Walking Is Not Funny

In the last 39 days, I’ve run a grand total of 20 miles – 13.1 of those during the Sacramento Cowtown Half-Marathon. I’ve done no exercise at all since the race, in an effort to rejuvenate my old right leg tendons. I no longer have any stiffness or discomfort, so I thought it was time to at least try a weight-bearing activity.

For each of the past three days, the Lovely Mrs. A. and I have taken a two-mile stroll, which we completed in just under 32 minutes. It’s a very pleasant way to spend a half-hour, the weather is terrific, and my leg feels pretty good. But it got me to thinking about those mobs of people who walk half-marathons and marathons. If we kept our walking pace for a full marathon, we’d come in just under seven hours.

I don’t want to do things I like for seven hours.

Don’t get me wrong. I mean, if I survived a plane crash in the middle of the Mojave I would summon the strength and desire to walk for seven hours. But voluntarily? Never. I’ve bonked on long training runs, and the best remedy for overcoming it was knowing that walking back to the car would take a couple of hours. I’m convinced the prospect of a very long walk led to the invention of the marathon death shuffle.

I’m not down on race walkers. Whatever technique you use to get across the finish line is fine with me. But if I can’t run, I think I have to move the speedometer in the other direction – maybe a skateboard, a soapbox derby car, or an Acme rocket sled.