The white car cruised to a halt near me and the driver’s side window slid down. The man in the car asked me, “Do you want a ride?” I paused on my walk up the slight hill leading from my daughter’s apartment complex and declined her neighbor’s offer. “Thanks, but I’m walking on purpose.” I continued on my way, a crisp morning walk to the grocery store for a copy of The New York Times.
A few years ago, I discovered the “Health” application on my iPhone and activated it. I was fascinated by the phone’s ability to track my steps and one day, I sent my daughter a text, proud to report the number of steps I’d taken. In a follow-up call, she laughed at me. “Dad, healthcare advocates recommend that the minimum number of daily steps should be 10,000.” My 1,469 steps suddenly seemed insignificant. When I visited with my Florida friend, she walked me until my feet almost fell off, and I sent my daughter proud texts showing 14,000 steps. When I moved into the Irvington neighborhood, I discovered the Pennsy Trail, a walking paradise for a concrete and gravel city kid like me. (Well, maybe not so much a “kid.”) My health insurance plan grants me home visits by nurses and nurse practitioners who do yearly wellness exams. They have all, so far, been pleased that I try to spend some time hoofing it about the neighborhood, but a recent exam showed that I had reduced blood flow into my feet. I asked the examiner how I could remedy that, and she told me to “just keep walking.” So, I do. But the days before Thanksgiving in New Jersey saw obscene temperatures, such as 6º, and 28º, which were frigid impediments to my health plan. But two days after Thanksgiving, there was a more forgiving weather outlook, and when the temperature soared to a lofty 33º, I bundled up and struck out.
As I huffed up the hill toward the grocery store, I noticed a white car slowing across the street; I glanced toward it, then powered past it toward the store, continuing up the slight grade that heads westward from my daughter’s complex. As I walked, the cold morning grew less so, and I started to sweat beneath my layers. I remembered driving past people who were walking and jogging in what I thought was bitter cold and thinking that I was not crazy enough to put myself onto such a cold street, but as sweat began to escape the wool cap on my head, I imagined that the efforts of warmly bundled runners might hold the cold at bay. I imagined it, but did not for even a moment, consider it.
My daughter has access to a gym at her job and she takes advantage of it, often hitting the treadmill on her lunch break. When we walk together, she powers across the ground in a “take no prisoners” fashion, arms pumping and legs churning in a way designed to stimulate her heart and send her blood roaring through her veins. My approach to walking is less aggressive, almost leisurely. I am brisk in my stride, but do not accessorize my stroll with wind-milling arms. Still, I believe that my purposeful walking, as often as the weather permits, is beneficial to my health.
When I got back to my daughter’s apartment with the morning’s Times, she told me, “Your son-in-love saw you walking up the hill; he didn’t stop because he figured you were going for a paper.” My family knows that I enjoy walking on purpose.