I extended my daily walk yesterday. Added about 1/2 kilometre to it. I get sluggish and lazy and whiney in the winter months. The inner 2 year old comes out and stamps her feet (indoors) and refuses to budge. Even though all the outdoor gear is lined up in the hall. Even those odd things you put over your boots to stop the slippage on the ice, a gift from a friend.
My 91 year old neighbour does 5 miles on his treadmill every day in the winter. Five. Miles. I know myself and treadmills and exercisey machiney thingies. I use them as clothes hangers. I tested myself on a state of the art treadmill in the house I would stay in in Toronto for 4 months. A bells and whistles and cardio status and incline and calories burned measuring machine AND a flat screen TV in front of it where you could watch any movie you wanted, or the news or chick-chat shows. You know how many times I hit that machine? Twice. In four months. But I'm still drawn to them. As if by stroking them in sports shops the osmosis will make ME a lean, mean machine. And those small stairey things, you've seen those? Where you mindlessly ride up-down, up-down, for oh, five minutes before you go quietly into a corner and open a vein and wait for death to ease your boredom?
The rest of my village gear up and head out in all kinds of weather. I lurk behind the windows watching them marching out and back all through the day, hills and dales vanishing behind them like ribbons, strong legs striding. The dog and I dart out and manage a quick sludge-trudge through the snowy path to the shore and back again, whimpering. (That's me whimpering, the dog is crestfallen). In front of the fire is where
Not now. Not anymore. We embrace this spring, hoping she'll stay for a while. Meanwhile we chew up the mileage of the shore, out and about like real human beings and canines. Proudly greeting our fellow walkers. Lusty with health and how-are-yas.
Finally one of the walking pack. Finally bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.