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A Walk Across Hampton Roads: First Landing to King Neptune Today, Dawn and I made sure to rectify the problem we had on our last excursion to Fort Story; namely, we arrived during hours they allowed civilians to enter the post. At the gate, I had to park the car, hand over my driver's license, open all the car's compartments, and stand on the side while guards searched for bombs or other threats. I had no problem with that; I'm all for security. However, I did have a problem when the guard tried to hand me back someone else's driver's license. When I told him it wasn't me, he looked at the other one in his hand and said, "This doesn't look like you." It's worth mentioning here that the photo is from 10 years ago. "It's him," Dawn piped in helpfully. "He's just a lot younger and thinner in that picture." Meaning, I guess, that I'm old and fat now. Gee, thanks, Dawn. Still, I'm used to Dawn's little digs and could have forgotten the insult if not for the upcoming indignity. We had to wait in an area marked off with cones while they searched the car and another guard watched over the visitors. While we were waiting, another car was cleared and this second guard tried to hand an ID back to the woman standing next to us. "That's not me," she exclaimed. Aha, I thought, someone else must be using an old photo! From my vantage point, I saw the photo on the card. Though the woman was fair-skinned with long blonde hair, the guard had somehow given her my driver's license. I'm not sure which of us should be more insulted. Probably her, but I'm a close second.
Before we even started the tower climb, we had to scale the steps leading up the hill to it. When I entered the lighthouse and gazed up the spiral steps, my heart was already thumping the backbeat to an old disco standard: "I Will Survive." A good sign, or so I hoped. I tried to encourage Dawn, who was huffing and puffing as much as I was, by calling out, "Feel the burn!" My genteel manner prevents me from printing her response. The lighthouse steps wound their way up to a landing where a ladder dropped down from the actual light chamber, which was about 10 feet above the landing. A family was catching their collective breath at the landing before heading back down. "It's a lot hotter up there," one of them warned. Sure enough, the light chamber was toasty. But the spectacular view over the beach and ocean was well worth the climb. The trip down was a lot easier (gravity's funny that way), and once we hit the bottom, I slung my rucksack over my shoulders and we set off down Atlantic Avenue. The cross streets were numbered and made it easy for us to count down the distance to our finish line 5 miles away at 31st Street. It was another smoking hot day and I was thrilled to see something I thought only existed on old Leave it to Beaver reruns: a lemonade stand. We stopped and bought a couple of glasses from the entrepreneurial boy running it. The lemonade was ice cold and provided a perfect remedy for the hot day.
Dawn grabbed a free Virginia Beach attraction map from a kiosk and I opened it up to trace our route. But the map only stretched as far north as 57th Street. Printed at the top of the map were the words "Walking Map." Flipping it over, I was able to check out the "Driving Map," which extended north to Fort Story and west to Norfolk. I felt even manlier than when I'd insulted the King, knowing that I had walked farther than the directions provided on the "Driving Map." My macho meter pegged at full, I offered to treat Dawn to lunch at a swank restaurant overlooking the statue: Catch 31. I had a delicious grilled salmon BLT & a cup of cream of seafood chowder. I was just reflecting on how wonderful the day had been when Dawn started laughing and shaking her head. "What is it?" I asked. "I was just thinking about your ID card." "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that." "Oh, no," she said. "You're going to be hearing about that one for a long time." And then, after a beat, she added, "Missy." If she heard the needle on my macho meter ping into the empty zone, she never let on. And I was too much of a tough guy to tell her. How to Keep from Going Crazy The past two days, Dawn has brought one of her rottweilers to my house and we�ve taken them on walks through neighborhoods in my small town. With the sun baking the dogs in their black coats, we couldn�t go too far though. Before you sick PETA on me, understand that we kept the distance to 2 miles and brought water with us. One of Dawn�s dogs, Madison, had no problem with the walk, but the second one she brought, Morgan, is a bit of a roly-poly beast and unused to traveling any distance longer than the end of the block. We paused under the shade of a tree to let Morgan cool off, and she showed her appreciation by rolling in the grass and showing her belly. I try that all the time but instead of the adoring reaction Morgan earned, I usually get kicks, thrown rocks, or screams from mothers telling their daughters to shield their eyes to prevent permanent damage. This morning I decided to beat the heat and got back on my early morning schedule, hitting the road at 4 a.m. The pre-dawn walk followed the same course I always take: a 5-mile circuit to the local library and back. While routine attaches a sense of comfort to anything you do, it also delivers a dose of dullness. It helps to stay sane if you have childish sensibilities and can easily amuse yourself, which, as evidenced by my writings over the past year, I certainly can. But even my shallow mind sometimes feels like it�s drowning in tedium on some of my walks. So what do I do to combat boredom? When I don�t have a walking partner to berate or a dog to dehydrate, the thing that most keeps me from turning into a babbling buffoon (well, more than I already am) can be summed up in a single word: �Books on tape.� Okay, that�s three words, but I was always poor at math. I�ll have to put my thinking cap on because I�ve got to do some calculating to explain this next part. A standard cassette usually runs 45 minutes to a side. That means I can head out my door with a single tape in my Walkman (what a great name!) and walk for an hour-and-a-half while someone reads a story to me. An hour-and-a-half, coincidentally, is how long it takes me to walk 5 miles, the distance of my morning walks. Books on tape have served me well over the years, while walking through town, working out at the gym, or driving somewhere. I usually listen to them in the car instead of the radio. They�re great for dispelling road rage. Often, I�ll arrive at a destination and wind up sitting in the car for a few extra minutes while some climactic scene plays out. Something that engaging is a welcome addition when doing something as dull as walking an oft-traveled route by yourself in the dark. When I listen to a story while walking, the miles fade away as I find myself traveling through a world created by the author. My collection of audiobooks is extensive, from non-fiction works like Bill Bryson�s A Short History on Nearly Everything to memoirs like Anthony Swofford�s Jarhead to rollicking science fiction like Stephen King�s Dark Tower series. This year, I�ve been going through Sue Grafton�s alphabet mysteries, beginning with A is for Alibi. I have the whole collection (so far) and am currently listening to O is for Outlaw. I�ve been following Kinsey Millhone�s adventures for so long now, the spunky private eye has become a near and dear friend. I will be one of the first standing in line on December 1st when Grafton�s latest installment (U is for Undertow) goes on sale. So, that�s how I keep from going crazy out on the road. I might physically be alone, but I always have company with me. I still prefer to walk with a friend, but when their schedule won�t allow or my timetable is just too wacky for them, I have a host of friends sitting on the shelf eager to breathe a little early morning air. The Mailbag When I went in to work this morning, the office manager offered me a cherry from a Ziplock bag. "This is because of you," she said. She's been following my blog, and spoken with me about my weight loss. When she discovered how I eat healthy snacks during the day to stave off hunger, she'd decided to try it for herself. When she read how I wake up at 4 a.m. to walk 5 miles in the morning before work, she said, "Are you out of your mind?" Maybe those weren't her exact words, but I believe I caught the spirit. Though she wasn't going to copy my early morning outings, she did recently sign up for a membership at Bally's and let me know that was because of me as well. As I always am whenever anyone follows my advice without uttering the usual, "Oh, what the hell," I was surprised. But even more so because she's a woman who, although she would look fine if she lost a few pounds, could stay just as she is and turn heads all day long. She's a forever smiling, perky woman who, if she had a Match.com profile, might describe herself as "voluptuous." And I was doubly surprised (and happily amazed) that my silly (mis)adventures with weight loss were having a direct effect on someone I knew. I've known for some time that others have been rooting me on. I've received plenty of messages offering encouragement, and a few poking fun at me as well. But to see the blog having an impact greater than mere amusement is more gratifying than I can express. All the positive responses I've gotten from people, friends and strangers alike, help to keep me motivated. So, please, keep them coming. But be warned. As I write in the first paragraph on this page: "Anything you send might (or might not) appear in the blog." So far, that's just been window dressing. But, with my office manager's recent admission, I thought I would dig through the pile and share some of the e-mails that have piqued my interest, along with whatever random thoughts of my own that they might generate. If you guys keep them coming (kudos and gibes alike), I'll try to make "The Mailbag" a recurring segment. This first time, I won't use anyone's names (just first name initials), but I plan to use the first name from now on unless you request otherwise on your message. So, without further ado, here's what's taking up space in my inbox:
Yes, it is amazing to rediscover body parts I'd long forgotten. The neck, when it's not hiding behind two or three others, is much more comfortable and bursts far fewer sweater neckholes.
I wish I could show you what those cute little French maids were up to, but this is a family forum. "No good" doesn't begin to sum it up.
Yikes! It's scary to know the long arm of the law is keeping an eye on me. Guess I better be on my best behavior from now on. No more stealing shopping carts, I promise!
Ah, if only your joints and job weren't in the way. I'm always looking for another victim�I mean, "walking partner"�to go along with me on my journeys. And soon my path will be moving out of Hampton Roads and into strange terrain. Any victims�I mean, potential walking partners�wanting to share some time on the road with me, just let me know.
I haven't felt this thrilled since Ed McMahon told me I might already be a winner. Now, what will I do with my newfound wealth. Buy a Ferrari? Or three? Get that tattoo of the Fonz removed from my butt cheek. The possibilities are endless. A (Macho) Walk Across Hampton Roads: Norfolk: Military Circle to Waterside After my last Southside walk ended at Military Circle Mall, a friend picked me up in her car and drove me back to mine. "Where," she asked, "are you headed next?" When I said my plan was to continue down Virginia Beach Boulevard into the heart of Norfolk, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Are you crazy?" she said. "Have you got some sort of death wish?" I must admit, I didn't know a lot about the various neighborhoods I'd be walking through�Ingleside, Spartan Village, Brambleton�nor their dangers. A quick check online revealed that, in 2005, Norfolk had the 22nd highest murder rate in the country, and more of those murders had occured in the stretch I'd be passing through than anywhere else. When I mentioned this to Dawn, she told me she already knew and that she was kind of surprised I didn't. "If you walk through there," she said, "they're going to kidnap, rape, and murder you." Then she added, as if this were some sort of conciliation, "Well, maybe just rape and murder." I was not feeling good, but I also didn't want to cut this piece of Virginia out of my walk, to cut one of the links and hop across because I was scared. So, walk I did, starting around 6:30 a.m. when I figured the criminal element would be asleep and the only people on the street would be those on their way to work. This, I'm pleased to say, was exactly how it turned out. Even so, I was so amped from all the warnings that I felt as if I were going into combat. I was hyper-alert as I walked as fast as I could while trying not to look like I was trying to walk fast. I was also trying to look like as much of a macho-man as possible while trying not to appear like I was doing so. All of these efforts were ruined when I jumped two feet from a nearby truck releasing its air brake. I survived the four-mile dash through bad neighborhoods and slowed to a stroll when I reached the shopping district, winding three more miles down Tidewater Drive, through Waterside, and up to the Chrysler Museum. On Boush Street, I saw a sign advertising a new restaurant that would be having its grand opening at 11 a.m. My watch said 9. And when I looked at the name of the place, I thought it must be fate. The name of this place�I kid you not�was the Machismo Burrito Bar. After what I'd been through, a macho burrito sounded like a perfect way to end my morning. I picked up my car and came back at 11:30 to find the owner and a restaurant wholesaler putting together tables for the outdoor dining section. It was not a pretty sight. The tables were composites like one of those Ikea jigsaws. The two of them were reading directions, turning pieces this way and that, and furrowing their brows. It reminded me an awful lot of myself at Christmastime when I can't remember how to put the tree together again. I jumped in to give them a hand instead of just waiting around for 11:00, and somehow we muddled through, putting eight tables together before the front doors opened. I was thrilled to be the first customer through the doors, which was a first for me as well. But then the owner told his son, "This guy doesn't pay," which essentially made the second guy through the door the "first customer." But I was still the first one to be served. So take that second guy! The burrito was made-to-order and built in front of me Subway-style. I should have been prepared for the finished product�their uniform T-shirt had the words "It's soo big..." on the front�but I must admit to being shocked when they handed me what appeared to be a duffle bag wrapped in aluminum foil. While most burritos are tightly rolled to about the size of a standard flashlight, this thing took two hands to hold and was as big as my head (but thankfully more delicious). When I finished, I thought about how I'd probably just eaten as many calories as I'd burned during that morning's walk. And then I thought, "But, man, was it worth it!" I briefly considered retracing that morning's walk to burn enough calories to allow me another burrito, but sensibility�yes, I have some�beat out machismo. It didn't, however, beat out sentimentality. Opening my cell phone, I gazed lovingly at the background that had replaced my Princess Leia wallpaper: a pic of macho me taking a bite from the first macho burrito ever served in this macho establishment. One of these days, someone's going to write a manly song for me, something along the lines of "Macho, macho man, I've got to be a macho man..." But until that grand, glorious, and gay day arrives, crank up the volume and CLICK HERE. Misery Loves Company Yesterday's walk through Norfolk curved along the north side of the Elizabeth River. Today, I would get a view from the southern shore as I walked through Olde Towne Portsmouth. The city provides a walking tour through Olde Towne every Saturday at 8:30 p.m. led by a lantern-toting guide dressed in 18th Century attire. The kickoff point was the Governor Dinwiddie Hotel (506 Dinwiddie Street) and the cost was only $5. It seemed like the perfect way to get acquainted with this historic town�oops, I mean "towne." Never one to miss an adventure, Dawn came with. It turned out to be more of an adventure than we had bargained on. We arrived early enough to eat dinner across the street at a little hole-in-the wall called Longboard's. I had "The Big Kahuna," or I should say it had me. Regardless of what they were calling it, I figured it would be more of a "little kahuna" due to the meager price tag of $10.50. Boy was I wrong. The plate came heaped with Mahi-Mahi, Chicken, Pulled Pork, Rice, and a dollop of salad. Of course, I sent it back and said, "Bring me something smaller." Or, at least, that's what I would have done if we weren't in a time pinch. That's the story I'm going with anyway. Afterwards, we parked our kiesters on a bench on High Street and wondered who had come up with the grand idea of facing the bench inwards. Instead of people watching and taking in the hustle and bustle of the city's main thoroughfare, we had a not-so-striking view of a vacant storefront. Very odd.
The mixture of Olde Towne and 21st Century was a strange combination. While a guide in period costume told us about General Cornwallis and his redcoats making use of a particular building, I noticed ADT stickers on the windows and a group of pre-teens passing by on bikes, jumping the curbs and going for air. My first inkling that trouble lay ahead was when the wind starting picking up and blowing out the candle in our tour guide's lantern. He relit it several times with a box of matches from a vest pocket, and when a few drops of rain pattered down, none of us thought much of it. We were too caught up in the Olde Towne stories and the striking view coming up of the Elizabeth River and the lighted cityscape of downtown Norfolk across the water. It was right about this time, while we were out in the open enjoying the view and issuing appropriate "Oohs" and "Aahs," that the sky opened up. We made a mad dash for the nearest shelter, the portico on a condominium about a quarter-mile away.
Dawn had to work in the morning, so I offered to run the half-mile to the hotel, get the car, and come pick her up. The rain was now a river in the street and several times I stepped in puddles that were higher than the tops of my sneakers. When I pulled around with the car, I saw my touring comrades shivering under the awning and couldn't help but think of the words etched on the Statue of Liberty: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. "Anybody want a ride?" I said. I've relied on so many people for rides during my previous walks, it seemed only fair that I offer the same when the opportunity arose. I became a taxi service, shuttling everyone back to cars parked behind the hotel. Everyone was laughing about our shared misfortune, which had united us and made the tour all the more memorable. On the last trip, I picked up Dawn and our bedraggled tour guide, who had to take off his tri-corner hat to fit in the back seat. It had been raining steady for an hour-and-fifteen-minutes and the streets were flooded. As I piloted my car through the stream, Dawn said, "Okay, carry on with the tour." He complied with a 78 rpm version as I sailed past buildings and monuments, pointing out various features and giving us the quick scoop. What a trooper. Regardless of the wet weather�or perhaps even because of it�this was the most fun I can ever remember having on a tour. The walk itself was only about a mile-and-a-half, but I'm sure the distance will stretch out in my memory. A Walk Across Hampton Roads: Portsmouth to Chesapeake (and back again) My last few walks have been slipping on the mileage-o-meter, so I decided to crank things up with a longer walk today, crossing the length of Portsmouth to the Chesapeake city line, then turning around to walk back again. A 12.2-mile hike. Mmm, good stuff. Though the rain played a big part during my last walk in Olde Towne Portsmouth, today was all about the sun. The trip across Portsmouth felt like a walk through Death Valley. I started later than I'd hoped and the temp was in the upper 90's for most of the 3�-hour walk. When I got to the Chesapeake line, I briefly considered calling a taxi to take me back to my car, but my inner cheapskate wouldn't let me. Instead of ponying up a few bucks, I let my heat-addled brain and cramping muscles pay the price in sweat. By the time I finished, my boonie hat was rimed white with salt like the rim of a margarita glass.
I'd been expecting the walk to be a longer version of the lantern tour through Olde Towne, but most of my 12 miles passed through an area that had been hit hard by the recession. Everywhere I looked, I saw boarded-up storefronts and others with signs in their windows advertising GOOBS (Going-Out-Of-Business Sales). At least the store offering bullet resistant shower glass was still open. That was a comfort. As for the neighborhoods, they weren't "slums," but they definitely fell in the "depressed economy" category. Unlike the Norfolk walk where I had passed through dangerous neighborhoods in the early morning hours, I walked through these in the middle of the day. And, like a duck in a carnival shooting gallery, I turned around and came back for a second pass. With the ruck on my back, I couldn't have felt like more of a target.
I needed nourishment, and the Baron's Pub on High Street sounded like a great place to get it. I felt like a corpse washed up on shore and probably looked the part, too. Grabbing a Ziploc bag with a dry shirt from my ruck, I stowed everything else in my car and headed into the pub to change clothes, get some grub, and drink a few gallons of water. I got all that, but I also received nourishment of another sort. As soon as I stepped inside, a woman who'd seen me pass the storefront with the ruck on my back asked what I was up to, wondering, I suppose, if I was one of the crazy folk. I explained how I was walking across Virginia in segments and then excused myself to change out of my wet clothes. By the time I came out, everyone in the restaurant knew my story. A couple of people congratulated me and one even offered to buy me a beer. I felt like I was making a guest appearance on Cheers, the theme song "Where everybody knows your name" looping through my head. One patron, John David Thurston, wore a hat that read Life is Good and told me how that was his guiding philosophy. "I like this Forrest Gump thing you're doing," he said. "A great way to see the world up close and personal." I couldn't have put it better myself. Not only am I losing weight and reclaiming the person I used to be, I'm meeting scores of interesting people, exploring amazing places, and living the adventure of a lifetime. John is right. Life is good indeed. Gonna Make You Sweat 72% of the adult human body is made up of water; babies are about 78% water, but, as with everything else, it's all downhill from there. With all that water in our bodies, it's no wonder we perspire so much. Some more than others. I'm a sweaty guy. My skin gets a slick sheen when I do anything more strenuous than clicking buttons on a TV remote. And when I exercise, the sweat runs off me in rivulets. After my long walks, my shirts are as soaked as if I'd worn them in a swimming pool, and I do mean that literally. The occasions in the past where this has pained me have been many: first dates at parks where I looked like a wet t-shirt contestant; first dates where I had to go up a flight of stairs to pick her up at her door; even first dates at movie theaters when I couldn't park near the entrance. If you're noticing a trend here, it's true: sweaty beasts don't go on many second dates. Which is why I thought up the ingenious plan of having my dates drive themselves over to my air-conditioned house to eat takeout food while watching Star Trek re-runs...thus eliminating first dates as well. It turns out, however, that there actually is a time when being a sweaty beast is good news. Sweating is your body's way of cooling off from either strenuous activity or too much heat, and those who sweat profusely cool off quicker and more efficiently. Of course, this is assuming that the sweaty beast rehydrates. Any exercise that lasts an hour or longer (like, say, walking across a city) should include a hydration plan. Even better, it should include a smart hydration plan. The plan on my last walk feel in the not-so-smart category. I've been carrying 3 quarts of liquid (2 waters & 1 Gatorade) in my rucksack during my long walks, and that has been fine for the pre-dawn walks where the sun isn't beating down on me like a fourth-grade bully who's been held back so long he has a beard. On this last walk, though, I began my walk around 10:30 a.m. and didn't finish until 2 p.m. The sun not only beat me up, it took my lunch money and left me crying like a little girl. My rucksack has plenty of space to tote more water, so next time I need to do one of two things: Bring more quarts or head out earlier. The one option I didn't list was "walk a shorter distance," which is something I'm not considering. If anything, I want to increase my mileage. If I could, I'd walk to the moon. An idea that has been suggested to me a time or two before by my former first dates. A Walk Across Hampton Roads: A Visit with Mr. Peanut I took off this morning from the Portsmouth/Chesapeake border and made my way to downtown Suffolk. After my last scorching walk, I decided to do this one in the early morning hours, setting out at 4:30 a.m. I also packed an additional 2 quarts of water in my rucksack (just in case), upping its weight to somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 pounds. I followed Route 58, which added lanes and traffic the farther I went. The shoulders were nice and wide, and, except for the occasional orange trash bag left by a country work crew, empty of obstruction. Even so, I stayed as far over as possible on the shoulder anyway, cutting a path through the wet grass. My shoes and socks got soaked, but wet feet were the least of my concerns. Screaming past at 60 MPH were a plethora of cars trying to beat the morning rush and scores of big-rig trucks, which spattered me with road grit as they passed. Wanting to get past the highway and into the downtown Suffolk area as soon as possible, I dashed the 12-� miles in a little over 3-� hours (a 17 min/mile pace) while only taking one 3-minute break to swap out an empty water bottle with a full one from my ruck. Not bad for a Santa-sized dude carrying the equivalent of Santa's sack on his back.
For those of you who don't know (a category that included me until I did an online search a few days ago), Planter's Peanuts originated in Suffolk, and their distinctive mascot stands in the center of town. This statue was my stopping point, and as I waited for my ride to pick me up and bring me back to my car (thanks Al!), I pulled out a bag of nuts and munched them down in Mr. Peanut's honor. Mr. Peanut appeared to be glaring at me. Maybe it was the glint of his monacle, but something seemed to be amiss and when I studied the "nuts" I was eating, I realized what it was. These were cashews, which aren't actually nuts at all; they are legumes. I hung my head, hoping Mr. Peanut would forgive me. But I didn't stop eating the cashews. I just ate them in shame. Delicious, lightly salted shame. Moving Day The one good thing about being enormously out of shape was that whenever anyone asked me to help them move, I could say, "Sorry, can't. I'm fat." I'm by no means svelte right now, but I've carved enough blubber off my mid-section to eliminate that excuse from my repertoire. Rats! Today, my sister was moving to a new house and my brother-in-law asked for help in such a way that I couldn't refuse. I can't remember his exact words, but they were something along the lines of, "What, are you a wimp or something?." If that put me in the category of people who would rather be reading a book at home than lugging heavy furniture and boxes of china from one house to the van and then out of the van to the new house�all in the rain, I might add�then yes, I fall into the "or something" category. Unfortunately, I didn't think up that response until afterwards, so I showed up this morning ready to pitch in. My evil brother-in-law had spread out on the counter a few boxes of Dunkin Doughnuts as payment for the morning help. In the past, I would have dug thought those boxes and ravaged the contents, discretely rearranging the dregs in an attempt to make it look like there was still something left. But this time, I avoided the temptation, not even licking the frosting a corner of frosting off one of the doughnuts and then surreptitiously rotating the bald spot to the rear. Yea me! As moves go, this one wasn't bad at all. I was energetic throughout and every time I gouged a wall, I was able to blame it on one of the kids. My arms and legs felt good, my back didn't hurt at all, and when we stopped around noon to take a break I still had plenty of energy left. At the beginning of this year, I would have been winded after carrying a few small boxes to the van; now I can carry dozens of loads without putting a dent in my fender. Sure, moving boxes and furniture is not the most exciting thing in the world, but the energy burst I experienced has helped me during other activities too: when I'm doing one of my walks, I'm able to go much longer distances; when I'm presented an opportunity to climb up a lighthouse, I can say "Let's go" without fearing a heart attack; and when Ron Howard calls to ask me to perform a stunt or be a body double for Brad Pitt in one of his movies, I'm able to say, "Sure thing, Opie." Okay, he hasn't called yet, but it's nice to know that if I ever do get a call from Mayberry, I can confidently say, "I'm your man, Ron Howard!" Just don't ask me to help you move. Plan B Yet again, the plan I started out with and what I wound up doing were worlds apart. A while back, I walked half the distance between Williamsburg and Jamestown, and my intent today was to walk the other half. The distance was short enough (6-or-so miles) that I�d be able to complete it and come back home to help my brother-in-law with the rest of his move. At least, that was the plan. Here�s what actually happened: I was scouting out the route, driving down the Colonial Parkway and marveling that there wasn�t any other traffic when I came across a sign that said the Parkway was closed from this point on. No wonder it was so empty. Apparently, some knucklehead rammed his boat into one of the support pilings on the stretch that runs through the marsh surrounding Jamestown. Well, Harumph. Turning my car around, I headed back toward Williamsburg. The route I�ve been walking has led me from the Virginia Beach shore through Hampton Roads to the western boundry. From Suffolk, I would walk up through Smithfield and link up with Jamestown after crossing the Scotland ferry. That would connect my route to my earlier �Peninsula Campaign� and the branch that wound up through the Middle Peninsula. To walk any of those legs this morning, though, would require my driving at least another hour, and it�d already taken me an hour just to get here. I was tired of being in the car; I wanted to walk. It was time to move on to Plan B. I�d been planning to walk up to Richmond after I linked together all of my Hampton Roads walks, so, I figured, as long as I was here, now, why not get started on it. I pulled into the Williamsburg Visitor Center parking lot and whipped out the map. From this point, Route 60 ran from Williamsburg all the way to the state capital. Ta da! With my ruck on my back, I found myself walking up the historic Washington-Rochambaeu route, which traces Generals Washington and Rochambeau's path to Yorktown to lay siege to the British in 1781, precipitating the end of the Revolutionary War. Everything along this route appears today just as it was then, from the boxy structures of multi-story Hiltons and Ramadas to the neon signs of pancake houses and the golden arches of McDonalds. As I'm sure you recall from history class, when their troops halted in Williamsburg before the final push to Yorktown, Rochambeau rubbed his belly and said, "Hey, George, let's stop here and wolf down a few Big Macs before we tromp those Brits!" To which Washington replied, "Word up." Or something like that. I slept through a lot of history class, so it might have gone down slightly different. But I wasn't out here on the road to reflect on my learnification. I was here to sweat. I continuted up Route 60 until I got to the far side of Prime Outlets, a 4-mile hike from the Visitor's Center. I dropped my ruck, stretched my legs, and swapped my empty bottle for a full quart of water. Then it was time to head back through Williamsburg's restaurant row. During the walk back, my stomach gurgled as I passed countless fast food joints and fancy restaurants. Dominating this smorgasboard of eateries were a dozen-or-so pancake houses in a stretch of road little more than a mile. I made a mental note of one that sounded particularly appealing�the Astronomical Pancake & Waffle House�and promised myself a stack after I finished my walk. When I returned in my car, I ordered �The Big Apple�: two pancakes topped with a mountain of (baked) apple slices heaped in the center, along with two dollops of butter and a dusting of powdered sugar. One look told me where the name �astronomical� came from; the pancakes were the size of planets. They came served on a ten-inch plate and overlapped the entire circumference of the rim. I scraped the butter off the top (how good am I!), poured syrup on one corner (guess I bragged too soon), and tucked into my order. The pancakes were as scrumptious as they were massive. Best of all, when I started spearing apple pieces along with the pancake wedges on my fork, I discovered it didn�t need any additional syrup. The apples were a sweet enough counterpoint to the fluffy cakes. My stomach filled up fast and, determined not to be a glutton, I quit after finishing half my plate. Of course, that was about the amount of pancakes I�d been hoping to get when I ordered in the first place, so I don�t feel like I was short-changed. (I guess I get to brag after all. Way to go Bill. Clap, clap, clap.) A Walk Across Hampton Roads: A Brush With Fame Dawn got off from work at 1:30 this afternoon, so the two of us decided to do a walk through Suffolk. We started at the Planters Peanut Center, where I bought a bag of fresh roasted nuts for the trip. We walked a couple of blocks to "Character Corner," where we visited Mr. Peanut and ate some nuts in his honor. Then off we went down Main Street with the sun high in the sky. Soon, the bag of nuts wasn't the only thing roasted. I hadn't brought my rucksack with me. I only had the boonie hat on my head and the bag of nuts, a camera, and car keys in my hands. Conditioning from some of the "hot walks" made this short walk (4-� miles) tolerable for me, but Dawn was suffering. She hadn't had much sleep lately and hadn't hydrated sufficiently before the walk. As a consequence, her head was red as a tomato after a couple of miles. I offered my hat, but she declined. "Go on," I said, "I'm feeling fine, but you look like ketchup is about to start leaking from your pores." "No," she said. "I'm worried that it will keep too much heat in." "Don't be silly," I said. "It's vented. And believe me, it feels much better with the hat on than without it." Finally, she confessed the true reason for her reluctance. "But it might mess up my hair." The fashionista's legs were getting wobbly, so we stopped at a gas station to get out of the sun and buy a couple of quarts of Gatorade. I suggested she stay here while I walk the last 2-� miles to the car and come back to get her. But the cold liquid did its trick, and she was feeling worlds better.
Dawn has actually acted before, and not just playing the part of a tomato. She has twice performed bit parts for New Dominion in a Discovery Channel series they produced called A Haunting. Her first role was as a turn-of-the-century ghost dressed in period costume, which she thought was pretty cool, and the second was as a grandmother, which gave her some pause, because Aunt Bea she is not. But, when casting assured her that she could be "a hip and happening grandma," she was fine with it. "It was a very brief scene," she says, "but it�s funny what goes on behind the scene. Certain things are scripted and then certain things are improvised. In this scene, my little grandson comes up and gives me a big hug and says, �Grandma, Grandma, where is the candy?� So I just answer the question and say, �It�s on the living room on the coffee table. Same place as it always is.� "But the building that is supposed to be my house is just a false front. It�s like a cottage on one side and then maybe a storefront on the other side. There are barrels and boxes and all kinds of stuff inside this building; it�s not a house at all. So when I tell the kid the candy is
I hadn't realized I'd been walking with a celebrity. I'd been given a clue when I offered her my hat and she scoffed at me, preferring heat stroke to the fashion faux-pas of wearing my grungy headgear. But when I asked for her autograph, the indelible mark of the silver screen was much more apparent. She brushed me aside and headed for the car, saying, "Speak to my agent." Now I was certain. I was truly in the presence of a star. A Walk Across Hampton Roads: Dog Tired Today's walk took me from the heart of Suffolk to the outskirts of Isle of Wight County. The 9.5-mile trek was not my longest hike, but it was one of my earliest. I was walking to the house of a friend who would then drive me back to my car. She normally begins her workday commute before 7 a.m., which meant that I would have to arrive at her house somewhere in the neighborhood of 5:30, giving her enough time to drop me off and get ready for work. Backing that time up even further, I figured I'd need to start walking around 2:30 a.m. The starting point was an hour from my house, which meant waking up to eat, dress, and pack my ruck at 12:30. In a word: yikes! I went to bed in the early evening, but woke up at 10:30 p.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I was in for a looong day. The walk itself began just like most of my pre-dawn hikes: dark and uneventful. In the quiet, I could hear cars and trucks well before their headlights appeared, and I veered to the side of the road opposite the approaching traffic. And on the few occasions when traffic came from both sides at once, I stepped well off the shoulder and shone my flashlight as a warning. I'd learned my lesson from last month's "chuckhole incident," and instead of continuing to walk on the grassy shoulder, I merely bided my time and waited for the cars to pass. On one such stop, I noticed a darker patch in the grass ahead of me, right where I might have walked. Shining my light across it, I discovered a sizable pothole that could have swallowed my foot whole. I nearly strained a muscle applauding myself for applying the lesson learned from my previous stumble. Then I wondered how many other lessons I would have to learn the hard way and when the next one would occur. Not long. At 3:25, I heard a car approaching from behind, but didn't bother to look back at it since I was on the far shoulder. A minute later, a Toyota truck flew past right next to me at what felt like inches away. It was passing another car and hadn't noticed (or cared about) the reflectors on the back of my ruck. If he'd just wanted to give the fat guy a thrill, mission accomplished. Adrenalin coursed through my veins, giving me wide eyes and hair standing on end for a long while afterwards. From that point on, regardless of the direction of approaching traffic, I would check it out and assess how much space it was giving me. I wish I could say that was my only tactical error on this walk, but I made another bone-head move. Although I brought my cell phone with me so I could phone ahead when I was near my destination, I had neglected to turn it on. The battery was low and I was trying to conserve its power. Turning it on at 5:20 a.m., I discovered a voicemail message from my friend. Her father had had a medical emergency and she'd taken him to the hospital. I listened to my friend saying "Don't come to my house. I won't be there." just as I was approaching her driveway. Oops. She'd left the message at 1:30 along with another one on my answering machine at home. But I was getting into my car at that point, unaware of my blunder. I called her up and she said that her father would be released soon and she would be home by 8 o'clock. "You can sit out on the screened-in back porch," she suggested, "if you don't mind dogs barking." Standing on the other side of a sliding glass door, which separated porch from house, were a pair of German shepherds. They must have seen their kin acting in Schindler's List because they put on an incredible performance as bloodthirsty guard dogs. I tried my best to ignore them, hoping this would calm them down. With sunrise still an hour away, I whipped out a towel from my ruck, spread it over the large cushion on the porch, and laid down for a nap. My companions did not like that at all, their barking picking up tempo now that I was settling in on their doggie bed. But eventually their doggie voiceboxes needed a rest and the howling let up. Until I decided to move, that is. Every time I shifted position in the slightest bit, the chorus of barking began anew.
Behind the house was a barn which held four horses, one of which belonged to my friend. The other three belonged to friends who'd asked to stable them with her. I'd brought a bag of baby carrots with me and grabbed them now from my ruck, feeding a handful to each of the beautiful creatures. I'd never done this before and was surprised at how coarse and bristly their muzzles were. They gently snarfed the carrots from my palm and let me rub their heads and pet their flanks. I made it in to work by 10 a.m. but my head was doing helicopter spins by lunchtime. I only lasted into the early afternoon before I had to head home and catch some z's. When I hit the rack, I dreamed I was sleeping on a bed of hay with horses nickering above me. From the edge of the stall, a German shepherd said, "I warned you what would happen if you let him on your hay. Now you'll never get rid of him!" A Walk Across Hampton Roads: Southern Charm Dawn was walking with me again today. She'd recovered enough from her tomato-faced heat exhaustion to be ready for another round. This time, she was well rested and drank plenty of water beforehand. Plus, I promised to bring an umbrella for her. What I didn't tell her was that it was a white umbrella with cartoon strips scrolling across the fabric. We started out from the "horse house" and strode north toward the "ham house" in Smithfield, where we would be visiting my dear friend, Doris Gwaltney, and her husband, Atwill. Doris had promised us lunch if we arrived at noon, and I am not one to pass up a free meal. Knowing we were stopping in on a true Southern gentleman and lady, I packed a complete change of clothes so I wouldn't be a sweaty mess at the dining table. The day was a hot one, with a heat index of 100, so I also packed plenty of water in my ruck. Even so, our pace was slow and we stopped several times. Somewhere around the halfway point, we veered into the grassy median and copped a squat in the shade of a tree. I flopped down on the ground without taking off my rucksack, leaning back into it and letting out a sigh of relief. "You've got that pose down pat," Dawn said. "Years of practice," I replied, referring to my time in the Army and all the miles humping rucks through the woods. "Glad to see those years in the La-Z-Boy finally pay off." I considered not sharing my trail mix with her, but I was too comfy lying back against my recliner�I mean, rucksack�to quibble. Besides, I knew karma would get her back, which it did a couple of miles down the road. As we neared the intersection where the road spurred into the heart of Smithfield, we crossed into the median again. As we wove between blossoming crepe myrtles, Dawn dove face first into a spider web that had the tensile strength of steel cable. "Aaah!" she screamed, pirouetting and swatting the air with the umbrella. The web tangled around her and the spider dangled from the edge of the umbrella near her face. "Get it off me!" I pressed my palms together in an angelic pose, looked up toward the heavens, and said, "Thank you." I kept checking my watch as we strolled into town. I hate being late for anything, so I was elated when we turned our last corner at 11:58. As we walked up the Gwaltney's driveway, I counted down the last 10 seconds as if I were at a New Year's celebration and we rang the doorbell at precisely noon o'clock. Inside, Atwill said, "I heard that commotion and figured it was you." The back porch overlooks the James River, so we sat outside and chatted over lunch, which consisted of a delicious salad with lots of veggies and (of course) ham slices; finger sandwiches and other snacks; and some wine. Afterwards, Doris asked, "For dessert, would you prefer strawberries topped with raspberry yogurt or cookies and ice cream?" We'd just walked 7 miles in the hot sun. We opted for decadence. Before dropping us back at my car, Atwill drove us around Smithfield and gave us the "insider's tour." Gwaltney hams are famous, dating back to 1870 when one of Atwill's ancestors first started curing ham for early settlers. Atwill's family has been linked with Smithfield for generations, and he knew all the town's interesting stories. He and Doris alternated narrating, telling us ghost stories and the history behind old houses and statues and vacant lots where buildings once stood. In turn, I shared stories about that morning's walk. "And right there," I said, pointing, "is where Dawn freaked out from the spider web." "Yeah," she added, "I was so freaked out I almost shoved Bill into traffic." Then she leaned close to me and murmured, "Next time I won't miss." Eulogy for a Mr. Blue Everyone's got one: a favorite shirt that they wear more than any other. For me, I that shirt was Mr. Blue, a 3XL baby blue tee shirt that has been, at times, a nightshirt, an exercise shirt, and a friend. Mr. Blue was the type of friend who knows you're fat but doesn't let on about it. He knew about my jelly rolls (and did his best to hide them!) but never discussed them with his buddies in the dresser drawer. When Mr. Blue made it to the front of my tee shirt rotation, he had no idea of the amount of abuse he would receive. It wasn't just the ocassional dripping of melted cheese and other gooey treats down my front (and by "occasional," I mean "frequent"), whenver I would misjudge my girth and "occasionally" knock something over, it would be Mr. Blue to the rescue to mop up the spill.
Mr. Blue accepted the news with typical stoicism, and I'm sure he will be the best possible worker at his new home in Dawn's bin of rags. She promised to sing lullabies to him while she swipes him through whatever slop she's cleaning up at the moment. I can't think of a better fate. But, there's no time for regrets. What's done is done. And, in true out-with-the-old-and-in-with-the-new fashion, I just received a couple of replacement tee shirts this weekend. They were a birthday present from my sister. Now, before you rush to the computer to send me a Blue Mountain birthday greeting, my birthday was more than a month ago. But my family tends to celebrate things late. All of us are so busy that we fit celebrations into the schedule wherever possible. A one-month wait is nothing. Some parties have occured two months late, and then been rushed to do them before the next one so we wouldn't have to "double up." The upside of all this is that I have a new favorite tee shirt: Mr. Maroon. He's the color of my college team, he's got that new shirt smell, and he's 2XL, a size that fits me nicely now. I slept with him last night and promised him that I would love him forever, just as I had with my previous favorite shirt, good 'ol what's his name. And Mr. Maroon, champ that he is, believed me. The Cost of A Few Day's Off When Hurricane Bill approached the coast last weekend, I heard from several friends (a term I use loosely). When the storm first achieved hurricane status, Ann wrote to say, "They should have asked me. I've know for a long, long time that Bill is all wet." After the local news had hyped up the storm and it turned out into the ocean, Dawn said, "How fitting. Bill is nothing but a bunch of hot air." Other than bringing to light the fact that I need new friends, the approaching storm altered my plans to walk over the weekend. I did actually walk 5 miles on Saturday, but I took Sunday and Monday off. Tuesday was shot as well. Dawn called me up the day before to ask if I could come by her house in the early afternoon to wait on a repairman to fix her leaking washing machine. To free up my afternoon, I went to work at 4 a.m. instead of doing my usual 5 miles. As soon as I entered her house, I exercised my visitation rights and searched out Mr. Blue. Though I was pleased to see Dawn's three rottweilers weren�t using Mr. Blue as a chew toy, I was saddened to see him lumped on the floor. In retribution, I hid a hunk of limburger cheese somewhere in her house. By next week, the stink of retaliation will make her rue the day she treated Mr. Blue so callously! I'd also brought along my walking gear, hoping that I could take the dogs for a walk after the repairman was done with the job. But he was hung up on an earlier call and couldn't make it out to Dawn's house until later in the day. Worse yet, the washing machine was beyond economical repair, so it had been a wasted trip for both of us.* If missing a few days of walking was the only bad thing I'd recently done, I'd be all right now. But it wasn't. I've also been eating out a little more than usual. A group of us ate at UNO's Pizzeria on Friday night to help sponsor someone's Breast Cancer Walk (20% of our ticket went to the charity). Saturday, I ate lunch at a Mexican buffet (is there anything more decadent?) after hearing two different people rave about it. And earlier in the week I met my friend Terry at Yukon Steakhouse to review a story she'd written. The end result of these two deadly sins, gluttony and sloth, was that I gained a pound. To be honest, I was surprised when I stepped on the scales this morning and saw the damage had been so little. I wiped the trickle of "fear perspiration" off my brow, put my gear on, and got back in my routine. I did my pre-dawn five-mile walk, showered, and still made it in to work by 6 a.m. Reminds me of those old Army commercials: We do more before 9 a.m. than most people do all day. And, while I'm reminiscing about my soldier days, let me spring another Army recruiting motto on you: Be all that you can be. I've been out of the Army for 14 years now and my motto is now the reverse of that. I'm hoping to be as little as I can be...at least in a physical sense.
Into Suburbia I�m back in the groove. I got up this morning at 3:30 and did my usual 5-mile hike. I just finished the audiobook O is for Outlaw on my last walk but decided to listen to something a little more inspirational this morning, a story about a famous walker. On this morning�s walk, I listened to Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley and Livingstone, by Martin Dugard, which tells of Livingstone�s search for the source of the Nile River. Wow, what a rousing, true-life, adventure story! My mind was so captivated, I didn�t even recall flipping the tape to Side B at the halfway point. Part of this was due to Livingstone�s incredible adventure and part was thanks to Dugard�s beautiful prose. Here�s an example: �He had walked across the Kalahari Desert, traced the path of the Zambezi River, and in the journey making him famous, ambled from one side of Africa to the other. Livingstone�s explorations were never linear or brief. Instead, he reveled in rambling, circuitous wanders through jungles, swamp, and savanna that lasted years and years� Livingstone didn�t emerge unscathed. The continent had insinuated itself into his appearance, given him bearing and presence, set him apart from other men�Hookworm thrived in his belly, he was chronically anemic, and, of course, there was the famous left arm, permanently crooked after a lion bit deep and shook Livingstone like a rag doll. Not only did Livingstone survive the mauling with a preternatural calm, but also set the bone and sutured the 11 puncture wounds himself without anesthetic. Later, he said that his time in the lion�s jaws was an epiphany. He learned a secret that made him unafraid of death.�I repeat my earlier sentiment: Wow! My quest is simpler than Livingstone�s. I�m not looking to conquer a fear of death; I merely aim to more fully embrace life. For years, my existence consisted of little more than television, computer games, and fast food. I�d forgotten how much else there was to do and how enjoyable it could be. When I was at my heaviest and would venture out into the world, my experience with the public was often negative. One time, Dawn and I stopped at one of those parking lot carnivals to ride some contraption that was part roller coaster, part spinning top, and part car-going-over-a-cliff. In other words, it looked awesome. However, the awesomeness factor dropped down to nil when I tried to board and the attendant couldn�t get the restraining bar closed over my gut. He put all his weight into it, pushing and shoving as hard as he could. But I was too fat to fit and we had to get off the ride. Of course, that was 85-or-so pounds ago, and, though I still have a load of weight to lose before I�m done, I think I can once again fit into the seat of an amusement park ride. I�ll probably wait until the spring before testing that theory out, when I hope to be another 40-or-so pounds slimmer. I'll go to Busch Gardens, where I'll go on the Loch Ness Monster and all the new rides they�ve put in since I was last there. It�s been more than a decade since I�ve been on a roller coaster. When I finally do get on one, you better hope you�re not sitting next to me. I tend to scream like a sissy on every drop and hairpin turn. Adrenalin inducing thrills, fun though they may be, are not the objects of my quest. Making the most out of opportunities as they present themselves: that is how I define fully embracing life. Once upon a time, I abstained from public appearances for fear of the shocked looks and whispered conversations my bloated belly might provoke. Imagined or not, to a fat man all the world�s eyes are critical and fixated on him. But now I feel comfortable enough with my girth and don't worry about what other people think...at least, regarding my appearance. These days, I even seek out opportunities to mix and mingle. Tonight, for example, I drove up to Richmond to attend a function with the James River Writers. I took in an interesting presentation and rubbed elbows with some of the literati. Best of all, I only once stepped on someone�s high-heeled toes with my size-12 sneakers. Quite a feat for me (hyuk, hyuk, hyuk). So, I had a fun, quiet night on the town. Nothing compared to the beer-drenched exercises in debauchery that filled the riotous days of my youth. But it was enough to make me happy. My little walk may be nothing compared to that of Livingstone, but at least I am living again. Walking with Tiny Terry This morning I stepped on the scales and discovered that not only had I lost that sneaky pound I put on earlier in the week, I lost an extra one as well. Yeah! Now that's the way to get a day kicked off. I'm planning a couple of big walks this weekend, so this morning I decided to take it easy. I drove over to Terry's house and we did a 2-� mile walk in her neck of the woods. Due to work commitments, I haven't been able to walk with her in a while. That's a shame, because Terry is the one who got the blubber ball rolling for me.  
Click on pictures for larger viewShortly after I started walking, when I was barely able to go 1-� miles without passing out, Terry offered to walk with me. We live a half-hour from each other's house, but she drove out to Poquoson on numerous occasions and went walking with me on the forest path behind the library. These "walking dates" kept me accountable. There were times when I wanted to slack off, but knowing that I had to meet Terry kept me from hitting the snooze button and rolling over. Even on days when we weren't walking together, I didn't let up because I knew my lack of conditioning would be evident the next time we were together. We did our short walk and chatted about what's going on in our lives. When Terry's not walking (or writing books, or performing "Mom duties" such as cooking, cleaning, and driving her son to activities), she is a professional artist. Not only are her paintings and Italian tiles are on display in local galleries, but also on the streets of Norfolk, where she created three of the Mermaids on Parade, and in card shops across the country (she did the art for the Career Chik line of greeting cards). But the place where she shines most, in my opinion, is with her stunning and detailed murals.
So, we made plans to go out to Mama Lina's this evening to say goodbye to her murals. I'll try my best to be good and keep the calories to a minimum. But that's hard to do when everything is so delicious and there's not a single healthy choice on the menu. If I find myself straying, I'll just have to think back to my entry of a few days ago (The Cost of a Few Days Off) and ask myself if a moment of yum is worth adding to my bum. I hope the answer will be NO! P.S. I actually was a good boy at Mama Lina's. I said no to wine and dessert and even the meals with creamy sauce, ordering a caesar salad topped with grilled chicken strips. Yea me! Double Your Pleasure The two most beautiful walking trails in Hampton Roads are the Noland Trail in Newport News and the network of trails running through First Landing State Park in Virginia Beach. Both feature rolling paths through scenic woods, and the Noland includes several monuments while First Landing features several historic Indian displays. Earlier this week, I made plans for this afternoon to walk the Noland with an old college and Army buddy of mine named Brad. Then, the day after we made our plans, I received an email stating the local Volksmarch group would host their once-a-year walk at First Landing. Well, I'd trekked the Noland many times before but had never set foot on the Virginia Beach trails, so I couldn't pass that up. Today, I would walk them both. The Volksmarch began at 8 a.m., so I picked up my partner in crime, Dawn, at 6:30 and we drove out to the Beach. On the way over, it wasn't looking like we'd get in our walk. The sky was black and off in the distance we saw a wall of rain marching our way. The rain caught us before we made it to the tunnel, and I had to slow to 45 just to be able to see. We kept going though, figuring, what the heck, we're already awake and on the road, let's keep going and see how things shake out. I told Dawn I was willing to walk in the rain and she said, "If it keeps raining, you can get your walk in and I'll find something to keep me occupied while you're gone." What a champ, I thought. "Just leave me your wallet to keep me company." As it turned out, the rain stopped just before we arrived at the hotel that was to serve as the kick-off point, so my wallet was safe.
"That's okay," I replied. "She's wearing water shoes and I don't care." She handed us a set of instructions and we headed out for the 10-kilometer hike. Within a half-mile we were on a bike path that led to the park. I had my camera with me, and we stopped to chat with a couple of fun-loving, off-duty police officers who helped out with a "mockumentary" video I'm putting together (thanks Carol and Gene!). Once we got into the park itself, the path became crowded with cyclists, joggers, and a few other walkers who, like us, were clasping instruction sheets with directions. One experienced volksmarcher we saw on the trail was hiking with ski poles, using them as walking sticks. Another hiker had a thick belt with 4 bottles of water fastened in attached loops. Unlike my first volksmarch, where I was ill prepared, I had my rucksack filled with water and various goodies and felt like I belonged. The ruck, handy as it was for toting necessities, has its problems as well. There were a few spots on the trail where branches hung low across the path and one spot where a tree had snapped six-feet up from the ground and fallen across the trail to form an arch. When I ducked underneath, the ruck snagged limbs and one of the branches jabbed my noggin. Dawn, ever supportive, didn't howl with laughter. She merely chuckled. "Watch it with the dirt, will ya," Dawn said at one point. The trail is quite sandy and tight in places, requiring a single-file march. I hadn't realized I was splashing her with sand. If I had, I would've had much more fun with it. "Why don't we switch places for a little bit?" she suggested. I acquiesced, and after she took the lead she said, "That's much better. The view's much better up here." "Not so much back here," I quipped. We were hiking up an incline at that point, so her rear was at eye level for me. She held a branch back and let it swing my way. Thwack! That's okay. It was worth it.
I wasn't so sure. Up to this point, the trail markings had been much more distinct. "Let's continue on a little bit farther," I suggested, "just to make sure." But Dawn was in the lead and insisted this had to be it. Why else would the orange tape be hanging there? So we trudged along for close to half-a-mile, the trail became less distinct, and the surrounding woods became more like the type of forest you read about in a story that begins "After being missing for two days, the lost hikers were rescued..." We turned around and hiked back to the intersection. About 100 yards up the path from where we'd turned was a post with signs indicating the names of the paths along with directions and distances for other trails. To Dawn's credit, when I did my "I told you so" dance, she only threw one handful of dirt in my face. I drove home in a hurry after the morning hike, stopping briefly to wolf down a Subway sub. Once home, I changed my filthy socks, shoes, and shirt, then jumped back in the car. I was supposed to pick Brad up at 2 o'clock and I pulled up in front of his house at 2:01. Then we were off to hike the 5-mile Noland trail. No rest for the weary. This time, I left the rucksack in the car and only brought a quart bottle of water with me. Brad wore a Camelback. I hadn't seen him in a long time, so while we walked we chatted about everything that had gone on in the last 15-or-so years. And, next thing you know, the 5-mile, hilly walk was over. Back at his house, I met his wife, offered my condolences on having to put up with Brad, who is very much like me, but fit. Then, I had one more stop before heading home. When I finally walked in the door, it was 6 p.m. I'd only had a bowl of cereal for breakfast and the sub for lunch. I figured I needed something big for dinner. But when I started rummaging through the cupboard, I realized I wasn't that hungry. I was simply tired. Exhausted, actually. Dinner could wait. I may not have learned much in this weight-loss adventure of mine, but one lesson has finally sunk in: When you're not hungry, stop cramming stuff in my pie hole. So, I left the cans I'd grabbed from the cupboard on the chopping block and headed to bed. Sleep came fast and my dreams were wonderful. In them, I was on stage doing a reprisal of my "I told you so" dance. A large audience was applauding my every move. And, best of all, nothing was jiggling. Ahh, I do so love the landscape of my dreams. What Men Do While Women Shower Today, a close friend of mine was throwing a baby shower for a relative. And, although baby showers are the sanctum sanctorum of feminine mystery, a group of us men folk were also invited�to go somewhere else. We met at the designated shower site, were shown the lovely cakes, balloons, gifts, and so on, and then we were shown the door. There were five guys so we drove in two cars to the designated "Testosterone Zone": a pool hall. Three guys who knew the location of Obelisk Billiards went in one car and I drove my car with Serge, who, like me, had never been there before. We followed directions to the proper strip mall but weren�t able to locate Obelisk until several passes through the parking lot. This gave Serge and me time to catch up. �I haven�t seen you since the picnic,� Serge said. The picnic had been back in May, and the thing I remembered most about it was the delicious, marinated chicken Serge had brought. I�d been good about avoiding other tasty traps at the picnic, but I went back for thirds with his chicken. �You�ve really changed,� Serge went on. �You�ve lost a lot of weight. I mean, you used to be like whoomp.� At this, he held his arms in front of him as if he were preparing to pick up a keg of beer. The picnic wasn�t just 3-� months ago; it was 50 pounds ago. The keg pantomime wasn�t far off the mark. Serge went on to tell me how smart he thought it was that I was walking instead of running. �Every serious runner I�ve known,� he said, �now has knee problems. Seems like they�re all getting knee replacements once they hit 50.� I didn�t tell him that I used to be a serious runner and that I�ve got knee problems. He�d been nice enough to call me smart and I didn�t want to disabuse him of the notion. We finally found the pool hall, its entrance tucked in behind a grocery store�s overhang. I entered with trepidation. It�s been years since I�ve �torn up the felt��a literal term in my case instead of a figurative one. My sister had a pool table in her old house and I used to go over there to beat up on her children when they were still shorter than the pool sticks. Unfortunately, no one ever clued them in that they were supposed to let their doddering old uncle win. They would beat me mercilessly, often mocking my feeble attempts to try combos and bank shots, both of which had less chance of going in a pocket than hopping a bumper and landing on someone�s foot. Of course, a cue ball taking one of them out was best chance of winning, so I never heeded their advice on how to fix �my problem.� Likewise, my ear was deaf to advice at Obelisk, where my whack-em-smack-em approach to shooting pool didn�t fare any better than it had in the old days. The elder statesman of the group ran the table and schooled all us neophytes on everything we were doing wrong. I had another commitment and had to leave after playing in only two games. My companions had no idea how lucky they were to escape without having a cue ball bounce off one of their noggins. Oh, well. There�s always next time. Jogging in the Rain When I walk in the early morning dark, my only company is the voice on my Walkman from whatever audio book is currently loaded. But the Walkman doesn�t fare well in the rain, so I had to make alternate plans when I woke to the patter of rain on my roof. Why not run? I thought. Serge�s voice from yesterday echoed in my head, reminding me of the knee damage that many long-time runners suffer. But, this was just one day and I was going to live on the edge. I started off at a slow jog and slowly picked up the pace. In my mind, I was a blur. In truth, my speed was little more than a fast shuffle. I figured I�d probably have to stop every quarter-mile to walk a little bit. But, no. I never stopped. In fact, I�m still running now, circling my house while typing this entry on a laptop. Okay, okay, I did stop, but not until I finished the 2.2-mile loop. I haven�t run that distance in 3-� years.
Speed, though, is a relative term. True, I�ll never be able to catch Usain Bolt in a foot race, but that doesn�t mean I�m the slowest slug on the planet. I�m a little bit faster than a dead turtle, a good deal faster than a VDOT road crew, and many times faster than Sylvester Stallone reading Dr. Seuss. So I�m a slow-poke jogger. I can live with that. Besides, walking is more my speed. It gives me time to stop and smell the flowers. And, every now and then, set a bear-trap to slow down one of those speedsters showing me up. |
