To a runner, walks seem close to a waste of a time. Why should it take me 35 minutes to walk somewhere when I can easily do it in 10 minutes running? It doesn’t make sense. Walks aren’t even an option in most runners’ minds. It’s a sign of weakness. A sign of giving up. Unless it’s at the end of 26 miles, walks are just the middle of the madness.
Me? They’re cathartic. A cleanse of emotions. There’s a trace of rebellion linked to walks that draws me in. It’s taking time in the busyness to rebel and slow it down. I don’t have to fight it any longer like I used to. In the past going on walks meant thinking rather than being.
Being is enjoying the pace, freeing your thoughts, feeling the freshness.
Thinking is panic, worry, mind-racing.
England has warmed me up to the idea. With too much time on my hands, it was the peaceful part of the calm. Unnecessary? Maybe. I had to find something to do with my time and sleeping suddenly seemed like a waste. What was there to do in a place with less than a dozen stores, no warm coffee shop, and no car?
I discovered new paths and sought out the best spots. I was lost on purpose. I gained a deeper sense of direction. I stumbled upon treasures. I bathed in the sunless days, the ones with misty rain, and the ones with compelling winds. I thrived in the sun-filled times.