I've been pondering locomotion, of late.
Gas prices are high, we just finished a trip to visit family in CenCal, I'm planning out my summer visits to Jack and weighing the merits of driving, taking the train, or flying.
In our years of being together, I never paid too much attention to the cost of a visit - the cost of a relationship maintained is worth whatever I pay at the pump (or at the airfare counter, as may be the case this year). But what I have always nickeled and dimed myself on is the costs of unnecessary drives. Did I have to go to town for that? Did I add enough errands to my one trip to make it worthwhile? Have I driven far enough to make use of the car reasonable?
That last question has been especially preeminent given the high gas prices, the impending climate crisis, and my own general well-being. Town, I should state here, is only a downhill mile away.
Two weeks ago I rode my bike to town for my chiropractic appointment. The office is large, the waiting room almost always empty; there was plenty of room to lean my bike against a chair inside and not bother anyone with it. Of course, there is that massive Hill I have to pedal up to get back home...
Today I decided that a mile was an awful short distance to go through the trouble of getting out the bike, checking the tires, making my hair suitable for a helmet and my pants suitable for pedaling. Perhaps a mile is not far enough to make use of even the bicycle reasonable! So I walked.
I strolled down the hill into the late afternoon sunshine as it pressed its way through cracks in the clouds; past the little girl who was playing by herself (away from the others) in the schoolyard grass, who bid me 'hello'; alongside the unkempt, grassy banks of little white daisies, yellow dandelions, and some kind of tiny purple flowers that I had not noticed the day before. (Because yes, I walked to town yesterday as well.) Up the little lane (for pedestrians only) which connects to the top of town and requires much less criss-crossing of the road to follow the sidewalk; down the Hill past the old (and occasionally Victorian-styled) houses, their lawns and gardens coming alive with spring flowers: here a magnolia tree in full fragrance, there a section of lawn overcome by little blue-belled flowers that the mower was unwilling to devour and so skirted round, despite the lack of any sort of true flowerbed.
Then it's a turn into town - the first block is a gauntlet of delicious food smells: fried things and dough. It's intoxicating. The next block is a gauntlet of antique shops - equally dangerous, as far as I'm concerned. Then the library - I've resisted setting foot in there, too, so far, but I feel my steadfastness is beginning to ebb. Then there's the hardware store, where bags of soil vie for my attention (spring planting is already begun, spring pruning has been attempted, spring weeding is well underway, thanks to the hand weeder I bought from them yesterday). A fat, dry, dog turd is in the middle of the sidewalk and I nudge it with the side of my shoe, rolling it towards the base of a nearby trash can where it's less likely to end up in the grooves of an unfortunate's sole. On I go to the post office, where I notice that the "masks required" signs appear to be gone. Perhaps they decided to take them down after all? Once I've emptied my post box, I double back to the chiropractor where we swap weekend and birthday stories (ours are only a day apart). Then, straightened and limber, I set out up the main street once more, through the gauntlets (the food smells are especially intoxicating now - it's after 5 o'clock!), up the Hill, down the lane, up through the neighborhood, and back to our little home.
Now tell me, isn't that a better tale than "I drove to the post office, then to the chiropractor, then went back home?" And, one might even argue, better than "I rode my bike to the post office, then to the chiropractor, then huffed and puffed up the Hill back home." As much as I love my bicycle and riding it, there is only one method of transport I am fortunate enough to have use of which can afford me that much detail in my peregrinations: walking.
Antonia Malchik wrote a mind-altering book that I had the pleasure of reading a couple of years ago called "A Walking Life: Reclaiming our health and our freedom one step at a time." It comes back to me often, and all the more now that I live at the top of a hill instead of at the bottom of one. It's much easier to start the journey when with your first steps gravity pulls you away instead of the other way around.
Speaking of books, it's high time I did another reading round-up, but I think I will save it for a little while longer. I've read quite the assortment of odds and ends lately. Some more substantial reads are filtering up to the top of my pile just now, though, so my spring reading round-up should be a bit more lively.
Until next time!
