a farmer’s market. The tomatoes were ripe and I bought three.

What fun to stroll back to the car with my precious cargo. Not just my phone and keys (the essentials), but also with those three tomatoes.

A walk doesn’t need a reason — but if it does, tomatoes are a good one.

Yesterday I slipped out between the raindrops for a walk around Lake Anne. This is one of my favorite Reston walks, one I often take with a good friend, though sometimes I do it solo after my yoga class.

This bridge is on that route, a bridge to nowhere, you might think, though that wouldn’t be exactly right. It’s only a short pedestrian bridge, doesn’t span a great river or even a shallow canal, but it brings me full-circle from the community center, where my yoga class is held, back to my car. A bridge to somewhere, after all.

On the way I pass gardens, kayaks, rock sculptures, a cafe and a bookstore. The best walks are like this, I think. They combine natural features — woods, fields and streams — with signs of human habitation: houses, stores, cafes. And then there are bridges. A good walk might include one of those, too.

It may not look like much, but it’s an improvement, two crosswalks instead of one, new crossing lights, and paved walkways on the corners (notable since my neighborhood has no sidewalks). The intersection is finally becoming a walker’s corner.

For weeks this summer workers busied themselves erecting poles, stringing wires, pouring concrete. I couldn’t figure it out at first. All I knew was that traffic funneled into one lane and it took longer to get through the light.

But then they finished up and the mess made sense, though it seems an empty gesture in some ways. My area is more walkable than it used to be, but it’s no walker’s paradise. I routinely drive to walk because it’s more pleasant to stroll when you aren’t fanned by 60-mile-an-hour tailwinds.

But every effort helps, and this corner has long needed some love. If pedestrianism is part of the picture, so much the better.

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.