THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 7, 2023

Walking the Valk Alone

By Steve Eskew

Jogging? No thanks — de feet need no more agony. Mountain climbing? Impossible! 

I’ll stick to obsessive walking, thereby making me akin to many other certified eccentric New Yorkers. 

Case in point, the late Swedish actress Greta Garbo. Garbo graced the movie screens throughout the 1920s and '30s, but she was also famous for her excessive, solitary walking excursions. When Garbo retired, she intensely resented NYC reporters for disrupting her private constitutionals:

“I vant to be alone vhen I valk the streets of Manhattan. Go avay!”

I can relate — in spades. I also vant to be alone when I walk. I’ve never wanted a walking partner glued to my hip on my 80-blocks-a-day jaunt through the city of eight million people. 

While moving alone among the multitudes, I’ve always felt like a sort of walking paradox. And ‘tis my hallmark to wear a headband during my walks. Makes me feel foxy.

In my 60s, I regarded myself the epitome of youth as I fervently raced down Broadway. Whenever our teenaged grandkids visited, they were amazed. They wisely realized they couldn’t keep up with their animated peepaw. 

Mortified to admit their grandfather’s  obvious  superiority, they sheepishly distanced themselves from “Super-Gramps” during my power walks.

Heroically redirecting the blame to myself, I slyly queried my oldest grandson: “Why don’t you want to power walk with me? Is it the headband? Is it because I swing my arms so very wildly?”

“You’re getting warm.”

Humph! Go figure.

Anyway, 80 blocks takes most NYC power-walkers about an hour. I developed a system of maneuvering my body within the Big Apple that would frustrate any sane walking partner to tears.

No wasting time by unhurried sauntering for me, thank you very much. I simply had to escape the nightmare of getting behind the slow text-reading zombies on cell phones. 

In that reckless era of my youthful 60s, I scurried through the streets like a crazed, cartoon cheetah. I pretended I was in London and hung strong to the left-hand of the crowd as I swept lickety split down NYC’s enormous sidewalks.

Most American people stick to the right; therefore, I was traveling “against” the crowd. People coming toward me automatically bowed out of the way, graciously yielding, as if I were a cluster of migrating butterflies.

Those were my Speedy Gonzales/Rickie Racer daze. Age has mellowed me into a far different type of loony toon — an outré sloth who spends way too much of my time in my hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, visiting my family.

Omaha corrodes the very merry spirit out of devout walkers. It’s a city of cars, cars, cars.

I push a utility cart when I stroll the dizzy streets of Omaha-ha. The new natives don’t get me. My ever-present headband begets lots of giggles. I like to think of it as my humble halo. 

As I promenade along at my leisure, I enjoy taking lots of breaks. So, I use the utility cart to tote my CD player, books and iPad. I also carry food for any wildlife creatures I meet (and chat with) along the way.

Laugh if you will — please! — but NYC reigns as a far safer and vastly superior venue for walkers than do the mean streets of my native Omaha. NYC drivers yield to pedestrians as if we were royalty; Omaha drivers regard pedestrians as lowly peasants.

Sorry homies, but yesteryear’s wild and wooly Omahans who boldly rode horseback have faded into history to accommodate wilder, woolier Omaha drivers. 

Then there’s the dolts who boldly clutter the narrow sidewalks with scooters, skateboards, bikes and even baby buggies — all speeding out of control. Omaha’s so-called side “walks” have become known (affectionately) as Omaha’s side “rides.” 

Road rage in Omaha-ha? Rare. But pedestrian rage runs rampant.

No wonder a rival city recently held a contest. The first prize was a week in Omaha. Second prize? Two weeks in Omaha.

Am I a traitor to my hometown? Absolutely not. And I secretly adore Omaha drivers. I also adore head cheese — for dessert. 

As for walking partners? Good thing I vant to walk alone. My grandkids continue to pass on my polite invitations for them to accompany me on my walks when we visit them in Omaha:

“You don’t want to join me? Is it still the headband? Be honest — is it because I look like a downtrodden street urchin pushing an overloaded cart? Is it because I scream profanities at rude drivers?”

“You’re getting warm.”

Oh, go take a hike.


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