Browsed by
Category: walking

Plalking?

Plalking?

Yesterday I read about a new trend that started in Sweden. It’s called plogging, which comes from “jogging” combined with “plocka-uppa” (Swedish for pick up). The idea is simple. You take a trash bag along on a run and collect the odd plastic bottles and cigarette butts you encounter. Disposable gloves are recommended.

Translate this to walking and you have “plalking” — or do you?

I care about the environment and have even been known to pick up a bit of errant trash. But I can’t see turning my fast walks into scavenger sessions. It’s about the rhythm, you see.

The cadence of the stroll is a large part of its magic. Take that away and you have … beach combing.

Musical Measure

Musical Measure

The other day I walked exactly as long as it took to listen to Brahms’ “Variations on a Theme by Haydn.” Then I turned around, walked back and listened to the same piece again. Eighteen minutes down and 18 minutes back. Adding a couple minutes on each end for the turn-around and the cool-down made it a 40-minute walk, three to four miles.

It was simple. It was pure. It was exquisite. At least the musical part.

Usually my walks are prescribed by geography — to the end of the neighborhood and back — or by time — 15 minutes out and 15 minutes back. Measuring the walk by music was deliciously different: organic and thematic.

I don’t always have the freedom for a musical measure, but it’s something to aspire to.

Doves in Love

Doves in Love

Yesterday’s damp chilly walk was full of birdsong and the smell of fresh earth. I’d already heard spring peepers, and then I spied a pair of mourning doves. More signs of spring. They sat on the road until a car was almost upon them, then flew away together into the gray sky.

Mourning doves are also called rain doves, which may be why there were out and about yesterday.

And it was a good day to be out and about. A light drizzle fell, but the earth was alive in a way it hasn’t been recently. No more cold, frozen ground.

As the body moves through space, thoughts move through the mind, and what was cluttered is suddenly cleared, as if a plump bird swept away the cobwebs with its swift wing.

Recipe for Improvement

Recipe for Improvement

The strolls through Arlington are becoming commonplace. Some days I walk two Metro stops up the line, others four. Last night it was two, and when I descended into the tunnel I could see a train coming. I was “lucky.” There had been a switch problem earlier and trains had been single-tracking most of the evening. The next train was due in 16 minutes (a lengthy interval at rush hour even for this dysfunctional system).

Can I do justice to the inward groan that greets a packed-full subway car at the end of a long day? Inward howl is more like it. A clown car’s worth of people piled out at Clarendon, but still it was shoulder to shoulder. But what’s this? I spied a tiny space, enough for me to step in and find a pole to hang onto. At least I had only six stops left. Many riders had been sardined in there for double, triple that.

It was one of those days, major cuts proposed to the State Department and Department of Agriculture, cuts that will no doubt never be enacted but which underline the difficulties of living here. Remind me again … oh, yeah, I work here, we work here. And now the girls work here, too.

Only one thing to do: Get home as quickly as possible and change into comfy clothes … then do something to make the world go away:
make dinner
hang out in the kitchen
bounce on the trampoline
write in my journal
watch the Olympics
talk on the phone
read a good book
hug Copper

… And hope tomorrow (today) is a little bit better!

Clarity at Clarendon

Clarity at Clarendon

It’s been a strange winter — cold scouring winds that hurl sticks and limbs onto frozen ground followed by one-day warm-ups that leave us longing for spring.

When the weather cooperates, as it did yesterday, I take my new walk through Arlington on the way home.

And last night, for the first time, I found my way with no backtracking. This seems like something I should have been able to do first time around, but after Clarendon, three streets come together in a strange intersection, and the middle of the three, the one I needed to find, looks more like a parking lot than an avenue. There are plenty of directional errors waiting to happen in that neighborhood — even with phone directions in tow — and each time I got turned around I would make a new mistake.

But yesterday, it was light enough that I found the street I needed. And it was as I had imagined it: the way that had been muddled was suddenly made clear. I love it when that happens.

A Walker in Afghanistan

A Walker in Afghanistan

If I lived in a war zone I would probably walk, crunch and use the elliptical. The stress relief would be worth the tedium, or even the danger.  So I get why people wear their fitbits when they’re in harm’s way, especially if they’re gadget geeks who want to measure their workouts.

But I don’t get why they share their data with a fitness sharing app called Strava, which then posted the whereabouts and movements of their customers in a heat map available for all to see. So by clicking on a route called Sniper Alley outside the American base in Kandahar, Afghanistan, you could find the names and hometowns of those who use it. Combine this with some basic Googling and you have a trove of information.

I first read about this oversight yesterday, how it was discovered almost by accident by a college student in Australia. Why didn’t someone realize sooner that this technology could be used to reveal troop movements, the identifies of agents and so much more sensitive information?

Sharing data is a way to personalize technology, to humanize it.  But whatever is shared can be abused.

I hate to admit it, but in a world of smart cars, smart appliances and smart houses … we’re going to have to start reading, really reading, those privacy statements. And companies who collect sensitive data must do a better job of telling us how and when they use it.

Otherwise we may find ourselves walking in Afghanistan — with sniper guns trained on us.

(Photo: Washington Post)

A Walker at Pemberley

A Walker at Pemberley

Over the weekend I watched one of my mainstays, the Pride and Prejudice miniseries that debuted in 1995 and never grows old.

What struck me this time around is how much time Miss Elizabeth Bennett spends traipsing around the countryside. She walks in all weathers and all terrains. She walks in the cold and the rain. She dirties her petticoat and muddies her shoes. She walks around the estate at Pemberley, where she runs into its owner, Mr. Darcy, fresh out of the lake and dripping wet.  It’s a scene to thrill every female English major’s heart!

Later, in dry clothes, Darcy escorts Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle around the estate, along crushed stone paths, through copses of trees. This all could have been mine, Elizabeth said to herself on an earlier tour of the house, having second thoughts about spurning Darcy’s proposal as she reevaluates his character — and his property!

But the quiet walk the couple shares bodes well for the future. And as the camera pans out, we see the placid beauty of the English countryside. I saved the last two episodes for another night. But I know this: One day Miss Elizabeth Bennett will be a walker at Pemberley.

(Lyme Park, Cheshire, where the lake scene was filmed.)

Frosted Fields

Frosted Fields

Woke up this morning to whitened grass and blue birds flocking to the feeder, to the black-and-white-striped, red-headed downy woodpecker pecking at the suet block. It’s not walking weather, not yet.

A few more hours so the temperature rises past 19, so my breath won’t blind me. A few hours of mental exercise before the physical.

In the meantime I sit here in the dining alcove, as close to the backyard as I can be and not yet in it, itching to be outside.

Just My Line

Just My Line

You can have your lefts and rights, your ups and downs, your diameters and perimeters. Give me the diagonal every time.

There’s nothing like a diagonal route for cutting corners, for shaving minutes off a stroll. Even these birds like it — though they hardly need it, seeing as they can get anywhere they want as the crow flies.
I was thinking of diagonals today as I walked to work, how I hold the destination in my mind and figure out ways to make it closer, as if I could leap there in a few steps instead of a hundred. 
It’s an impatient line, the diagonal is. That’s why it’s perfect for me.
New Walk, Continued

New Walk, Continued

The new walk is becoming a habit, the perfect way to unwind at the end of the day. I jump off the bus at one Metro stop, but walk two more stops up the road before boarding a train. The key word is “up.”

It’s about a mile from Rosslyn Metro to Clarendon Metro, but that doesn’t include the elevation gain, a number I’ve yet to locate but which feels mighty big when you’re hoofing it with a laptop at the end of a long workday.

One might be tempted to lag behind, like this little guy. But this little guy does not realize that Le Pain Quotidien is only a few blocks away — and that their crusty baguettes can be gone by 5:45. Nothing like a little French bread to put a skip in your step.

Though I fantasize about townhouses I pass along the way (so cute, so close in!), my walk leads not to a quaint bungalow — but a subway platform.  Not always as crowded as this one, I’m happy to say. But a subway platform just the same.