Recently, walking has been my zen. At first, I walked to a DVD (Walk Away the Pounds with Leslie Sansone). One mile one day, then two, then three, until I could do 8-9 miles a week. I'd barely be awake, and barely be dressed, but I'd cross the finish-line sweating along with the super-fit models on the screen, and with the encouraging lilt to Leslie's voice. With one month under my belt and twelve pounds no longer under my belt, I decided to get fully dressed and hit the streets.
With Bebe wagging her tail like a metronome to the beat of my steps, we'd walk up to the corner, back home and then up to the other corner. Not quite a mile, but a milestone nonetheless. Soon, we ventured further with a goal in mind (well, I had one goal, and she had another). My goal was to walk to the newspaper stand and get the Sunday paper. Her goal was to sniff out any and all cat droppings along the way. What a duo; me marching, still to the encouraging tone of guru Sansone, while tugging on Bebe's harness to get her nose out of the dung. Eventually, we ventured to the Post Office, then to a store and now, we have several neighborhood routes which total a little over a mile each outing. More miles under my belt, less inches around my belt-line. Forty-two pounds later, we've discovered a different walking experience: The Upper Tampa Bay Trail.
When I first discovered the Trail, it was a good seven miles away and the path, although pretty, was short and unpaved. It did lead to a lovely and peaceful body of water (Tampa Bay), but we had to walk it twice to work up any kind of sense of having walked at all. It actually took longer to drive there than it did to walk the path. And, to top it off, the path was lonely and dry. Recently, I discovered a longer paved path, which I'll try the next time, and, at this particular leg of the park, a huge field where people were letting their dogs off-leash to run themselves silly. I made a mental note of buying a 50-foot rope to tether to Bebe for such an adventure. Knowing her, she'd smell some horse manure and take off into the depths of the trail and I'd never find her.
The Upper Tampa Bay Trail has many trail-heads, though, and I discovered one much closer and much nicer. Now, we've become regulars and I recognize a lot of other regulars, too. It's like a community in a way; an anonymous community, one similar to a group of smokers standing outside in their designated smokers' gazebo. Strangers sharing a similar addiction. Although smoking and trailing seem antithetical, I did see an old geezer on a beach-cruiser yesterday, huffing and puffing along while puffing on a huge Stogie.
The trail attracts more than characters chomping on Cuban cigars. There's the elderly man who rides a bicycle with a basket much like that of the Wicked Witch of the West, and in it, a white bedroom-slipper-of-a-dog sits like a princess on a pea with her tongue hanging out like a red wash-cloth. The Sunday sunrise brings out the Hispanic couple who appear to be empty-nesters. They walk just past the first quarter-mile, find a green metal picnic bench along the canal, break out their thermos of cafe con leche and share their aromatic brew with the new sun's reflection on the water. He talks to Bebe in Spanish and calls her a "he". She calls Bebe "muy linda", so I know she knows she's a she.
The sunrise also brings the horses out of their stables. Their massive muscular bodies send Bebe's tail tautly between her legs. She plants herself still, her hair stands on end like a bristle brush and she refuses to go forward. As if to tease her, a horse whinnies and Bebe lets out a little cry in return. Then, a bike will pass, and Bebe snaps out of her trance and gallops in the wake of the racer.
Joggers with iPods pound the paved path with a passion I'll never understand. I tried jogging and it wasn't pretty, nor was it passionate. Then there's the Asian couple on roller blades who swing their arms like pendulums on a grandfather's clock; she always follows him. While Bebe chases the squirrels as far as her 16-foot lead will let her, speed-cyclists shout "to your left!!", which causes Bebe to chase their skinny bodies on their skinny bikes with their skinny shoes clamped into pedals propelling skinny tires. There are families with tots on training wheels, and Sunday husbands pushing elaborate baby strollers made specifically for jogging parents.
There are casual sunset strollers like the two gay men who walk easily with each other. From behind, they both have the same balding spot, the same size dry-cleaned and creased khaki shorts, the same mid-shin white socks and the same affection for each other. They stop at the same time, point to the same bird and start on their stroll again at the same time. The African American woman with the toothpick legs and big buttocks and even bigger uni-bosom, wears a blue t-shirt which was probably too tight five sizes ago and now slips off her shoulders showing a booster-shot scar like a sunburst tattoo. There are women who speed-walk and talk at the same time three abreast; whose spandex shimmy and shine as they twist their size-2 hips.
Then there's me and Bebe. She's now the official trail greeter. She smiles at every walker, biker, blader and jogger no matter how fast they pass. Her tongue flying in the wind like a big red sail, she'll lick anyone who will stop to admire her unusual coloring, her fluffy ears, her black orbital eyes and her contagious enthusiasm. Solitary walkers lost in a deep mood are momentarily lifted, speed-walkers slow down, old men smile that "isn't she cute" smile even though they'd never say it aloud, the Asian woman cracks a grin breaking her pace, and I, well, I am happy walker. Another milestone under my diminishing belt.
