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Lights, Camera, Not Much Action I thought it might be neat to put together a light-hearted video describing my plan to walk across Virginia. Dawn, good sport that she is, agreed to act as my cameraperson and we drove down to Virginia Beach to shoot the film. I figured the boardwalk would be the best place to find some willing hard bodies to act as foils in the scene I envisioned�namely, with them mocking my attempts. I put togther a short script and we rehearsed and blocked until we knew what we were doing. Finally, we were ready to perform. Unfortunately, so was the band on the stage just across from us. Moseying down the boardwalk, we found a space where we wouldn't have to compete with the background noise. It was at this moment that jets from Oceana decided to practice their aerial maneuvers. We waited them out and began our search for a couple of victims�I mean, actors. On the beach beside us was a foursome of hard bodies playing frisbee. Perfect! I approached one of the guys and told him what we needed. He and his girlfriend were pumped to do it, saying they'd get "all Baywatch on me." The problem came when I explained the scene called for them to run on the boardwalk, not the sand, which they couldn't do because they had no shoes with them. I was sad for a moment, but then I recalled my mantra ("I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet...and stole his shoes") and moved on. I was certain replacements would be easy to find, and sure enough, there were a couple of fit guys sitting on a boardwalk bench. I approached and gave them my best spiel. They stared at me with one of those looks that says either "I don't quite get what you're saying" or "What is it you're trying to sell me?" But they weren't shooing me off, so I kept up with the pitch, hoping one of them would finally agree to be my video comrade. After minutes of listening to my pleas, one of them finally said in a Slavic accent, "Vee speak leetle Eengleesh." Turns out they were already comrades. They were a pair of visiting Russians. Bill hard at work on the boardwalk 
On to my third attempt: two women walking down the boardwalk thought the idea sounded fun, but they didn't think it would be wise for them to appear in the video because of their positions (they were teachers). The fourth couple I approached just plain weren't interested. But the fifth couple said yes. Woo hoo! We did a couple of walk-throughs with them and then did our first take. Everything seemed to go well until we tried to review the video and found that our battery was dead. Sigh. Some days it just doesn't pay to get up.Of course, Dawn tried to blame me for this one. That's so like her. I calmly explained how it was her fault because she was, after all, the cameraperson. Even if I did supply the camera. After she beat me into submission with my dead camera, I acquiesced and said she could blame me if that made her feel better. What can I say. I'm a gentleman. Keeping me Grounded Over the past year, I've built my walking endurance up to withstand many miles, but I haven't done a lot of work on speed. Speed is something my friend, Bill Walsh, cherishes. It sometimes irks me that I can't catch the old Jarhead. Not only is he 20 years my senior, he also stands a full head shorter than me and his misproportioned body combines the short legs of a Shetland pony with the torso of Clydesdale. His top walking speed eclipses anything I've been able to achieve, no matter that my legs are stilts by comparison and one of my strides equal two of his. When Walsh was in prime walking form he would churn his stumps at the blurring speed of a turbine engine and I swear I could see a contrail forming in his wake. So, a few weeks ago after I had done a fairly fast 5-mile walk, I sauntered over to Walsh's house to brag a little bit. On average, I'd been walking 5 miles in 1 hour and 34 minutes; but that particular morning I had chopped seven minutes off my time, more than a minute per mile. It was a lovely day so Bill suggested we sit outside. I strutted around his porch for a bit with my chest puffed out before finally sitting. "Okay, Glose," he said. "What have you done now?" Instead of coming right out with it, I wanted to string him along and prolong my triumph. "How fast do you think I turned five miles this morning?" I asked. "Well, if you really want to impress me, I suppose you'll say something like an hour and twenty minutes." Walsh always knows just what to say when my head starts getting too big. In that way, he grounds me. Then when I'm down on the ground he kicks me in the gut a few times. It's a dirty trick he learned in the Marines. I sat there like a kid with a deflated party balloon and we chatted about inanities. But all the while I was thinking about what he'd said. Without realizing it, Walsh had thrown a gauntlet down before me and I had accepted the challenge. Sometime soon I would beat 1:20 on a five-mile walk. Today, I decided, was the day. I felt good and strong this morning and took off fast. I would need to reach my turnaround point at 40 minutes if I was on pace, but I looked at my watch and saw the bad news: 41:40. I was more than a minute-and-a-half behind. That meant I would have to cut a little more than 3 minutes off my time on the back end (1:40 faster to make pace and an extra 1:40 to make up for going too slow in the first half). Tough, but doable. I cranked up the speed and started calculating in my head. 1:20 for 5 miles would be 8 minutes every half-mile. If I could reach the point that was 1-� miles from my house with an elapsed time of 56 minutes, I knew I would be back on pace. I hit the point at 56:52. Off the mark, but close enough to realize I could make it. From that point on, I was pumping my arms like an Olympic sprinter, waddling as fast as my tree-trunk legs could move. Down the final stretch of my street, I thought I was going to make it or come darn close. I expected my time to be a few seconds over or under target, but when I crossed the finish line my watch read 1:17:30. I had shattered the time by a full two-and-a-half minutes. I had to tell Walsh. I called him up and wasted no time giving him the news. He took it in and offered his congratulations. "Now that's something," Walsh said. "Someone as big as you are shouldn't be able to move that fast." As I said, he always knows just what to say. Lions & Tigers & Pirates, Oh My! 
Okay, this doesn't have anything to do with walking, but I want to share it with you anyway. Two years ago, Dawn and I dressed up like pirates for Halloween. Dawn's getup was pretty snappy, but mine consisted of a king-sized black sheet fashioned into a muumuu with a red and white dickey sewn into the neck. I felt like Andre the Giant in a holocaust cloak. Rounding out the outfit was a pirate's hat and some party beads from New Orleans (I won't say what I had to do to earn those). Anyway, Dawn came over to my house and we sat out on the porch to pass candy out to all the little urchins. Halloween is one of those times of year that gives meaning to the phrase It is better to give than to receive. With the long line of children begging and groveling before me, I got to act like a beneficient king doling out gifts to the peasants. I was regal, magnanimous, and all-powerful...at least until "The Incident" occurred.Here's what happened: One of the kids who approached my door was a cute little ballerina, simply adorable. But when she saw the scary fat guy on the porch she transformed into a wailing banshee. For such a small kid, she sure had some lungs.
It's been many years (and therapy sessions) since then. I haven't gotten over my fear of ballerinas yet, but I have stopped wetting my bed. Best of all, the ugly incident hasn't diminished my love of pirates. Which is a good thing, because this weekend was the Blackbeard Festival in downtown Hampton. I drove out in the afternoon and knew it was going to be a good day as soon as I arrived. Someone pulled out of a parking spot on the street just as I was approaching (cha ching!), so I didn�t have to inch through the slow-moving traffic headed for the parking lots. I roamed about the various venues and even took a tour of a pirate vessel. I did get scolded when I stepped up on a container to take a picture of a carving on one of the rails, but that wasn't enough to dampen my spirits. There were gobs of tacky trinkets for sale and scores of food tents, which I avoided (yea me). There were also plenty of lasses in low-cut peasant smocks, whom I didn't avoid (yea me again). There were, of course, paid actors posing as pirates for the crowd's amusement, but far more people people were dressed in pirate garb than those on the payroll. Pirate fever, it seemed, had overtaken the waterfront, with droves of scurrilous scallywags bandying about whilst braying �Arrgh,� "Aye," and �Shiver me timbers,� trying to sound like Captain Jack but coming off more like extras in a Monty Python sketch. Which is to say, a rollicking good time was had by all. It's been many years since I felt comfortable enough to go to an outdoor festival, both because of my appearance and the discomfort caused by standing or walking for any length of time. The latter is no longer a problem; I can stand or walk for hours now without my legs throbbing or my feet feeling like an anvil is resting on top of them. As for the former, I feel good enough about my appearance to be seen in public again. I mean, I know I've got a long way to go before I'll be proud of the way I look, but all the weight I've lost has just made me a happier person. I'm lighter on my feet, I've got some bounce to my step, and�yes, I'll say it�some shiver in me timbers. So avast ye landlubbers. I've got some living to do! Sweet Sixteen Three times since I started my walking program I have tried to walk 16 miles. There's magic in that number. It is the longest distance I have ever gone on foot before. The first time, however, was way back in my college days.
Although I didn't drop the weight, coach still let me practice with the team. I was a middle-distance runner specializing in the half-mile and my practices alternated with sprinters and distance runners. One day, I ran with the distance runners on one of their "long days." Big mistake. We did an out-and-back course, running 8 miles out before turning around to head home. The first 8 miles was fast, but I hung with the big boys in the front of the pack. I was bursting with pride. Then we turned for home and the only things bursting were my lungs. You see, the 8 miles we ran away from campus had been downhill�Virginia Tech is in the Blue Ridge Mountains�and, to paraphrase Newton, what goes down must come back up. Long after the pack had returned home (and probably after they'd showered, changed clothes, and eaten) my sorry butt finally shambled back to campus. I went straight back to my dorm and made a vow never to run again with those scrawny freaks on one of their "long days." Sentimental fool that I am, 16 miles holds a special place in my heart. I've aimed for that distance twice in the past couple of weeks and both times missed the mark. Today was attempt #3, but I was a little smarter about the process. I broke it up into manageable portions, walking 6 miles in the morning, 5 miles at noon, and another 5 in the afternoon. The sky was overcast at midday so the sun wasn't beating me down, and when the sun came out later I walked the Canal Walk through the woods behind the library, staying in the shade. I also nourished my body between legs, eating fruit and drinking water and Gatorade during each lull. Plus I had a sandwich after the second walk. Today I did something I haven't done since I was a teenager. I finished 16 miles. I didn't run it, as I had in college, and I didn't complete it all in one spurt. But I finished feeling a heck of a lot better than I did back then. A sense of pride and dignity welled within me that I hadn't felt in a long time, and if any of those twiggy runners had been there when I crossed the finish line, I would have rubbed their chiseled faces in it. Okay, so much for dignity...but I've still got pride working for me. And pride is good enough for now. Nice of You to Notice I've been hanging out in the same small crowd for a while, the same people day-in, day-out, and though their comments about my progress have been kind, they've been hedging a bit. They say things like: "You've lost some weight...haven't you?" or "It's really starting to show...I think." or "Get off my porch before I call the cops." But today I went to a meeting of the Christopher Newport University Writer's Conference Advisory Council (what a mouthful). I hadn't seen most of the other members in a few months and as soon as I walked in the door they were complimenting my svelteness. One of them even patted my gut and asked where it all went. I should have warned him about my tendency to lash out and beat into submission anyone who touches my midsection, a habit I picked up from dodging blubber-hunting whalers out in the Atlantic�but that's a story for another day. So, after I helped him up off the floor, dusted him off, and helped to set his broken arm, I thanked him for noticing. It truly was a great feeling. It's so easy to get caught in the trap of thinking I'm in a rut and not making progress even I really am. The friends who see me regularly get tired of making the same comments. I mean, if you had a friend who got hair plugs or breast implants there's only so many times you can comment on the change before you get slapped with a restraining order (or just plain slapped). Believe me, I know. So, to everyone who has seen me slogging down the streets and thought, "Finally, I can pass this guy without making a lane change," I say, "Thanks for noticing. Just don't touch my gut." I See Dead People You see a lot of interesting things walking the streets. Why, just this morning I passed by a dead body on the side of the road. Okay, he wasn't dead, but I didn't know that when I first saw him. I mean, when you're walking down the street and you see a person lying half on the road and half on the grass, sprawled out with a backpack strewn beside him, few explantions leap immediately to mind. This morning, I could only think of three: (1) He'd worn the wrong shoulder pack while skydiving, (2) he was a drunk sleeping off a bender, or (3) he'd been dumped there by the Mafia (sure, it's a long way from Jersey, but the Hudson River is full up). Turns out there was a fourth explanation. 
When I got closer I saw he was one of the goths from my neighborhood. I leaned over and tapped his shin a couple of times. "Hey," I said, "You OK?" At that point I could hear snoring. But it was the kind of fake snoring you hear when someone's just pretending. I don't know what the joke was, but I guess he got me. Zing.I felt embarassed and my brief moment of concern was quickly replaced with my usual sense of ornery bitterness. I wanted to boot my foot up his rear end or step on something tender, but I just shook my head and walked off. Discretion may be the better part of valor, but it sure isn't any fun. As I walked away I remembered the disheartened look I saw one time on a teenager's face when a friend of his mother's said she thought his outfit was "cute." If only I'd thought of that before. I could have leaned over his black-garbed, metal-studded body, tickled one of his ribs with my index finger, and said in the high-pitched tone of baby talk, "Who's a cute goth? You are! Yes you are! Gooby, gooby, gooby, goo!" Ah, if only. Direct Deposit 
A little more than two miles from my house, smack dab in the center of town, is a McDonalds. Back in the day (i.e., two months ago), I was a regular diner at McD's. Sometimes I'd stop in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, greasing my arteries with their special sauce, and other times I could go days before I needed my Mc-fix. It was hard kicking the fast-food habit, and for weeks I'd stare wistfully at the golden arches whenever I drove past. But I was strong. I ignored the urge to walk through their doors. Until today.This morning, I felt particularly chipper when I took off on my morning walk. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, the birds were chirping, and all seemed well with the world. At least until I got about a mile-and-a-half from home. That was when I felt a sudden urgent rumbling in my gut. The low-fat quesadillas I'd cooked up the night before were threatening to launch a comeback tour. I could deal with vomiting on the side of the road�that has a certain amount of manly dignity, leaving passersby to wonder what athletic extremes I'd undertaken to come to such a pass. But this "comeback tour" was a bodily function of another type, one that requires privacy, an interesting magazine, and a book of matches. I could turn around for home, but I was too far away to make it without incident. There were a few businesses on the side of the road, but it was too early on Saturday morning and they were all closed. And then I saw it, there in the distance, the giant yellow M. If I just held on for another half-mile, I could step inside the place that had given me so much�spare tire, cellulite, hardened arteries�and give them something in return. I closed the distance in record time, my intestinal fortitude weakening with every step. In one of those moments of precognition, I was certain the lone bathroom stall would be occupied. But, no, my ESP was off this morning, and it was vacant. When I exited the men's room, I nearly bumped into another man who eyed me suspiciously before veering off toward the front counter. My soaked shirt front must have given the impression I'd tried showering in there. But I was too relieved�physically and mentally�to worry about my appearance. I had to take off. My untrustworthy stomach and I were still miles from home with only footpower to close the gap. And there were no more bathrooms on the route. The Peninsula Campaign: Day One Poquoson to Hampton Three weeks ago I hatched a plan to walk from Yorktown to Williamsburg. I twice prepared to undertake this long walk, but was hindered by rainy weather. As the weeks passed and I completed longer and longer walks in my home town, I toyed with the idea and decided the single walk from Yorktown to Williamsburg wasn't long enough. I would walk across the entire Peninsula, starting in Poquoson and traveling from city to city. I intended to complete the first leg (Poquoson to downtown Hampton) this morning. But, as I girded myself for battle (i.e., I put on a reflective vest), thunder rumbled in the distance. I was frustrated. Every long march I'd planned so far had been stymied by one thing or another. No more, I decided. This morning, nothing would stand in my way. Not even Mother Nature. And so it began. At 4 o'clock this morning, I stepped out my front door and entered the dark. Fog draped houses and trees and the moon was sheathed in a greenish halo. The air was heavy and heat lightning popped in the sky like a photographer's flash bulb. I felt as if I'd stepped into a Sherlock Holmes novel and I was on the moors instead of in a quiet subdivision. The great thing about walking in pre-dawn darkness is that, for the most part, I have the road to myself. Many of Poquoson's narrow roads have little or no shoulders, and the space between the white line at the edge of the road and the ditch beside it is often no wider than one of my sneakers. When cars are passing, I have to walk heel-to-toe along that tiny space, tottering like some drunk taking a sobriety test. But this morning, I walked down the double-yellow line in the middle of the road and only had to veer aside a few times for traffic. When I was 4 miles from home and passing an entrance to NASA, the clouds finally wrung out their contents. It poured at first then lightened to a comfortable sprinkle for about a half-hour. I kept plodding forward, but my sneakers sloshed with every step and I knew I'd have to do something about it soon. In the satchel on my back were a dry tee shirt and a pair of socks (both in Ziplock bags), as well as a Nutrigrain bar and a quart-sized bottle of water. By the time the rain let up, I was approaching Parklawn Cemetary. I sat on one of the concrete benches and changed my socks. The sky was light now. I still couldn't see the sun�dark clouds blocked it from my view�but I knew it was there somewhere. As I sat there watching the sky and studying the grave markers, I ate my snack and drank my water. Then, it was back to the road. There was a smattering of traffic on the road but I didn't encounter another individual on foot until I entered downtown Hampton. Then I met a man in an undershirt who looked like he was stumbling home after a hard night of partying. I don't know if I was just giddy from being so close to the finish line or if I'm just a naturally devious person, but as I neared the man I said, "Can you help me? I'm on that TV show The Amazing Race and I'm looking for the Air and Space Museum. Is it this way?" He brightened right up at that. "Yeah," he said, pointing in the direction I was headed, "just keep right on going that way. You can't miss it!" Karma caught up with me quickly, for no less than 5 minutes later I encounted another fellow. This one was dressed in a light blue linen suit and he was clasping a Bible in one hand. He smiled at me and asked, "What is going on in the world?" I couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't spark a debate. Any pause, I figured, might lead to a lengthy discussion, probably centered on how I could be a better person if only I'd change my wicked ways. I prefer conversations about me to be filled with compliments and adulation, so I tucked in my chin and barreled straight ahead. The finish line was 11 miles from my front door at the home of my friend, Nancy. She has a lovely condo in Mill Point overlooking the harbor. I stretched my legs on her back deck and then sat in an Adirondack chair with a glass of ice water. A yacht was anchored in the middle of the harbor and the sun had finally come out from behind the clouds, reflecting light off the rippling waves. It was only 8 a.m. but I'd already had a full day. I can't wait for Phase II. The Peninsula Campaign: Day Two Hampton to Newport News After marching with a nylon sack on my back a couple of days ago, I borrowed a canvas knapsack to use on my next long walk. It had flaps with metal buckles and a leather thong that served as a drawstring�pure 60's kitsch. It may have been retro, but it was better than anything I had. I'd need the extra space too, because this time I was bringing a second pair of sneakers and a flashlight. At 2 o'clock this morning, I woke up and packed my gear. The weather forecast predicted 30% chance of showers; I'd just have to hope I would be walking during the other 70%. When I turned on my car, I heard "Play That Funky Music" from the speakers and knew I would be in luck. Sure enough, no rain fell on my head; I still got soaked, but it was self-induced sweat. I drove the 11 miles to Nancy's house in Hampton's Mill Point, marveling that I had walked it a couple of day's ago. Then I thought how today's walk would be even longer. This finish line from the first phase of The Peninsula Campaign would be my starting point for the second phase, which would carry me to my friend Terry's house in the Deep Creek section of Newport News. A 13-� mile hike. I hit the road at 3:12 and tried to get the pack settled in a comfortable position. Marching with the knapsack reminded me of my Army days, when we'd do at least one 12-mile forced roadmarch every few months. It's called a "forced" roadmarch because soldiers are forced to complete the march in four hours. The 3 MPH pace wouldn't have been too bad if it weren't for the 40-pound rucksack on our backs, the M-16 rifle in our hands, and the kevlar helmet on our heads that felt like a cast iron stove by the end of the march. By comparison, my 10-pound knapsack was a Twinkie. Even so, an amazed voice in my head spoke up, congratulating my effort: "You're doing this. You're really doing this!" The voice was as giddy as Sally Fields accepting an Oscar. A few miles in, I crossed a major street and noticed the neon signs of a bedding store on the other side. If only I hadn't seen it! But I had, and their jingle became stuck in my head. "Lay on it. Play on it...Have a good night's sleep on us. Have a good night's sleep on usssss. Mattress Discounters!" The jingle eventually receded and I slogged on until I hit the eight-mile point, where I took a 15-minute break at Game's Farmer's Market. The giant red barnlike building wasn't open yet, but I made use of a couple of apple crates in the parking lot. Plopping down on top of them, I changed my socks and shoes, ate my two snack bars, and drank my quart of water. I was a little stiff when I rose to continue, but the kinks worked themselves out in short order and my feet were happy to be dry again. A short while farther I stopped at an Exxon to buy a bottle of Gatorade. I'd stashed a five-dollar bill in a Ziplock so I wouldn't have to carry an extra quart of liquid until I was ready to drink it. Smart, eh? But the Exxon had a special where a second quart only cost an additional 20 cents, and I couldn't pass that up. Even if I had to tote it on my back. So much for my plan. Whether it's the weight of things on my back or the presence of things on the road, my perspective is drastically different when walking versus driving. For example, when I drive over an overpass in my car, the slope doesn't really register with me. Well, I noticed the hell out of the slope this morning. Or at least my thighs did. I had to cross a couple of overpasses and my thighs were screaming as I trudged up their long, slight inclines. My legs survived though, and after a little more than 4 hours of walking, I arrived at Terry's. As I turned the corner onto the last street and walked the final hundred yards to her house, I started to hear music in my head. If this were a movie, it would have been the theme song to Rocky. But this wasn't a movie and the song in my head began: "Lay on it. Play on it..." Damn you Mattress Discounters! The Peninsula Campaign: Day Three Newport News (Deep Creek to Port Warwick to Denbigh) I parked my car and started walking at 3:17 this morning. Even though I was going to do the same distance as yesterday (13-� miles), I could tell right away that today's hike would be tougher. Starting out in the Deep Creek area of Newport News, the road stretched out before me in a wavy ribbon. I knew from yesterday's hike that trekking uphill was killer on the thighs. I couldn't even enjoy the downhill portions because I kept thinking of Newton's Law of Universal Gravitation and realized that, when walking, the opposite was also true: What goes down must come back up again. Adding to my aggravation this morning were a few miscalculations I made along the walk. Since there were sidewalks most of the way, I didn't worry about staying on the side of the road facing traffic. Instead, as soon as I possibly could, I got over to the side where I would be I turning. My route crossed several main thoroughfares along the way, some of them merging together with on-ramps. It seemed whenever I approached one of these major intersections, I'd always be on a side where it looked like I was fixing to get squished by merging traffic. Each time I crossed over I'd discover (after passing the intersection) that VDOT had provided a crosswalk over the merging lane to the sidewalk on the shoulder. I had only one of those wrong-choice incidents yesterday. Upon reaching Warwick Avenue, I trotted to the other side, my spare tire bouncing with every step. Once I crossed over, I discovered the shoulder was tight and pedestrian-unfriendly. I would have noticed this if only I'd taken the time to scan the road ahead before crossing. But no, I didn't realize until I was standing on the teensy shoulder and looking back to side I'd just left, where a sidewalk ran beside the road as far as I could see. There was only one thing to do. I jogged and jiggled across one more time. I felt like a squirrel darting back and forth. A couple of guys on the sidewalk saw the whole episode and openly laughed at me. Hey, I aim to please.
It was 6:30 when I left Port Warwick, and I jinxed myself with a comment about the weather. I scanned the cloudy sky and said, "I'm glad it's overcast." I was thinking how I didn't want to hike for two more hours with the sun beating on my head. "Overcast with no rain," I told Patrice. "That's perfect!" Less than five minutes later the first raindrops pattered on my head and didn't let up until after I finished. I picked up the pace to try getting out of the rain and wound up getting a side-stitch cramp. It was the first one of those I'd gotten since I started walking more than a year ago. I'd downed more than a gallon-and-a-half of liquid yesterday, but I supposed I could have been dehydrated. I mean, with the distances I was walking I could have easily sweat out more than that. So, I listened to my body and slowed the pace. Better drenched than injured. It's amazing how the body reacts when you concentrate on it. As I wondered how various pieces and parts were doing, I realized I was hungry. My stomach wasn't growling, but it was definitely wanted some attention. And a side of bacon. Making matters worse, I was walking down restaurant row and Red Lobster was calling to me. My absolute favorite meal is their Cajun Chicken Linguini, only 1829 calories and 117 grams of fat. Of course, that's before eating a couple of baskets of their melt-in-your-mouth cheese biscuits. I can gain five pounds just from those delicious, cheesy treats. Then, to top it off, I'd order an alcoholic drink with my meal. I wish I could say it was something manly like a boilermaker or a scotch on the rocks; but no, I'd usually order one of those frou-frou drinks with salt on the rim or an umbrella sticking out of it. I blanked all that from my mind and focused on the road ahead. My stomach could whine all it wanted. A little hunger was fine; that was just fat leaving the body. My walk ended in the Denbigh section of Newport News at my friend Ann's house. She gave me some cold water and a handful of grapes. Maybe it was just because I'd been fantasizing about food for the last couple of miles, but those were just about the tastiest grapes I'd ever eaten. With my stomach satisfied I decided to listen to the rest of my aching body and take a break the next day. I'd earned it. I'd just completed back-to-back half-marathons! And then some! With a pack on my back! With my allotment of exclamation points used up, I changed into a dry shirt and hopped into Ann's car, already thinking about the next walk�the long hike up to Williamsburg. The Peninsula Campaign: Day Four Newport News to Williamsburg A large thunderstorm rolled through around midnight and woke me up for this morning's walk earlier than I'd planned. I couldn't get back to sleep so I went out to Denbigh to park my car in front of Ann's at 2 a.m. Fiddling with the knapsack, I pressed it against the steering wheel. If a mugger were to approach me right then, I hope I could muster enough machismo to yell something manly, but I probably would have just shrieked in the same falsetto I just used when the car horn blared. I consulted a map before this morning's walk, which was a good thing. I only knew one way to get from Ann's house to the main thoroughfare that would carry me to Williamsburg. But when I consulted the map I saw that I could take a shortcut that angled southwest to the highway, shaving a mile off the route. Now I only had to walk 14 miles. Way to go brain! It's nice to see I can count on you once in a while. You just saved me some agony of da feet. As I headed out, storm sewers gurgled with runoff beneath my feet. I saw the lights on at several houses and figured those people were still up from the night before, just finishing watching Late Night with Jimmy Kimmel or polishing off a box of wine and preparing to make a move on that special woman. Few, if any, of them were early risers like me: The Night Crawler. Hmm, sounds like I should be a superhero or something. And I could be one, too, if not for my aforementioned girlish shrieking. After I passed Newport News Park, there were no more businesses or streetlights; it was pure darkness. Occasionally my squeaking shoes would startle a sleeping deer and it would bound over some bushes and disappear into the woods. Used to walking in suburbia, the atmosphere was eerie. And it was in this surreal state that I happened upon Newport News Regional Jail, a sweaty fat guy ambling by in the dark wearing an orange reflective vest. I was just hoping a guard didn't see me and think I was an escapee. I could just imagine myself explaining that I was just walking up to Williamsburg. "Sure you are," he'd say, right before the twin darts of his taser bit into my chest. I stopped at a 7-11 after about 7 miles to both relieve and refresh myself. They had another two-fer special on Gatorade, so I loaded down. I chugged from one and put the half-filled bottle in my knapsack with the other quart I already had packed in there. The third quart I carried in my hand. Dehydration was one thing I wouldn't have to worry about today. As I neared the end, I felt strong; perhaps because of my day off yesterday or perhaps because I drank so much during this walk. I'll have to remember this and pack more liquid on my next long hike. At the penultimate turn in the road, a Michelob Ultra truck drove by, taunting me. I licked my lips and trucked on to the final turn. What I saw there was even worse: The Colonial Pancake House. And I could tell they were open because two police cruisers that had passed me earlier were parked there. The Visitor's Center was closed (it was only 6:30 a.m.) so I touched the door (that was my finish line!) and headed back for pancakes. In my head, I was explaining to a waitress that I wanted chocolate chips cooked into the pancakes, not laid on top of them, but my ride pulled up alongside and honked before the imaginary waitress could answer. My syrup-slathered rendezvous was foiled. Probably for the best. It's been so long since I've had chocolate-chip pancakes, I would have munched down the 3000 calories I'd just burned off and put my caloric register into the red for the day. Mmm, red like jelly smeared on top of delicious, fluffy pancakes. Oh well. Maybe next time. Fat-Boy Chicken There's still one more long march to go before I complete my Peninsula Campaign, but I thought it would be smart for me to wait for Monday morning. Since I walk in the wee morning hours to avoid the sun, there's a chance of bumping into a drunk driver if I walk on the weekend�or, more to the point, a chance that one of them might bump into me. I could just imagine shining my flashlight on some dude driving home from an all-night party and him viewing it as a call from the mothership. He would aim his Buick my way and yell out his window, "I knew you alien critters were real! Go ahead and beam me up, just be gentle with yer probes." So, I stuck to familiar and safer terrain, walking the Noland Trail on Saturday and staying in my home town on Sunday. I took off this morning at first light and chose a 6-mile route that skirted a long treeline for half of it, giving me plenty of shade. It was a fairly uneventful morning until I was about a half-mile from home and noticed another plus-sized individual walking my way. He was walking on the white stripe on the edge of the road, same as me, except he was walking with traffic and I was walking facing traffic. In other words, we were on the same side and headed for a collision. If I weren't on the right side of the road, I might have veered away�oh, who am I kidding? I was in one of those moods and was curious what would happen if I kept walking straight at him, which seemed his intention as well. As the distance separating us narrowed, I imagined a chest-bumping collision that was nothing like the sort you see on Monday Night Football. This would have been the earth-shaking impact you see when sumo wrestlers ram into each other, grunting and tugging at each other's jock straps. I remembered a right-of-way lesson my father had given me when I was learning to drive: The bigger load has got the road. Even if he's the one with the yield sign, when you're sitting in a yugo and he's riding in a dump truck, you'll live longer if you let him pass. My heft was a little more than that of the guy headed my way, a fact that might have occurred to him as well. At the last moment�honestly!�he side-stepped onto the grassy edge and shot me the evil eye. I met his scowl with a wink and a "Good morning" and marched on my merry way. I've been told that I'm a poor sport when I lose and even worse when I win. This morning, though, I was a gracious victor. I didn't start singing until I turned into my subdivision. Then I belted out a mangled version of Queen: I am the champion, my frieeeend. The Peninsula Campaign: Day Five Williamsburg to Yorktown The most beautiful stretch of road on the Peninsula, and perhaps the state, is the Colonial Parkway. Its 23-mile path ducks under arched brick bridges and runs through the forest from Jamestown to Williamsburg to Yorktown. The only time the road isn't cradled between walls of green is when the trees cut away to provide a breathtaking view of the York River.
On this undulating leg of my long walk, I begged help from my nephew Ryan. He not only dropped me off at the starting point in Williamsburg�at 3:30 a.m. no less!�and snapped a few pictures of me on the route, he also served as my one-man support crew when I pulled in for a pit stop. I think he's seen too much NASCAR. First thing he tried to do when I stopped was change my tire, and he couldn't understand why it wouldn't come off. Ryan met me 9 miles into the walk. I changed my shirt, socks, and shoes and gulped a quart of cold water from a cooler stowed in the car. It was only 5 miles to the finish line, so I left my pack with Ryan and took off with just a bottle of cold water in my hand. The pack might not weigh much, but without it my shoes felt they had springs in them. Now I know what it's like to be Tigger. It really is bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Though I didn't run into Tigger, I did see scores of fireflies winking at me and a dozen-or-so deer that halted their grazing when I approaced and bounded away into the woods, their fleet steps sounding like a flat rock skipping over water. On top of all that, the weather conditions were better than anything I could have scripted. During my previous leg from Newport News to Williamsburg, the air had been a muggy blanket, fogging my glasses and turning my shirt into a wet rag within the first twenty minutes. But the first 2-� hours of this walk had been calm and cool. the temperature was cool and the sky was clear. Sunrise came a little before 6 o'clock, but the sun stayed hidden behind clouds for the rest of my walk. Plus, a breeze rose out of nowhere and accompanied me for the remainder of my walk. Perfect weather. The deer, the weather, the springs in my shoes: everything was perfect...well, almost everything.
The finish line�aptly enough�was Surrender Field, the spot where Cornwallis surrendered his troops to Washington to end the Revolutionary War. I'm sure, however, the powers that be will rename the field after they read about my walk. It will be known from this day forward at "The Incredible Shrinking Field." You may now sing in adulation! If, however, it is renamed "Lost in the Dark Field," please keep your snickers to yourself. XXX-Rated Small, Medium, Large, Extra Large (XL) are the typical sizes you find on the rack in most stores. Some stores will even stock a few 2XL's. But few carry anything larger, which means I do my clothes shopping at one of the "marts" (K-Mart, Wal-Mart) or take a 3-hour roundtrip to visit Casual Male XL in Richmond. You see, I'm a 3XL and mart-trips are just one of the perks I enjoy. Or I should say, I was a 3XL. I wear Underarmour shorts beneath my regular shorts when I walk to prevent chafing. When I first started walking, they'd creep up my legs because they were too tight for the tree trunks I call legs. Then, after I lost significant weight, they fit fine. Recently, they've been creeping up my legs again, though this time it's because they're too loose to grab hold of anything. I considered the possibility that I'd stretched out the Lycra molecules so far they'd become Silly Putty. But digging through my dresser drawers, I found a smaller pair of stretchy shorts from long ago and those fit fine. Like a magician's rabbit, my thunder thighs had disappeared. Ta da! A 2XL shirt has been hanging on my bedroom doorknob for a while now. For inspiration. I tried it on this morning and it no longer clung to me like shrink wrap on a rump roast. Even so, it revealed too many lumps and bumps for me to wear in public. Fat guys prefer loose untucked shirts to cover bulges. It doesn't fool anyone into thinking we're runway models, but it does draw attention away from the area we want least to accentuate: our gelatinous guts. So�drum roll please�I have officially gone down a size. I am now XX-Rated. I'll still wear 3X's for a while and the same shirt will still hang on my bedroom knob, but it's nice to know it fits now. It's even nicer to know it will soon see the light of day. Then, it will be time to hang something else on the doorknob. Who knows, maybe even a Speed-O. An Ordinary Day
So, this new suggestion struck a chord with me. I could step all over the bully that had mocked me a few days before. I was in. And I wasn�t the only one. Since it was Saturday and I wasn�t planning to depart at some crazy hour in the morning, Dawn said she�d join me. Yorktown Beach was the planned kickoff point, so we drove there to scout the walk in mid-afternoon. I pegged the trip meter and we scooted along Route 17 onto the Coleman Bridge. Dawn commented on the steep slope as the car climbed but I was too taken with the breathtaking view along the river to care. It was majestic and I couldn�t help imagining what it was going to be like to walk along these wide shoulders and gaze out across the water in the early evening. It would be a Hallmark moment. Except Hallmark doesn�t make cards that say: �Sorry your walk was cancelled due to government regulations.� While I was busy admiring the view, Dawn noticed a sign posted alongside that beautifully wide shoulder I just mentioned. She slugged my arm and I looked where she was pointing: �No pedestrians.� Damn! If I couldn�t hike across the bridge, I would find somewhere else to go. It wasn�t just that the open road was calling to me. I had a new toy and I wanted dearly to use it. After finishing my Peninsula Campaign, I treated myself to a gift: a large, heavy-duty rucksack. My Kelty Red Cloud 5600 had earned a 4-� star-rating (out of five) from Trailspace.com, and I wanted to test drive those stars. No longer would unpadded strips of canvas dig into my shoulders and a soggy leaden lump rub against my back. This baby had padded shoulder straps, thick hip pad, a belly band and chest strap for stabilization, and more zippered pockets and tie-downs than I could count. Plus the frame boasted a mesh-covered lumbar support to keep the weight off my sweaty back. But first I had to find somewhere that could get my back sweaty.
We drove back to Gloucester Point to drop my car and begin our hike. The plan was Dawn would hike 4-� miles to Ordinary and I would turn around and come back to my car for a round-trip of 9. I was feeling giddy. Not only was I playing with my new hiking toy, but this was also the first time anyone had accompanied me on one of my long walks. Before we started hiking, I showed off a little bit, or at least attempted to, explaining rules of the road and so on. Dawn listened with the glazed over expression airplane passengers wear during the safety briefing. Finally, she asked, �But why should we cross over to the other side when there�s a nice wide shoulder over here?� �It�s much safer,� I insisted. �Come on. It�ll be fine.� It wasn�t. Problems started almost immediately. For some reason�drainage, we guessed, though we weren�t certain�the road shoulder facing traffic was a bed of fist-sized rocks. We ambled over the shaky surface, ankles twisting to and fro, then tried to skirt them. Unfortunately, the grass on that side was overgrown to knee-length. �Okay,� I said, �let�s go back.� We crossed over and found the shoulder was wide enough to fit a car and sequestered from traffic with a line of orange barrels. To Dawn�s credit she didn�t say, �I told you so.� She merely pointed out that it was as if we had our own lane to walk in. We chatted and walked at a leisurely pace. Even the ruck, which rode quite comfortably on my back, didn�t diminish the feeling we were just out for a late afternoon stroll. We sipped water from a quart-sized bottle I was carrying and when that was gone Dawn switched it out with one of the two others stowed in the side pouches on my ruck. Three miles into our walk, we stopped at a McDonald�s to use the restroom. I dropped my pack and we polished off the second bottle of water. When I tried to stow it, I discovered the first bottle was missing. Either Dawn had missed the side pouch entirely or she had slipped it inside the ruck. A quick search eliminated the latter option. This was disturbing. I wasn�t worried because she had somehow missed guiding a bottle into a pocket big enough to hold a rump roast�a fact I plan to tease her about mercilessly for many months to come�no, I was more concerned that the bottle had fallen to the ground beside us without either of us registering its impact. This was a strip of 55-MPH highway. We had to pay better attention than that. I was just telling myself to be more attentive when Dawn pointed down at my shoe. Before we had departed, I had taken pains to securely fasten my spare car key to my laces. I looked down and discovered the key was still there but the remote control security device was missing. Somehow, the metal ring on my key chain had loosened and the remote had come free. It was now lying amidst the rest of the roadside debris. Dawn didn�t suffer the same misfortunes. About a half-mile from her car, just after we passed Providence Road, Dawn found some passion plants growing on the shoulder. �Wow!� she exclaimed. �These are very rare.� �How provident,� I said, nudging her and pointing at the street sign. But Dawn wasn�t paying attention to me. She was too busy digging in the dirt. She stood and held out her prize: a gangly, weed-like stem with a pretty, pinwheel-shaped, purple flower at its terminus. �Hey,� she said. �This is fun.� We�d hiked four miles by that point and she had added to her inventory one item she found dear. Two, if you count the 13mm socket she�d picked up earlier. I, on the other hand, was minus two. If this trend kept up, I�d be walking naked after a few more hikes and Dawn would be rich from selling loot on Ebay. �Yeah,� I replied. �Loads of fun.� When we reached Dawn�s car, we snacked on Fig Newtons and drank cold water from a cooler. The sun had just set and Dawn had to work in the morning, so she hopped in her car and drove off while I rucked up for the second leg of my journey. I was expecting the return journey not to be as pleasant as the first. The sky had become gray gloom and I was alone now. I was wearing a reflective vest and shining a flashlight, but that was little comfort as headlights zipped my way at ferocious speeds. I leaned forward and picked up my speed, intent on getting off the road as soon as possible. Then something happened that made my day. From the window of a car speeding past, a girl yelled out, �Woo!� True, the darkness and the size of the rucksack probably hid some of my girth, and this was Saturday night in the boonies so she was probably smashed on corn liquor, but I took her catcall in a positive spirit nonetheless. As I trudged on I thought about how every step of my walk was putting Ordinary farther behind me. If that doesn�t deserve a woo, I don�t know what does. 9-to-5 My schedule has recently changed rather drastically and my mileage has gone way down. The main reason is because I was hired last week to do some technical writing on a "temporary full-time basis," meaning I don't get any benefits like paid leave or health insurance but I do get perks like commuting during traffic-jam hours and gaining the right to grumble about the daily grind. Though there's not too much to grumble about with this job. The people are great and the boss is flexible with hours. If I need time off to conduct an interview for an article, I'm allowed. But walking isn't a one-time occurence to schedule around. It's a daily habit. Which means I have to be very aware of how I spend my time. I've grown used to a leisurely cool-down period after my walks, sitting in front of the TV to watch something mindless while I wait for my sweat glands to stop pumping out the smelly stuff. Then I'd shower and every third day or so I'd shave. Now, I had to pick up the pace. I had to be at the office at 8 a.m., which meant setting my alarm clock for 4 o'clock to give me enough time to walk. I then shook the fog from my head, dressed, and grabbed a quick snack before hitting the road. There was no time for my usual pre-walk snack dawdling, what with a time clock in need of punching (see, I've already got the hang of daily grind grumbling). I walked somewhere between 3 and 5 miles each day and even did my 12-minute abs workout on M-W-F mornings. When I got back from my walk, I wolfed down breakfast and packed a lunch during my cool-down period. 
Last week's lunches each consisted of a sandwich and a V-8. I thought it wise to also pack in several "smart snacks" that I could munch on throughout the day�a banana for a mid-morning snack; a bag of tomatoes and a couple of Fig Newtons for the afternoon. The one thing I didn't want to do was get so hungry that my grumbling stomach would be in charge when I got behind the wheel. I'd never make it home then without stopping at one of the zillion drive-thrus along the way.This week, I'm going with Lean Cuisine entrees for the main meal (less time packing and a tastier range of options), but I'm still including the smart snacks (fruit, veggies, and some low-cal dessert). I'm not sure how long this temporary full-time gig will last, but I plan for my healthy lifestyle to last forever. |
