Introverted? Me?

I just got off the phone with my sister.  I FaceTimed her for Father’s Day.  Neither of us was wearing makeup.  Boy, did we look—old?  I mention this because we were discussing various trips we were taking.  She was going to the Ozarks, I was going to Lisbon.  We both noted the dangers of walking.  Tree roots for her, cobblestones for me.  And we both admitted to now using a collapsible hiking pole whenever we went out for our daily exercise.

Yes, walking is my exercise, something I love to do.  Not hiking.  My husband, who’s now using a walker—karma?—used to take me on extreme hikes, up up always up.  Even when we were going down, we seemed to be going up.  I still remember hiking in New Zealand, where I convinced my husband to take the path labeled “easy.”  Fair warning:  There are no “easy” hiking trails in New Zealand, no meditative wanderings.  At least not where we went.

At home in the flatlands, I’m fortunate in that there are many walking paths I can take, either in the neighborhood or within a ten-minute drive.  But I have a problem.  I’m addicted to solitude.  I don’t want to see another walker, I don’t want to have to say hello to someone with her dog, or to wonder if the person is talking to me or is on her phone, talking to whomever.

Why do I like these solitary, alone-in-the-world walks?  I have no idea.  I have friends who belong to walking groups.  They walk, they talk, they ramble the byways of city and country, and it’s good for their souls.  Sometimes I think—wouldn’t it be nice?  But then I remember, I like to be alone.  If I don’t want to say hello to someone else while walking solo, why would I want to chat during a group walk?  Maybe I’m just not a nice person.  Should I put a question mark at the end of that sentence?

I can’t say I’ve always been a walker.  For many years I found it sheer drudgery.  Maybe it was a carry-over from elementary school where I would walk to school—about three-fourths of a mile—walk back home for lunch, return to school and then return home.  Who needed it?  It was much more fun to explore the woods behind my house than to tramp for exercise.

College, working in the city, all involved walking with a purpose, not for the simple pleasure of putting one foot in front of another and seeing where those feet would take me.  Then there was my bike period, with the saddlebags that I deployed to go shopping.  I must have been insane.

I have to say I don’t think I began walking for pleasure until about five years ago, when my life emptied out of much else.  Walking began to fill an important part of my day.  There was the neighborhood, where each season I paid close attention to landscaping and the shape of everyone’s driveway, mine in much need of resurfacing. I guess I was trying to discern if mine was the worst.  It came very close.  There were the forest preserves, one a savannah, the other near the lake, where a retention pond served as a rehearsal room for bullfrogs.  The wildflowers were spectacular, the birding brilliant.  True, the struggle remained to find the path less taken.  Early morning risings were necessary to avoid others at all cost.

Walking, I suppose, is a form of meditation.  But it’s also a time to think, to figure things out, to find a path forward, aside from the one I’m walking on.  I gain energy and inspiration; and, when I return from the walk, I always check my Apple Watch to make sure I closed my rings.  Obsessive?  Okay, yeah.

Lately I’ve combined walking with music.  I never did this before because I wanted to be alert to what’s happening around me—in nature, not oncoming cars.  But, because of my Puritan nature, I’m the type of person who considers simply sitting around listening to music an anathema.  Instead of listening, I should be doing something worthwhile.  Like cleaning?  I have the same reaction to watching television during the day.  There has to be something better to do.  I never turn the tv on before five unless I’m sick.  And then there’s nothing to watch.

I feel a bit guilty listening to music while walking because I feel it cuts me off from the earth sounds, which is what I should be paying attention to.  On the other hand, I’m walking and I’m thinking and I’m enjoying music I wouldn’t otherwise listen to.

I plan to walk until I no longer can.  I don’t go as far as I used to or as fast, but that’s still me you see if you look outside your window, an old woman with a cane, trying not to trip on the asphalt, stopping occasionally to fast forward to another song and taking an alternate path if she sees someone coming her way.