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Category: walking

Comey Walk

Comey Walk

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There is the quiet walk: no earphones, mind open to bird song and insect chirp.

There is the musical walk: with Brahms or Bach or Simon and Garfunkel.

And then there is the Comey walk. That’s what I’ve been taking the last few days. It’s a subset of the all-news walk, and it consists of the following: what will he say, what did he say, and now, what will happen because of what he said.

This is not the most restful soundtrack for an early-morning stroll. But it’s an itch that must be scratched. As soon as I returned home this morning I picked up the newspaper. Now I’m reading about what Comey said. At least I’m consistent.

Power of the Path

Power of the Path

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Diana Nyad has traded her swimmer’s goggles for a pair of tennis shoes. The long-distance swimmer and her best friend and colleague Bonnie Stoll aim to get Americans off their posteriors and on their feet. To aid in this endeavor, they have created a movement called EverWalk.

Pointing out that “sitting is the new smoking” (a phrase coined by Dr. James Levine, who invented the treadmill desk), Nyad and Stoll implore Americans to sign a pledge to walk three times a day. Even if it’s just a few steps down the block, they say, it’s a beginning. More avid walkers can sign up for long-distance walks. There will be one from Boston to Cape Elizabeth, Maine, this September.

One of the things I like best about walking is the quiet alone time it gives me — but I’m certainly open to the social aspect of walking and the power of the group hike. I like to imagine a wall of walkers striding across the land. They are strong and they are true. And they are not sitting.

Walk through the Gloaming

Walk through the Gloaming

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These are long days that know how to finish. Light lingers till 9, and tempts the walker to stroll at a time she would normally be getting ready for bed!

Last night was like that. Dinner out with Ellen, then, on the way back to the parking garage, a thought: Why not a quick walk on the W&OD Trail, a 45-mile ribbon of asphalt from the D.C. suburbs to the foot of the Blue Ridge. It’s easy to reach from Reston Town Center, and, as it turned out, only a few steps from my car. 
It was 8:40 when I started, but the light that seemed abundant when I began drained quickly as I walked  first west then east. The W&OD closes at dusk, but that meant nothing to long-distance bikers with their powerful headlamps, or to the rest of us, either, who sauntered at a twilight pace.  It was good to walk through the gloaming.
Mountain Walk

Mountain Walk

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Less than two hours west is a different world, one bound by green and dripping boughs. Chalets on the hillside, mountain paths, water trickling over rocks. I won’t glorify these trickles by calling them waterfalls. But the water sings as it flows over stones and through leaves, so these trickles have an aural presence.

Some of the lanes here are paved and some not. Foot paths cross them, heading up the mountain. I may tackle one of them today. But yesterday was a get-acquainted stroll. The end of a long week.

I marveled as I strolled at how much difference a walk can make. And a mountain walk makes even more.

Waltzing Along

Waltzing Along

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A ho-hum evening after days of cloud and rain. A walk that’s uninspired, plodding. The houses hold no surprises, and the clouds are uniform, without color or texture.

The music in my ears is plodding, too. Tunes heard too often. A switch to news makes little difference.

And then my ears hit the jackpot, a change of tempo. It’s a waltz. Not an obvious one or a schmaltzy one,  but I’d recognize 3/4 time anywhere. I find myself counting 1,2, 3; 2,2,3; 3,2,3.  Almost hypnotic, that beat. And liberating, too.

It’s like a transfusion. I pick up the pace, I loosen the shoulders. My arms swing more freely by my side. And soon I’m on the downhill slope, toward home and dinner.

Internal Dialogue

Internal Dialogue

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As national events heat up and the news changes by the minute, I’m tuning my headset to news stations as I hoof it.  It’s not the calm strolls I usually crave, but it makes for some brisk walks and some fascinating internal dialogue.

“How could he?” “Will they really?” “Oh yeah?” “We’ll see about that.”

These conversations take place only in my head, but they are stimulating in their own way.

Walking and talking: It’s the way it is now.

Walking Early

Walking Early

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An early walk this morning as the day began. Quiet and dim when I started, flashlight bobbing, illuminating the pavement, but often off, too, so I could savor the darkness before the dawn.

Only one car about at such an hour, for newspaper delivery; otherwise, mechanical stillness to match the natural kind.

I heard crickets, inhaled the scent of newly cut wood and freshly mown grass. And then, finally, a chirp, the first bird.

By the time I got home, the sky was light, the lone bird was a chorus and night had turned to day.

Walking the Apple

Walking the Apple

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In a few hours I’ll board a train that will take me up the Northeast Corridor to a journalism school reunion. Well, it won’t take me directly there. I’ll land at Penn Station, hop on a subway to 96th Street, check into the hotel, then walk, walk, walk wherever my feet will take me.

Maybe to Central Park, which should be lovely this time of year.  The Reservoir Path is nice, or I could dip south to the Sheep Meadow. There will be the castle and the Great Lawn and the arbor and the Ramble.

Later there will be lectures and panels, receptions and dinners. There will be classmates I haven’t seen in years.

But before that, there will be the walk.

Slipping Out

Slipping Out

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Last evening I slipped out at dusk, wearing tennis shoes, office clothes and a rain jacket the color of twilight. It was too late to change into sweatshirt and tights. There was time only for the leaving.

And so I forgot the trappings, the music on a string. I bolted before the moment and the impulse left me. Open on my screen was an article, mind food. Beside me a book of poetry.

They would wait. The walk would be something else, I knew, nourishment of a different kind.

Second Beginning

Second Beginning

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A pre-dawn walk today in a light rain, Cyclops-eye blazing, cap and a hood to keep the drops at bay. These early outings merge into dreamscape. Did I really don shoes and socks and walk to Fox Mill Road and back? Or was that another walk, another day?

By the time I left the house this morning the day had lightened and the rain was steadier. The pink dogwood lifted its arms gracefully on one side of the yard, and the white dogwood took my breath away. In between were ferns, azaleas and forget-me-nots. The familiarity of the spring garden.

It seemed a different day than one hour earlier. A second beginning.