From A Runner To A Walker > IDEAS & IDEALS

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What is life if, full of care,
                     We have no time to stand and stare ?
                                                       (W.H. Davies, 1870-1940)

     Until a few years ago I used to be a runner instead of a walker. Walking was beneath the dignity of my stout heart and nimble legs. I scorned all forms of the gymnastic exercises being done without any apparatus. I needed something heavier or hardier that would accelerate the pumping of my heart faster and stretch my muscles more effectively. One of the most alien words was "heart attack". I even wanted to experience what it would be like to have it. Being out of breath was a fun I could have for nothing whenever I wanted. In summer I chose to run under the hot sun. I loved to feel the profuse perspiration running down all over my body, the stinging in the eyes and the salty taste in the mouth. I used to fall on the ground at the end of the running, out of breath, groveling on my knees and hands. It was a real fun.

     Physically as well as psychologically, I am no longer a runner. I don't remember exactly from when, but one day I came to find myself running along the same road in the same running gear, but without the same enthusiasm and the subsequent agony. I found I was doing it mechanically out of habit and convenience. The essence of running lies in its speed, but if one runs in the speed of walking, he is not a runner any more. I, therefore, felt that the time was near for me to stop running, with some regret and also with a sad smile, in order not to defile the sacred realm of it any more.

     Quite recently something happened to me. One day I felt a strong urge to run again, like a retired baseball player who wanted to regain the glory of the old days. I had an illusion that I could still do it better than those who had just started it. That was why I accepted the challenge from my daughter the other day who had virtually no experience in running until she became a highschool student. So long as running was concerned, I was an old pro in my time-honoured shorts, shirt, cap and sneakers, while she was only a young, but innocent and ignorant novice.

     The start was all right for me, but as time elapsed, to my great mortification, I was lagging behind her and could not catch up with her simply because I was out of breath. I knew that my second wind would soon follow, but to my horror, it did not. Momentarily I was in a panic. When I realized finally that there would be no second wind any more in my life, I was far behind her. I was a worn-out old horse running desperately after a new-born colt. No one can win in the race with the young. Then and there I decided to quit running for good, weeping in silence.

     Walking is not, of course, as much ego-satisfying as running, but it is also very much rewarding. Turning from a runner to a walker is like greeting autumn after summer, or coming home from a long hunting trip. You are naturally inclined to feel some tiredness, to slow down and take some rest. The good thing of it is that most of us deserve it and can afford to enjoy it.

     As a walker I came to experience and discover what I had not as a runner. I feel I have more time now than before. I rarely excuse myself now from a friendly invitation by saying, as I did so many times, "I am busy." I gladly spend and spare more time in and for talking with people around me. From the first and short talk with the boy next door to me in my apartment the other day, I learned, to my surprise and delight, that English is his most favorite subject in school and his dream in the future is to become a professor of English. When I told him that I am, he would not hide his disbelief. I thought I should try to look more bookish than athletic hereafter.

     Do you know mountains grow as years advance? They do. I always complained of the fact that all the mountains in my country are not rough and high enough to challenge me any more, since I have been at the top of all the high mountains throughout the country. Recently I found they have all grown up, as my children have, in silence, without my knowledge. In the mountain paths or in the alleys I confront so many climbers in panting breath. They are all headed for the peak. Standing by the side or sitting on a rock nearby, I watch them brush by me with a knowing smile, and listen to the same breath I wasted so much in the mountain air.

     Who loves the cold winter weather? I did. I often went out to sleep in the open in winter in imitation of the arctic explorers, when temperature dropped far below zero. The mild weather was an insult for me who lay in camping tent planning seriously an expedition to the South Pole some day. Now I shrink from the cold and the heat. There is no fun in getting exposed to the raw elements of nature as before. I am afraid to get wet in the rain. Snow is too cold to play with or sleep on. I was very angry with the boy who threw a snowball and hit me on the neck by mistake on the morning we had the first snow this year. I have become a keen observer of weather and a deep appreciator of sunshine. I feel rich on a fine sunny morning.

     The mental attitude of looking back more often than before is one of the many good indicators of a walker. Now I find myself being absorbed in the deeds and acts of my past with pride sometimes, but more often with regret and shame. On my daily walk after dinner yesterday my reverie fell inadvertently on the sparrow I shot and killed with my sling when I was a little boy. It was still warm when I picked it up. My train of memory was relayed to the so many exquisitely beautiful butterflies and dragonflies I killed, for fun, by dismembering their bodies, and the frogs I smashed on the ground and the snakes I beat to death with sticks or rocks. It was a fine evening in September, an ideal weather for a walk, but I cut short my usual evening walk, and hastened back, shuddering at the cruelty  lurking in me.
          (September 8, 1994)