A Walker in the Suburbs

When I found myself with dilated eyes and time to kill before driving home, I did what all curious walkers do: explored the area. In this case, the area included one of the largest malls in the U.S. There was just one hitch: reaching the place on foot.

The Tysons Corner area is not pedestrian friendly. It may become more so in time — or at least that’s the hope. The Washington Metropolitan Transportation Authority (WMATA) put four stations in the Tysons area when it was routing the Silver Line in a bid to make the neighborhood more walkable. But it will take more than that, I’m afraid.

It will take more weirdos like me, people willing to stroll across 10 lanes of traffic on a broiling-hot afternoon. At least there was a crosswalk.

(This is not a pretty picture, but that’s the point.)

I’m just back from a Reston trails walk. It was good to have a change of scene after days of hoofing it through the neighborhood.

Not that I have anything against my neighborhood. It’s bucolic, as suburban subdivisions go, but it’s limited. I march up and down one major thoroughfare.

When I walk the Reston trails I meander along the Glade Creek, or circle Lake Newport. I cross bridges, trudge up hills and down. I explore any side trails that look appealing. A walk becomes an adventure.

Or least that’s the way it seems at the time. Maybe it’s just the walkers high.

Yesterday’s walk was business as usual, the neighborhood loop in humidity so thick it felt like I was striding through pea soup. I consoled myself with memories of Deep Creek walks.

Though we were only there seven days I found a lovely route: a stretch of road with tall trees that met up high, cathedral-like, befitting the book I was reading, Sarum, about Salisbury, England, and its cathedral.

The light that reached walkers was dappled and fine, with puddles of sunshine and brief bright stretches. Each stroll lifted me up, spun me out of daily duties into higher realms. Which is, after all, what you want a walk to do.

We stopped for a hike on the way home from the lake, strode through tall grass and old forest, sat on a bench and watched the eddies in Tolliver Creek.

At one point we heard a bird that sounded familiar, that sounded as if it was talking to us right from the heart of the woods. The Merlin app told us it was a hermit thrush, a relative of the wood thrush I heard last month.

It was a gem of a walk, with paths through meadow, park and woods. At the end we watched as butterflies fed on milkweed. It’s all the rage to plant milkweed now — we have some in our yard — but this was one of the first times I’ve watched animals taking advantage of it.

Milkweed is not an unattractive plant, but it’s not my favorite, either. Seeing it as food made me appreciate it more. Hikes can be food, too, sustenance for the spirit. This one was for me.

I felt as if I was feeding on the forest. After the clamor and clang of a busy week with the family, it was a quiet moment, time to absorb all the week had to offer.

It happened on an ordinary walk, and it happened twice, since this ordinary walk was on a circular trail, where you run into people more than once if you’re strolling in opposite directions.

I’m glad it happened twice, though, because the first time I didn’t believe my eyes. By the second time, I was sure. A fellow walker, a man about my age, smiled and tipped his hat as we passed.

I’ve written before about how walkers acknowledge each other. I don’t expect much, am happy if I get a nod or wave. I never expected a tip of the hat. Such behavior harkens back to an earlier age, when gentlemen wore fedoras and opened doors for ladies.

Did the hat-tipper similarly acknowledge male walkers? I have no answer to that question. But I do know how nice it felt to be the recipient of a such a courtesy. It was a congenial gesture; it made me smile all the way back to the parking lot.

(President Calvin Coolidge tips his hat. Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

In music, the phrase “a tempo” means to return to the original pace. In the last few weeks (touch wood) I have been returning to my original walking speed.

I had slowed down through the winter and spring due to a hamstring thing. I won’t dignify it by calling it an injury but I will say that it turned my allegro into an adagio.

But now, if I’m careful, my stride is little more my own. The trick is knowing when I’ve overdone and backing off. I’m not as good at that as I hope to become.

It’s a good lesson not just in walking, but in life.

(Sometimes the sand slows me down.)

I had been flipping through a book I read long ago called Suburban Nation when I heard of a new book called Sidewalk Nation. I love the symmetry in this. The irony, too.

In my suburb, there are no sidewalks. One walks along the side of the road, which is mostly no problem — until it is, in wintertime or during what passes as rush hour in these parts.

New arrivals to our neighborhood complain about the lack of sidewalks — I certainly did — only to be put off when they hear from old-timers about the difficulty of installing them, the property rights battles that might ensure, and the supposed allure of the more “rural” look our bare roads seem to provide.

Sidewalk Nation is on my to-be-read pile, so I imagine I’ll post on it at some point. I’ll be interested to learn what it has to teach me. Until then, I’ll stroll on the sidewalk-less road that is part of our landscape now — and probably always will be.

Yesterday I walked on the way to the grocery store — didn’t walk to the store, of course; that’s not done in the suburbs. But I have a route I work in on the way to food shop. So I pulled into the parking lot that’s usually empty and found it … full. I’d forgotten that pools are open now, and this lot serves one, a community pool we used years ago, when the girls were younger.

At the end of our several-year membership there, I was the only one who used it. I would slip out after supper and swim laps. It was divine. Yesterday, though, I could only listen to the sound of splashing, the thunk of kiddie cannonballs.

Think of all the sun exposure you’re avoiding, I tried telling myself. It didn’t work. I wanted to be slicing through the cool water doing the crawl or breast stroke.

But I kept moving and the walking worked its magic. I had the pavement and the blue skies and Beethoven in my ears. I had the miracle of movement, which eases the mind and tires the body. I had/have so much. And when I’m walking, I remember it.

Walkers are busy. They have paths to travel, woods to explore, miles to rack up. Which means that most of the time (unless there’s a fox on a rock in the stream) they don’t have time to stop and chat, or even the breath to say hello. Maybe this is why they’ve perfected the nod.

Sometimes it’s just a dip of the chin. Other times the whole head may be involved, and a smile may peek out. Occasionally, I’ll get a wave, thumbs up or peace sign.

I appreciate the nonverbal communication of walkers on the trail. It’s an acknowledgement that another human is passing by — proof that, although many of us walk solo because we relish the time alone, we realize that others are doing the same. And in that case, it’s best not to disturb but to just … give a nod.

New York is a walkers’ city, which means people must schlep stuff around on their person. It is, therefore, a city of backpacks and satchels and messenger bags. In the Big Apple, people eat on the run or tote their dinners home in carryout containers.

When I lived in the city I lusted after a shoulder-strapped leather briefcase, received one as a gift, and have it still. Though I no longer use it I can’t bear to part with it.

Last week, I crammed everything I needed each day into my cross-body bag and the pockets of my coat. I could leave nothing in the car, of course, since I didn’t have one there. If I had, it would have been parked in an expensive garage.

Instead, I walked and took the subway. I watched New Yorkers stride about with everything they needed attached to their bodies, including … a cello.