No walk in the park

I’ve walked a lot of places that are wild and beautiful and remote. Wilson’s Prom. Mount Bogong. Gorges in the Kimberley. The foothills of the Himalayas. The walk I do twice daily most weekdays is neither remote nor wild. It would be a bit of a stretch to call it beautiful. But I love it. As well as keeping me moderately fit and clearing my head at the start and end of every working day, it provides me with some heart-warming encounters. And some etiquette dilemmas.

The main challenge is how to overtake other walkers politely. I used to swim laps, and although there is more wriggle room on a pavement, the same issues arise as in the lanes of the local baths.

There are wandery, dawdling people who are infuriatingly hard to get past. This mainly happens in Lygon Street in the evening, when most people are there to relax with friends over a bowl of pasta and a bottle of red. So they mosey along, checking out the menus on display in the restaurant windows, letting themselves be tempted by the waiters spruiking outside.

Five thirty at night, I just want to get home as fast as I can. It’s unreasonable, I know, but I get cranky trying to squeeze past rows of four abreast, meandering casually along the pavement as though they own it.  Grumpy old woman that I am rapidly becoming, my chief gripe is groups of school kids, bags strewn untidily, hogging the entire footpath and ignoring anyone trying to get past. Or others, nose in their mobile phone, oblivious to me bearing down on them, muttering about manners.

Morning is easier as most people are intent on getting somewhere. But there are still groups of twos or threes who chat as they stroll, women tottering in towering heels, and some who are just seriously slow walkers.

As I get closer to the city, and the traffic lights become more frequent, the walkers I overtake catch up with me at the next red light. Then off I go, striding out till I am stopped at the next intersection and they catch up with me again.

The more delicate problem is when you are walking at exactly the same speed as another person, and you start off at the lights at exactly the same time. You walk along in perfect sync for twenty metres or so and then it gets awkward. You slow down, to let them get ahead. They do the same, having, presumably, had the same thought. So then you both speed up again, simultaneously. This can go on for a while, until you get the timing right. Once one of you is ahead and there is a decent space between you, you have it sorted.

Till you achieve that perfect distance, however, there are a few agonizing minutes, as you are in close proximity to a complete stranger. You can see their calf muscles bunching and flattening under their stockings or trousers, you can feel their body heat, you breathe the same pocket of air.

It’s not all etiquette dilemmas of course. There are some lovely moments. Feeling smug as I see the poor crowded suckers hurtling past on the tram. Greeting the friendly regulars. The old Spanish couple who take their dog out early. The Indian man who jogs in jeans and a woolen jumper. Arthur, our local mechanic, who gives me a cheery wave as he opens up his garage, as do the guys at the panel beater’s on the corner where the tram veers into the park. There are clusters of retired guys playing golf who wish me a courteous good morning.

Sometimes there are unexpected encounters. Maybe it’s because not many people walk, or that I look reasonable friendly, but I am frequently approached by others. An old Chinese lady asks for help interpreting an ATM. Some people ask directions, others want money. I have also been chatted up, asked out for lunch, propositioned and told I am beautiful. The most recent incident involved a young guy who looked Spanish and sounded American and expostulated with a disarming grin as I powered past, ‘Godammit, you look good!’

Somehow, and I hope I am not speaking too soon, I have never felt threatened by these interactions. They leave me surprised and amused and give me something to make my kids laugh about in the evening. Not to mention my colleagues – when I told one co-worker about this last one she asked, ‘Was he high on something?’

Of course, I’m sensible. This time of year, it is dark when I knock off, and I walk up busy Royal Parade and Sydney Road rather than taking the short cut past the zoo.  But at eight in the morning and six at night, there is little sense of menace. Just a lot of people – some jogging, some hastening home like me, others meandering along in search of a good night out.

Fresh air, free exercise and time to see a few of the unusual things between Brunswick and the CBD. A daily attempt to mind my manners and some surprising encounters. Sure beats driving.