A Walker in the Suburbs

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.)

The owls were calling, “Who-who, who-who.” I heard them as I hiked the Glade Trail and when I returned home, too.

Had a flock of visitors moved into the area? Was it the morning’s warmer temperatures? Because by the time I was out, in late afternoon, the wind had picked up and the day had grown cooler. I’ve heard owls before at this time of year, so it may be cyclical, a brief glimpse of the spring we’ve “learned” is still six weeks away.

Whatever the explanation, the owls soothed me, reminded me of all the wild things who live among us and operate on older, more essential rhythms. Their conversation enveloped me in sound, just as the woods enveloped me in beauty. Together, they produced an hour of respite from a world gone mad.

The soil was packed and pocked. With temperatures in the 20s yesterday morning, it was anything but springy, but I could tell it had been malleable enough the day before to cast a boot print or two.

Mud quick frozen and crunchy beneath the feet. A living thing, expandable and contractable. Not just a surface but a presence.

For weeks I’ve been hoofing it on pavement, sticking to the sides of paved roads, dodging snow piles and black ice. But yesterday, for a few minutes, I pounded a dirt trail. It felt good to walk on earth again.

Yesterday I ventured out to walk beyond the neighborhood. The big snow was more than a week ago, so I felt confident that most icy patches would be gone.

I was wrong. Icy patches were plentiful on the walk I took around Lake Anne, snow packed and hardened into slickness. But there was plenty of pavement, too, enough to make me continue.

Enter the mincing step. This is when you walk so slowly and gingerly that an observer might think you weren’t moving at all. This is when you throw caution aside and hobble unabashedly like a little old lady.

This is what I did yesterday, did it several times in fact. On the minus side, I walked so slowly that my toes felt like lumps of ice. On the plus side, I didn’t fall. An excellent tradeoff, I think.

This time of year a walk through my neighborhood has two distinct contours. When I leave the house well-bundled against the cold, I think at first that it’s not bad — not exactly warm but not bitter, either.

That feeling quickly vanishes at the midpoint of my stroll, when I turn to trudge back the way I came. It’s those prevailing westerlies, you see, and all the frosty air they bring with them this time of year.

The air makes a mockery of the headband I wear over my ears. It blusters right into my hood, almost blowing it off my head. It makes me ball up my fingers inside my gloves. Most of all, it makes me pick up my pace. It’s no surprise that I run part of the way home.

I could always turn right instead of left at the end of my street and reverse the temperature and tempo of my hikes. But it makes more sense to warm up first. The only way around this reality is to take another route, but given the unplowed status of most nearby trails, that won’t happen anytime soon.

So for the next few days, at least, these two-temp walks are what I have. At least they keep things interesting.