Pedestrian

I’m getting better at this walking thing.

Isn’t it funny that one of the first things we learn is to walk. Before then it’s mostly crying, eating and poohing. There may be a crawl in between and we may blow gross spit bubbles but really walking is the first lesson we get in being an adult; the first thing that our parents boast about in that big “my kid’s better than your kid” sort of way.

And yet we all do it slightly differently.

My walk to the office is about two miles. Despite this I don’t do it every day; I am lazy and unfit and don’t enjoy walking into the heated building and immediately feeling shiny with perspiration. The walk takes me about thirty minutes and takes me along some of Reading’s least lovely and most congested roads. It gives me something to look at and there is a definite smug satisfaction in walking past the stationary traffic, albeit a brief one as the traffic moves on and swiftly overtakes me.

I’ve watched the cars for some time now and so have moved on to watching my fellow pedestrians.

There’s the skinny legged woman that I pass on the first street after mine. I can tell how late I am by the point at which I pass her. I can also tell that, mathematically speaking, her legs never meet, so I wonder how she doesn’t fall over. She has an apologetic walk; the way someone who would say sorry if you stepped on their foot would walk.

Last week was my only sighting of the very well dressed older man (three piece suit, large, well groomed moustache and mutton chops, fedora, key fob from pocket to button hole). He had a great walk. He walked like he owned the road, a slight bounce in the step that said “yes, I know I look good”. I liked him a lot. I’d like to train Mr Manbag to have a style and a walk like him when he’s old enough to wear a three piece suit.

There’s always at least one Gurkha couple. He will be wearing something utilitarian; khaki trousers, padded jacket, hat. She will be wearing the same but with a sarong on the bottom and following ten steps or so behind. I never know if this is an act of submission or because she doesn’t want to talk to him.

Then there are the pigeon toed walkers. These are more common than you think. Their feet say ten to two even first thing in the morning, the outside of their heels are worn as their ankles turn their shoes over at the edges just a little tiny bit. They march, regardless, onwards and upwards. Their walk is perfunctory and aggressive, as if to make up for their out of control feet.

Then there’s me. I put my “happy” playlist on my iPod and skip the slow ones, trying to find the tunes with the perfect beats per minute. So far I’ve found “You’ve Got The Look” by the small purple one, “When I Grow Up” by the Pussycat Dolls (don’t judge me. I like trashy pop) or “Sick” by Sam Sparro. All of these get me moving at just the right speed – fast enough to cover lots of ground but not so fast that I’m running to keep up. And what do I look like as I walk? I’m knock-kneed and splay footed and I’m probably singing, sometimes to myself and sometimes out loud. I’ve never been a good walker but I’m getting better, the more I do it. I’d like to think I have a spring in my step as I bounce along the pavement or cross the road. Most importantly I’ll be smiling; smiling at random people, just to see who I can get a smile back from, smiling at children or parents with cute kids (the “well done, you have a cute child, go you” smile). Smiling and making eye contact then moving on. I like this; it makes the journey pass faster and gives me a little warm glow inside. If you see me, please smile back.

I’m getting better at this walking thing.