Walking the walk

So there I was.  Out on a beautiful mid-February day.  Plants were sprouting, a few flowers were blooming, the smell of an early Spring was in the air.  And I was happy, walking through Seattle's Madrona neighborhood, mid-way through a 5.5-mile walk.

And then a voice boomed out:

Voice: "Hey, another guy who walks just like me!"

I turned my head and saw a guy standing beside his house.  He looked like he was nearing ninety, his wrinkled face grinning at me like a demented jack-o'-lantern.

Me:  "Hahaha."

Voice:  "Well, at least we're both still alive!"

Me:  "Yup."

Well, that brilliant conversational exchange ruined my walk.  My day.  Why, you perhaps ask?  The guy was some kind of nut, right?

The problem was that I'd already been worried about my walk, worried as recently as the first few minutes of today's walk.  My feet, clad in hiking shoes, kept slapping the sidewalk, making loud, embarrassing noises as I walked along.  I'd noticed that more and more recently.

But it hadn't occurred to me that it made me look like an old man.  Old to the extent that my walk caused this guy, himself well into advanced codgerdom, to embrace me as a brother.

When I got home, I turned to the internet for advice.  Advice on how to avoid attracting attention as I pounded the pavement.  I found all kinds of articles describing why people tend to "walk old" as they advance in years.  Often, the blame was placed on pathological sources -- for example, the well-known "Parkinson's walk," where the fellow walks bent over with his arms held stiffly at his side.  More frequently, the blame falls on poor muscle tone in the legs and abdomen.

I suppose the muscle tone in my legs isn't what it was at age 25, but it can't be bad.  I walk briskly five or sometimes six miles every day, part of the time climbing up fairly steep hills.  But, setting aside conflicting advice as to the cause of  "walking old," one result is a tendency to take shorter and shorter strides, and to take them more slowly.  These shorter strides seem to make the feet come down more flatly on the sidewalk, rather than striking heel first and then pushing off from the toe.

After dark, away from the prying and astonished eyes of my neighbors, I decided to experiment with my stride.  I was immediately aware that my stride did indeed seem to have gradually become shorter, which may explain why I was no longer passing as many fellow pedestrians as I had in the past.  So I consciously lengthened my stride.  I noticed that my steps seemed smoother, and that I was avoiding that embarrassing slapping noise.  I walked a mile, using my longer stride.  I felt more comfortable, and -- almost automatically -- I found myself walking faster.

Obviously, it's a mistake to adopt too long a stride -- you'll look clownish and grotesque.  But I felt comfortable with the longer stride I tried tonight, and I plan to consciously use it over the next few days and see how I feel.  I hope I'll look (and sound) better.  And a longer stride may have the added benefit of giving my muscles more exercise per mile walked.