A Word On Walking

Since walking is something most of us often engage in, I'd like to express a few thoughts on the subject. I'm not talking about power walking or that competition in the Olympics where skinny Finnish people wave off proffered water bottles while ensuring their heel and toe touch the ground every step for twenty kilometers.

I'm talking about grabbing your car keys off the dresser, calling to your wife, "I'm ready," then pacing in the front hall for nine minutes until Suzy descends the stairs, opens the door, and beats you to the car by sixteen feet. That's right: I said "beat." Because although it's not a race (sorry, Finland), I can't help but feel I've come in second. Unless we're with a friend, in which case I'm third.

What most people fail to grasp about walking is that humans have different leg lengths. Not "my left leg is shorter than my right," but "my legs are a different length than Suzy's." I'm not married to Lynda Carter (star of the TV series "Wonder Woman" and now a successful cabaret singer) or similar statuesque creature. But Suzy has lengthy legs. I myself am 5'4" tall, average height (for a male of Southern European descent), and I believe my legs are of a correspondingly normal length.

Yet the prospect of heading to the car (never mind a proper walk) has, over the years, become demoralizing. Walking with someone doesn't merely involve moving your legs up and down for a given period of time, but checking periodically to see if your walking buddy is still with you.

Think of walking as making love. Obviously, you do a lot more of the former each day than the latter, but if you do it with someone, don't be selfish. Striding way ahead, then turning impatiently and noting, "There you are," is the equivalent of calling out an ex-lover's name in bed. Losing sight of your walking partner and then querying, "Where were you?" is the same as firmly clamping your eyes shut, satisfying your own desires, and then rolling over to read a book that's not even good. Would you ask a sexual companion why parts of his or her body are a certain size? Then don't ask someone trailing eight stores behind you in a pedestrian mall, "What happened to you?" Because you know what happened to that person? He or she was born with short legs. Or possibly not even short legs, but shorter legs. Not everyone's Wilt Chamberlain.

The level of societal insensitivity on this issue is astonishing. We've installed enough wheelchair ramps, squash-court-sized bathroom cubicles, and sturdy aluminum handrails in the past twenty years to make a visiting Martian think every inhabitant of America is "differently abled," but no one gives a fig about leg length.

Here are things I no longer do even when cajoled by well-educated friends who earn healthy incomes and promise to buy me lavish meals afterwards: climb mountains, frequent Six Flags, Busch Gardens, or either Disney, attend professional sporting events, county fairs, or shop at Wal-Mart.

A day at the shore last summer was particularly traumatic despite my taking numerous precautions. I selected a beach with a hefty entrance fee in hopes of reducing the number of cars in the lot. I further insisted that Suzy and I meet our three friends (6'4", 6'2", and 6'1") early in the day to minimize the walk from car to water. Nonetheless, upon arrival we must have seen a good 700 automobiles. We then spotted our tall trio waving wildly at the edge of the lot closest to the ocean.

"They've already found a space," said Suzy, "why don't you drop me, park, and we'll wait for you." "Maybe there's a free place near them," I ventured. My wife stared at me as if I had suggested a third term for Bush. "Who leaves the beach at 10 a.m.?" she scoffed. "All available parking spaces are far away." "Right," I nodded grimly, "I know." I dutifully left her with our friends, parked, and reached them as quickly as I could. "What took you so long?" asked the tallest when I showed up. Suzy eyed my sweaty, reddened face: "Have you been running?" "No, no, I'm fine," I replied, doubling over and wheezing. "Good," came a hateful male voice, "You can take the cooler."

We set off together on a sandy path, but by the first dune, the four of them were a bobbing burble of laughter a football field ahead of me. At the snack stand, they appeared as a joshing, heartless cluster of humanity on the horizon. When I saw the first beach umbrella, they'd vanished. Like Ralph Fiennes carrying Kristin Scott Thomas through the desert in "The English Patient," I strode under that merciless sun, panting and toting the cooler. When I finally caught sight of them amidst the crowds at the water's edge, they looked up from their sand castle. "There you are," they blurted in unison. "What happened to you?"