A Walker in the Suburbs

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.

It’s spring break in these parts. Families are on the road — or if not, they’re putting together a crazy patchwork quilt of daycare options to make it through the next five days.

I’m staying put but paying attention. I’m braking for spring.

On Thursday, I parked at the W&OD to hike the trail to Meadowlark Gardens, bursting with bloom, where I snapped the shot you see above.

On Saturday I caught these weeping cherries at Lake Anne’s Van Gogh Bridge, part of a walk from Reston Town Center, where I dropped off my library books, to Lake Anne. It’s a favorite stroll, especially this time of year.

Still on my early spring to-see list: the Bradford pears and daffodils in Franklin Farm, which I hope to visit today.

All of these sights are best seen — and some are only seen — when I stop the car, get out and take a walk. When I brake for spring.

Yesterday brought freakish warmth. Welcome warmth, given the cold winter, but freakish just the same. Last week I was still debating if I could walk without gloves, and I began the stroll with hands balled up into my sleeves.

I trod counter-clockwise around the lake, spotting a fellow walker halfway around. She was craning her neck between houses to get a better view. She was quick to share her discovery.

“I’ve never seen swans on the lake before,” she said. “But I just did.” She showed me where to look, and there they were, vague dots of white on a smooth, glassy surface.

I snapped a shot, not just of the swans but of the place that held them: the green foliage thick with rain, a house in the distance, dark trunks fading to gray.

It was not just the swans but swans on the lake. It was that moment of that walk, captured in time.

Today I took my first walk around Lake Anne in more than a month. The ice was thinning and the path was clear. I spied sand containers on sloping sections of the trail, do-it-yourself ice remedies.

My ice remedy is to stay off the paths. Now that our second snow has melted and our third has yet to fall, I took advantage of the mild weather to circle Reston’s oldest lake.

Unlike three weeks ago, when I snapped this shot, there were puddles and bird song and a sense of movement in the landscape.

Spring isn’t fully awake yet, but it’s beginning to stretch its arms and legs.

Yesterday I had coffee with a trail watcher, someone who lives near a Reston trail and knows its condition. “I’ve seen people walking their dogs on the trail,” she said. “I think it’s plowed.”

Did I speak too soon yesterday when I moaned about being trail starved? After all, I haven’t been driving around to all the trailheads in the area, checking their status. The Franklin Farm trails are certainly not plowed, and the Reston trails near Lake Anne were unreliable when I tried them last week.

So after we parted, with the odd snowflake flying in a blustery gray sky, I went in search of a nearby path to wander. And sure enough, one that wasn’t cleared last week was down to pavement.

How good it felt to amble among the trees again! There were a few stretches of black ice to avoid, but other than that, I was in business.

These are long days for walkers in the suburbs. Yes, we can walk on the roads. We can and we do. We can use ellipticals or treadmills in gyms or in our basements. Some of us (my neighbor, in fact) traipses around her house when everything else fails.

But what we cannot do (unless we have snow shoes) is walk on a trail. My neighborhood and many of the developments around me have no sidewalks. What they do have, though, are paths, often paved.

Finding these and using them has lifted my heart and put a skip in my step. Trails have given me what I didn’t think was possible when we first moved here — a walking life. A way to make my way on foot from one place to the other.

But for almost three weeks now the trails have been off limits; more ice rinks than paths, and I’m logging miles on the main street in my neighborhood. I’m still putting one foot in front of the other, propelling myself through space. But I’m trail starved. I can’t wait to be back.

(If I’m going to imagine a trail walk, I might as well make it summer.)

The snow bricks are shrinking, the berm crud is thinning, and the road is widening. But not enough. Motorists still hesitate to cross the yellow line. Sometimes they can’t, because there’s a car on the other side. Other times, they just don’t.

Walking in the suburbs has never been more fraught. The trails I frequent are a slick, icy mess. Which means I’m forced to do all my walking in the neighborhood, along the side of the road. Some drivers seem reluctant to move over to give me a safe-enough berth.

I think it’s just rule-following, of which I’ve been guilty, too. But as a walker in the suburbs, I’m hoping cars cut us more slack these winter days. The gravelly stuff along the road is like quicksand, and walkers can’t exactly hop out of the way when they’re striding alongside a five-foot-tall mountain of snowcrete.

The cars that do cross the line have my fervent thanks and appreciation. As for the rest of them, I’ll paraphrase Robert McCloskey and say … make way for walkers.

(The cover of Make Way for Ducklings, from which I borrowed the title of this post.)