Tag: walking

Riddled with Variations

In a day of routines dribbling into a week of routines which flow into months and years of routines, I hunt variations.

Most of these come through my daily walks. I wear a Fitbit. My goal before sitting down to write each day is to achieve six thousand steps. Six thousand steps will provide me a comfortable start to the day’s walking goals. The steps, while a carrot, aren’t the day’s goal. I strive for seven miles plus.

Walking to the coffee shop where I write would help me with my walking goals. It’s two miles in either direction. I’ve walked it, and therein found why I don’t like it: it’s a boring, tedious, mundane walk. It’s literally a straight walk. To reach the coffee shop, I make two turns before walking one point nine six miles. Then I make another turn to enter the coffee shop. It’s a slight downward grade on the way into town, and an uphill walk in the other way. The monotony of this route throttles my senses.

To counter this, I drive three quarters of the way. Then I park and walk the downtown areas of Ashland. In this way, I can change routines on whim, and see variations that I’d not otherwise encounter. The variations stimulate my imagination, creativity and productivity.

That’s more critical now. I’m cop- editing a completed novel and just finished publishing a paperback edition of one of my previously published novels. These are not creative outlets. I invent stories as I walk, stories lost to the mind stream by the time I sit down and embrace the business of novel editing and publishing.

Sometimes my need and desire for routines sicken me. It seems seem unhealthy. On the other hand, the routines keep me on a sane path, pushing toward my goals.

Now, with my regular quad shot mocha in hand, sitting at the table and my documents open, it’s time to edit like crazy, at least one more time. It’ a grind, but it must be done.

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The A-B-C Ashland Walk

I usually walk a bit of Ashland before my writing session. Walking frees my thinking. Thinking is often useful when I’m trying to write. You can probably find some critics who claim that my writing is mindless, so they’re probably surprised to find that I actually think…sometimes.

This morning, I walked down Main Street to Lithia Park, and then crossed over and took Water Street to B Street. B Street was followed to Pioneer, where I turned left and went down to A Street. From there, it was easy; I walked A Street to 8th Street, then took 8th Street to B Street. I went down one side of B Street to Mountain, crossed B, and then walked the other side back down to Pioneer. At Pioneer, I returned to Lithia, turned left onto it, and then went up until I picked up C Street. C Street was then followed to 8th street. By then, it was warm and sunny, and I was sweaty, so I headed for the Boulevard Cafe on Siskiyou Boulevard.

See that? A, B, and C Streets.

It’s a pleasant walk in the morning. Predominantly residential areas, sidewalks shaded with trees keep it cool and comfortable. Grizzly Peak, other mountains, and the vineyards on the other side of the valley are frequently visible. Crosswalks are at most corners, and all the drivers encountered today acknowledged me crossing in the crosswalks, so my blood pressure stayed down.

The walk took an hour, and gained me three miles and fourteen flights of stairs, with the elevation changes. Those miles add up. My daily average for the last week is up to eight point zero four miles. Sweet.

My monthly average has increased to seven point five six miles, and my three month average has gone over six.

Progress, right? Sure. Every step counts.

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Cause/Effect

I’m in the cross walk, crossing Siskiyou Avenue in Ashland, Oregon. Ashland is supposed to be a walker friendly town, but I walk this town a bit, using eighteen crosswalks a day on average. I expect, from experience, for drivers not to yield to a pedestrian at four to five crosswalks a day.

It’s worse in the mornings. I was caught between two cars in a crosswalk the other day. One was turning left. He ran the stop sign and ignored me in the crosswalk, giving me a jaunty wave as he missed me by two feet. Meanwhile, the SUV coming straight thought that I would be by, so he kept coming. But because I drew up to avoid behind hit by the other guy, he missed me by less than two feet.

Today, these five drivers didn’t yield. It wasn’t that they didn’t see me. Visibility was great, and there was plenty of time. In what seemed like they were giving me the finger, they sped up. Already exceeding the twenty-five miles per hour speed limit, they were zipping along at thirty-five to forty when they passed me, standing in the cross walk. I heard the lead white Ford F250 accelerate from the vehicle’s location thirty feet away. Felt its breeze as its mirrors whipped past my head. Saw the driver through his window two feet away as he went by.

It outraged me. I spun through the usual shit that I spin through when someone gives me the finger or blows me off. I know I’m not a perfect driver. Never have been, and never will be. But I try to minimize shit. I try to do right with others.

Others don’t always play nicely. That’s what it seemed like these five drivers were doing. For whatever fucking reasons going on in their heads, stopping to let someone cross the street wasn’t on their list of things to do.

After venting to myself, I thought about the more pragmatic impacts of a car hitting me. Yes, I know I would suffer an injury, the levels and extent T.B.D., but my friends and family can share multiple stories about the injuries I’ve endured. There wouldn’t be anything I could do about that.

Instead, I worried about my computer files. That’s my writing, dude. I’d neglected to back it up the other day when the reminder went off. I’d hit the snooze. When it went off again, I ignored it.

I imagined losing those files, and swore in a dozen different ways. The crosswalk encounter reminded me that the back up was required.  Time to plug the zip drives back in and back up the files, because, hey, you never know.

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Fitbit Miles

I managed to achieve a goal of walking an average of seven miles per day for the last week, ending at 7.05 miles. It seems like so few in reflection.

My thirty-day and three month averages both increased, as well, to 6.95 and 5.82, respectively.

I remain dubious about the Fitbit’s accuracy, but it’s progress. I’ll take it.

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The Fitbit Chronicle

Illness hacked into my Fitbit progress.

  • The latest weekly average (steps and miles): 15,611 / 6.99
  • The three month averages are lower, eaten by travel and then sickness: 12,310 / 5.78

But those weekly averages please me. Buoyed by the fine weather, I’d increased my target miles to six per day in the second half of May. This week, I increased the target to seven miles per day. We’ll see how it progresses.

Thinking about getting out the bicycle, too.

4

A Dream of Lost Roads

I experienced several dreams last night. I remembered three this morning, but lost track of two of them, because a third dream occupied me.

In the third dream, I was attending a symposium with a female friend, Joan. I don’t recall what the symposium was about. I don’t think that was ever stated. When it ended, I suggested that we go get something to eat somewhere. She agreed. We had separate cars. She would follow me. Cool.

I headed down the road. I was driving an impressively expensive, exotic sports machine. The vehicles around me were older domestic American vehicles. Many weren’t in good condition.

The roads were terrible, and seemed to be getting worse. Within a few minutes of driving, I noticed Joan turned off from behind me. Where was she going? Finding a place to turn around, I went back to look for her. The roads were rapidly worse, degenerating from pavement, concrete or asphalt into rudimentary grassy, gravel trails. Yet, I thought, wait…I know this place.

I parked my car and exited it, looking around as I did. Although still daylight, it was late. The sun had set and dusk was growing. Less people were driving; more people were walking. Those walking were white, older, and obese, often with gray hair. From things said and seen, I knew I was in West Virginia. I’d spent my final high school years there, and then lived there once, for a year. I sometimes went back there because my wife has family there.

Walking around, I began orienting myself. Yes, I was right, I knew where I was. I was in the area where I’d gone to school, but all the businesses and roads were gone. People were walking everywhere.

The sky was indigo at the zenith, with a single bright star over the silhouette of the trees. A cool breeze picked up. I walked up a dirt trail to a small house on a hill. Painting white, it was peeling, had dirty windows and leaned to one side. It looked like it might have been built in the nineteen thirties and then had received poor treatment.

The people inside vaguely knew me. I knew of them but didn’t know them. We chatted about a dog and its owner, a man who ate poorly, but always ensured his dog had the best fresh meat for his meals. We laughed about that. I realized that one of the others was Red. Red, an ex-Marine, had stood trial for murdering his best friend, and was acquitted, even though it happened in a place locked from the inside, with no one else present. He had no memory of the event.

I asked about where I was, to confirm my conclusions. Yes, I was where I thought.

Leaving the little dilapidated hovel of a place, I started down the hill along the worn dirt trail. Remembering Joan, I returned to the house and asked to use their phone, to call my friend and find her location. Calling her, I saw a panel to one side. It had a full map of the area. When she answered the phone, it pinpointed her location with a bright, white star.

I told her that I knew where she was and where she needed to go, and gave her instructions. Then I hung up, thanked the others, and left, going back down the hill to meet my friend. Looking down the hill toward where I’d been before, I saw that all the roads were gone.

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Fitbit Thoughts

I enjoy the Fitbit. It’s amusing how it’s conditioned my thinking. Just like cats train us, the Fitbit has me trained.

I’m more congnizant of moving and the need to move. Whereas I used to attempt to be expedite doing things, I now make the most out of activities to get max movement. For example, I used to think, “Okay, I’m going to the master bedroom. What do I need to take back there?” Then I would load up so as to do only one trip. Now, I take one thing at a time and make multiple trips because I want those steps. This is also less stressful to me.

My average miles per day is up to five point seven three miles. Steps have increased to thirteen thousand, one hundred twenty-seven. Active minutes have increased to a seventy-one per day average.

It’s easy to forget to put the Fitbit back on. It needs to be removed for showers or baths, and recharging. My wife and I have both caught ourselves walking briskly around as we clean, accumulating steps, only to discover we don’t have our Fitbit on. So all that stepping you did, and no points! Damn!

My solution to the recharging side of it is to recharge at the end of the day. If I do forget to put it back on, my sleep won’t be tracked. That’s not a terrible loss.

The Fitbit’s sleep function seems iffy. One day it didn’t record my sleep at all. I reported it to Fitbit. We know we have some issues with it, they replied. We’re working on it.

Another night, my wife got up to check on something with the cats. I was also up at the time. It was about one thirty in the morning. According to the Fitbit, she slept uninterrupted for over seven hours.

The Fitbit can be cheated. That keeps me leery of all its numbers. For example, a rocking chair or playing with the cat with a string will increase your numbers. I’m dubious how much benefit either of those activities are to my overall goal of walking more and being more active.

Overall, after almost four months, I’m satisfied. We are more active. We go on walks together. Needing something for a salad or a green vegetable for dinner, we’ll just walk the mile to the store and back, together, to acquire the steps, miles and activities. We’ll walk to our favorite used book store, The Book Wagon. Its less than a mile away. Typically, we’ll combine them. The grocery is one direction and the book store is in the other, so we’ll end up with a three mile circuit.

Or, like yesterday, we’ll take a brisk walk around town and through the park. And sometimes, like yesterday, we’ll stop in a cafe, pub or coffee shop.

Yesterday, we stopped at Zoey’s for ice cream. I had the bourbon fudge gelato.

It was excellent.

 

 

5

A Morning Walk

We headed into town, not too early, to have coffee and take a walk. We meandered the streets and alleys, climbing stairs, examining new businesses and wondering about old ones.

The creek was visited to gage how high and fast that water ran, and low spots were inspected to see what protections are up against flooding. Talk turned to books – talk always turns to books – and we drifted into the book stores. The first one was visited because she likes the energy she gets from book stores. Book stores always help her forget recent history and the ugly hairpin turns of the latest politics.

In that first book store was a Tana French novel. I examined it to see if we’d read it and decreed we had not read ‘The Secret Place’, and nor was it her latest. We’re getting behind on our reading!

Next followed an examination of Lisa Lutz’s newest book. This was not another of the Spellman files. We’d enjoyed the Spellman series. They were light, entertaining reads. We’d read good things about her latest, ‘The Passenger’, but we passed with promises to buy it another day, or perhaps wait until it could be acquired used.

On we went to the other book store, where the air is thick with the enriching scent of fresh books. Along the way, we talked about ‘The Likeness’, and how much our late neighbor, Walt, didn’t like that book, thinking the underlying concept was too far-fetched and not believable in his mind. We sought a used book of ‘The Secret Place’ – we like recycling books and stretching our dollars – but only ‘The Likeness’ was available.

Off we went on our meandering way, like cats sniffing the paths left by other animals. She told me of the book she was reading about Robert Louis Stevenson. She’d not realized, or maybe had forgotten, that he’d written ‘Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’. She remarked, “He was all about his writing, from the way his life is told, a lot like you. He was all, ‘Grrr, don’t disturb my writing,’ just like you get.”

I let it pass with a smile. He’s not like me, and I’m not like him. We’re just writers.

Those poor non-writers rarely understand.

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Today’s Theme Music

“This is a song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles. We’re stealing it back.”

I was thirteen in 1969. The Tate-LaBianca murders exploded over the news. I remember newspaper headlines, photographs and television news coverage of the Manson Family actions and the subsequent investigations as clearly as I remember the assassinations of RFK, JFK and MLK, the Watts riots, or the Apollo moon landing. Helter Skelter became the symbol of the murders because the words were written in blood at the scene. The murders became books and movies under the name ‘Helter Skelter’.  It wasn’t an accident. Charles Manson believed and taught the Beatles’ ‘White Album’, including ‘Helter Kelter’, contained coded messages for him and his followers.

If you can escape the murderous connection, the lyrics are good to sing as you’re walking around:

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
And I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again

The song, written by Paul McCartney, would never be heard the same for many of us. Here is U2, trying to change it back for us in 1988.

 

 

 

 

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Today’s Theme Music

As with many things, I blame Mom.

Actually, I’m embellishing that. I blame Mom for my love of reading, learning, walking and eating, so it’s actually a short list. I do blame her for some of the music I know, too. Blame isn’t the correct word, of course; I credit her.

Staying with a walking theme for my theme music, I recall one song that I sang when I was younger. By Roger Miller, it must have seemed odd to anyone noticing that a ten to twelve year old was walking, snapping his fingers and singing, ‘King of the Road’. I know Mom had this album; I vividly recall its cover. But more, I saw him perform this song on television. I have no idea what show or what year it was, but I remember it. Of course, I have an active imagination, so perhaps I just imagined it.

Anyway, from 1965, Roger Miller and ‘King of the Road’. 

 

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