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Show 4?J t 'IMjW jfW byTerl Gomes There's a kind of walk, you walk My legs and I have a long-standing argreement I want to walk someplace and they take me. Last week I encountered a mutiny of sorts with those trusty limbs and upon careful reflection, I think I can see why they folded the way they did. A little background is in order. For those of you who are not frequent readers of this column let me tell you I am not what anyone would ever refer to as a jock-type. Dr. Schwenk once told me after some problems with my ankle that it would be all right, but I'd never run ten miles a day on it. That was quite a relief for me, as I had never wanted to run ten miles on that ankle, or the other one. You will never find me taking up your space on the tennis court, either. Although I do have a pair of shoes that for some strange reason I refer to as tennis shoes, they have never chased a fuzzy little ball in their lives. No, what I like to do is walk. Mother brags I did this at an early age and I've been successful at the practice all my life. Besides counting on my feet and legs to take me to my appointed appointments day to day, I have for most of my life learned the true therapy in walking, just for the sake of heading nowhere. When you walk, your parents seldom walk with you and my sister never walked with me. When I was growing up, I knew the hills around my home town well. I knew secret paths home from school and shortcuts to the neighborhood store. I knew which neighbors didn't mind if you picked an occasional loquat from their tree and who had dogs you wanted to walk past quickly. I would walk when I was confused, or lonely, or angry, or when I just wanted to get out of the house. I was always "going for a walk." Walking just for myself is a habit producing such peace and pleasure and really I don't think it is overly hazardous to my health that I've never tried to quit. In college, I would finish my classes on the strange campus hundreds of miles from my home and I'd walk around the little college town wondering if I'd ever fit in. Beaches have always been my favorite place to walk. You can dig your toes in the sand or cling onto rocks as you catch the spray of the water on your face or listen to the gulls chatter. Perhaps you have noticed, Park City has no beaches. Nonetheless I have learned to find different paths for different seasons in town. I can watch over a period of time how certain gardens like Bill and Karen Coleman's start out small and by now are full, multi-colored bloom, I can enjoy the little bridge and rock wall at the far end of the Racquet Glub condos. Tiger lilies and daisies share the space with the rocks and the water and the ducks. Since my friend, Jana Cole, knows I walk anyway, she invited me last week to join her early morning rapid-walking group. I knew in my heart of hearts this was a form of exercise, but I thought since I'd been a , walker for years I could keep up. I purchased a pair of those weights called "heavy hands" to take on my walk, since this seemed to be the preferred equipment. There were six of us who walked around Park Meadows last week before anyone including the hot air balloons were up. Three walkers took off at such a rapid clip, right off I knew I would never be able to keep up. And the walking was just the half of it! These amazing women were able to speed talk as well as speed walk. They were just far enough ahead that all I could do was catch snatches of conversation... "I don't think she's going to stay with"... "So, then she said"... "Have you seen the house they bought?" Soon, the gap was too great to hear anything but a constant hum from the group in the lead. Jana Cole and Nancy Witt hung back with me but walked and swung their heavy hands at a pace to which I had never pushed my limbs in my life. My heavy hands adapted a strange rhythm with my own heavy thighs. (These you do not purchase. These take years of careful feeding and neglect to achieve the desired granola gam effect. ) After 45 minutes of walking as rapidly as I could and covering more miles than I would have on my own in hours of strolling, we approached the block near my house and I peeled off from the group. I have to admit I felt pretty good that day. I had a lot of energy and after all that exercise I knew I had a license to eat like a pig. The next morning, I woke up and groaned. My husband, thinking this was some kind of hint, reached over to give me a little pat on the fanny. I groaned louder. He rolled closer. And before he reached out to pat again I glared at him in such a way he knew. He rolled out his side of the bed, threw on his robe and said in that male I've-been-rejected voice "What is it!?" "My legs, my rear. Oh God, I think it was the walking yesterday." He looked slightly disgusted and headed to the shower. Looking back, it did sound like a rather weak excuse. The whole rest of the day was misery and I had a lot of walking I needed to do. I walked into the Marsac building to head to the radio station and I saw what I thought detective Lloyd Evans in a Miami Vice kind of outfit: Tight jeans and a tropical print shirt. The pain was clearly making me delirious. The next thing you expected expect-ed to see was Police Chief Bell in a uniform. I hurried downstairs. Once in the station, I shared my sufferings with Susan Finegan. She looked at me as though I'd truly lost my mind. "You did what?" Then she explained to me her theory on the differences between men and women. "Women are meant to be rounder and softer," she explained. "You cannot accomplish that by strenous exercise. You must find a chaise lounge to recline in. You must find a semi-trashy book to read in the chaise and you must have a glass of something chilled to sip in the hot afternoon sun." Having said her piece, she returned to the no-nonsense work of the KPCW pledge drive at hand. And it struck a vein with me that there was a certain wisdom in her words. Yet, I know I need to have fewer round soft parts then I do at present. So, I went home, still in pain, and pulled out the chaise. I got the latest People magazine and tall glasses of lemonade. And then I slipped on the heavy hands. Every time I turned a page or picked up the glass, those weights were working. The next morning I took a stroll on my own. I saw the daisy bush at Susan Badami's house and the bright wind sock at the Stedman's. And my legs moved along at their own, unforced pace, reminding me they were, once again, in charge. - |