I've been walking.
January and February are hard months for me. It took at least a decade for me to figure this out, because the data points only come around once a year, so it's hard to collect enough of them to recognize a pattern.
I have enough data now. A ball drops every New Year's Eve: my adjunct academic contracts are expectedly sparser, the urgency to make pots for holiday sales dissipates, my porch studio is too cold to work in, the weather is bleak, days are short, and nights are long. I should fill this time by upping my pottery production--or finally building an all-season studio. Instead, I only get the work done that absolutely must get done. I procrastinate. I surf. I waste a dreadful amount of time not doing much, feeling bad about it, and then doing the same thing over again the next day, for no apparent reason other than that this is what I always do in January and February.
So I've been walking.
An hour before sunset on January 21st, after avoiding work all day, I thought that perhaps going outside and putting one foot in front of the other for an hour might count as doing something, even if it wasn't making pots or prepping for the next day's writing workshop. Ten minutes later, I walked out the door and headed north on the greenway. Away from my computer, my brain finally focused on workshop plans, which I dictated into my cell phone. After a few miles of this, as the last of the sun's rays faded from the sky, I paused on the quiet wooded path to photograph the out-of-place yellow-orange glow of a nearby energy distribution substation. When I reached the north end of the greenway, I considered that I could walk all the way to Eno River State Park, but it would be too dark to hike once I got there. I turned left to loop back home. By the time I got back, I had walked eleven miles, six of them in the dark.
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| Really? I can't spend the night here? Duke Energy distribution substation butts up against tree-lined trail. |
The next day, I spent 3.5 hours on Zoom talking about science writing with postdocs in upstate New York. That afternoon, I walked another eleven miles. In theory, I had set off to buy bread at a bakery a few miles away, to give my walk a purpose. In practice, I came home breadless, because walking was purpose enough.
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| You can't see hand-painted NCSU garden gnomes from a car. |
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| This is what I had been looking for; you can find it in unexpected places if you travel by foot. |
On the third day, I made walking a personal goal. I made up some rules:
1. No travelling by car in February (exceptions allowed for medical appointments, emergencies, and moving my kid out of his dorm if the university shut down student housing again due to covid).
2. Walk a lot. (What's "a lot"? Walking places I'd usually drive? Every day? Most days? I'm still figuring it out.)
3. Walk to prepare to walk more.
I've been talking for years about wanting to do a long-distance hike once the kid is comfortably ensconced in college. He's now thoroughly ensconced, and the trails aren't going to hike themselves.
So I walked. I've long been a destination-focused walker (walk to work, walk to the store). For five and a half weeks, I became a walking-focused walker. I walked enough to feel like I was actually getting somewhere, despite ending up back at home every time. I learned a lot.
I drove three times in February:
(1) I had a doctor's appointment on February 2. I drove because it was allowed under Rule 1, and because walking 16 miles roundtrip seemed like more than I really had time for. The appointment ended with an unexpected biopsy, so after driving home, I spent most of the afternoon Googling all the things that could potentially be wrong with me, instead of working. That was still a better use of my time than walking eight miles home with a leaky wound.
(2) On February 26, S and I each drove one of our two cars out of the driveway and parked them on the street, so we could transfer a firewood delivery from the street to our woodpile.
(3) Also on February 26, after we moved the wood, I drove both cars back into the driveway.
Everywhere else I went, I went on foot.
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Before the no-driving rule kicked in, S dropped me off
at the southern end of the American Tobacco Trail,
and I walked the 24 miles home. 01.30.2021 |
I'm privileged to be able to spend this much time walking (as well as, I suppose, to spend two months submerged in seasonal depression, frittering entire days away between brief spurts of required productivity). For better (usually) or for worse (sometimes), I am mostly my own boss; my early-year work load is light; I no longer have a kid at home who needs daily attention; and (for better, definitely) I have a spouse who works full time and through whose job I receive healthcare benefits. I also recognize that I can walk through most neighborhoods in town without anyone judging whether or not I belong there--or at least without anyone acting on that judgment.
So I walked. The no-driving rule meant staying relatively close to home. My longest loop was just under 13 miles, which got me about 5 miles from home as the crow flies and included an almost 2-mile stretch through West Point on the Eno City Park.
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January 21-February 28: 261 miles, 35 walks.
Shortest walk: 1 mile loop; longest walk 24 miles one-way.
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Things I learned:
1. Walking is better than not walking.
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The sidewalks bordering NCCU are stenciled with
walk-related encouragement. Eat smart. |
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| Be active. |
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| North of NCCU, words yield to symbols. Keep walking. |
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Downtown stencil. A friend and I donned masks
to walk and talk. |
2. Walking shrinks distances. It might take longer to get somewhere on foot than by car, but the fact that I can get there on foot makes the destination seem closer. Walking changes the meaning of "within walking distance."
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A short destination-focused walk quadrupled into
a walking-focused walk. 02.19.2021. |
3. Walking is the best way to understand the twists, turns, meetings, partings, and rejoinings of roads and trails. I grew up in a part of the Midwest where streets are laid out in cardinal directions--where you can measure miles by counting crossroads and navigate by looking for grain silos poking up in the distance above the corn and soybeans. Decades later, roads that curve still throw me for a loop. Walking makes the curves make sense.
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Curvy roads make it harder to tell what direction
I'm headed, but easier to draw pictures. 2.27.2021 |
4. Walking amplifies local history. From historical markers, to cemeteries, to local landmarks, to murals, to historic districts, to schools and parks and museums and even to Little Free Libraries, walking helps you see connections between people and places in ways that driving does not.
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Where pedestrians have a will, pedestrians will
find a way. This path on N. Roxboro Road doesn't
offer much protection from speeding cars. |
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The closed part of this "sidewalk" is the part where
there's not actually any sidewalk. Fayetteville Road.
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Fayetteville Road is better endowed with sidewalks
than many other busy streets, albeit with a few
unfortunate gaps. Here's a miniscule stretch built
solely for cars to drive over. |
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This sidewalk continues on the other side of the grass-
covered pile of dirt (and probably under it too). |
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There are no sidewalks on this hill along the freeway,
which makes sense. I shouldn't have been walking
here. Do not try this at home. |
6. When people see that you are walking a lot, they recommend books to read and movies watch about people who walk a lot.
In these long-walk narratives--skimmed from the uppermost layers of the world's millennia-deep collection of wanderer tales--distance-walking is inevitably life-altering. Protagonists walk away from the familiar, the comfortable, the mundane, the dangerous, the horrific, the tragic. And they usually walk directly or meanderingly toward those same things too, in all possible pairings. Distance matters in these stories: an epic is not an epic if you only have to walk across the street to experience it.
7. You don't need to get in a car to go for a walk in the woods in Durham: we have greenways, rivers, trails, and parks in places both expected and unexpected.
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Boardwalk in Indian Trail Park.
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| Greenway behind Costco. |
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West Point on the Eno City Park.
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8. You don't need to get in a car to see art in Durham: we have abundant visual, sculptural, architectural, and musical art in places both expected and unexpected.
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Brontosaurus on the greenway near the Museum
of Life and Science. (But is it art? Walking and
philosophy go hand in hand too.) |
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| Underpass art connecting Westover Park to Northpointe. |
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| Mural in progress on Foster Street. |
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| Duke Chapel. |
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| Duke's Nasher Art Museum. |
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| Durham County Library sculpture. |
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| Minions having a Mardi Gras party on the greenway. |
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| I AM DURHAM, Morris Green Park. |
9. The Bull City likes its bovines.
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| Emerge Ortho. |
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| Magic fairy bullerina (?) at Stadium & Duke. |
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*The little library on Geer Street is adorned with names and images referring Black Wall Street and other Black history in Durham. Links below provide a brief who's who:
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The top of the little library depicts Shakanah China, who was 13 when she was killed in a drive-by shooting in Durham.
