At a certain age, maybe 60ish, when the immense vitality of the 50’s fades, some of us, metaphorically and otherwise, begin to hotfoot it away from death. That sounds dignified, doesn’t it?
Actually, it looks more like an early chase scene from Buster Keaton, minus the skill and with death always gaining. I’ve been going to the gym 3 or 4 days a week since I was 38 and striding up and down various hills and trails for much longer, but here I am at a few days short of 72, and I can feel him close behind.
However, the comic futility of all these faux escapes doesn’t matter, to me anyway. When more doesn’t work, just add more. Thus, my night walks.
Well, early morning walks, as in at dawn’s first glimmer, after I’ve taken care of the dog and before coffee. I walk west along the ridge for 5 minutes, very fast, turn and walk east, very fast. Most of it is open to the sky, a field to my south, horse pasture to my north. I prefer not to walk into the darkness of the big trees.
I’ve been doing this for 6 weeks and only missed 2 mornings due to torrential rain, long enough for it to become a habit and a pleasure. We’ve entered the quiet of the molting and migration season. Nothing stirs except for the horses who snuffle and look at me without alarm. The neighbor’s rooster sometimes begins his routine. That’s it.
As I walk, I windmill my arms and turn my hands about and extend and contract my fingers. The blood moves. The heart beats faster. I probably look either mad or silly or both. Who cares? No one is there to see. I keep my head up. The cool air feels good. My legs have grown stronger. My plan is proceeding. Maybe I’ll live forever.
