10,000 Small Steps for Mankind, Part 1

Part 1, Home Turf

Last summer I heard people talking about the 10,000 steps movement, where people set the goal of walking 10,000 steps (over three miles) a day for mental and physical health and for the environment. I kept putting off starting what sounded like a simple, multi-purpose exercise program. I don’t have the time. I don’t have a good location. I don’t even have a pedometer.

Recently, I had the great good fortune to land a temporary gig about a mile away from where I live. When I discovered that parking assigned to part-timers like me is as far away from my office as my house is, I decided to try walking to work.

Despite the rain that’s been baptizing California lately, I enjoy the walks immensely. I get the heart pumping and the blood flowing without caffeination plus I’m putting the pedometer I got for Christmas to good use. I’ve always enjoyed walking in the evenings, sometimes as much as two miles if the sunset inspired me. Making this long distance trek every day seems to slow down my usually frantic mind to the rhythm of my pace, and fascinating little thought bubbles rise to the surface of my consciousness. I see my world, and especially that part of the world close to home, in a new light.

For instance, the street I live on looks very different at eight in the morning than it does in the evening when I used to walk when everyone’s home from work and tucked safe in their Barca-Loungers or wherever. No soft blue video glow flickers from the windows, but there’s plenty of action, let me tell you.

It’s kitty rush hour, for one thing. All these determined little felines cross my path (none black, at least so far), scampering home for morning treats or scraps left over from the night before. Women, mostly Hispanic, pull rattling old compact cars up to the curb and hop out to unpack cleaning supplies. The house cleaners all have cheery hellos for me, but barely make eye contact with each other. Is it professional rivalry or something else?

Talking about rivalry, the contractors and their crews make no bones about whose daddy is who as they arrive on the scene. Between the oversized vehicles and high volume (in sound and size) equipment, these guys put the whole package on display. Being a woman of a certain age, I only receive hurried glances, not wolf whistles, but I know the exaggerated grunts and thumps and engine noise are meant to impress any passerby with just how macho these guys are. Thankfully, the refinancing fiasco has greatly diminished the remodeling frenzy. For a while there, parking was at a premium because of all the painters’, roofers’, and various other outsized vehicles clogging the narrow neighborhood streets.

My morning walk has noticeably improved my dog radar. There are three regulars. Two are wonderfully ugly mutts so obviously thrilled to play the role of guard dog they always make me smile. The third, a flinty-eyed bulldog, purebred for battle, scares the pants off me, especially since the fence around his yard is made of rickety lattice. He’s trained me to walk on the other side of the street, which reduces his howls and snaps to a low-level warning growl. Between the dogs and cats and cleaners and contractors and the occasional possum waddling home to his secret lair, I’m left to wonder who this place belongs to – the hard-working beings on the scene every weekday morning or the ones who slave away to pay the mortgages on these all-American dream homes and only get to enjoy them two days out of the week?

After four blocks of manicured lawns and suburban bounty, I have a short jaunt along Pacific Coast Highway. But get this – it’s on a dirt path! PCH is surprisingly quiet at this time of day, so this short stretch of my walk on the rutted clay under the feathery branches of acacia trees is almost like stepping back in time into the adobe days of Rancho Los Cerritos. What was it like back then with green hills and views all the way to the ocean? Now, we can only guess.

My first brush with urban encroachment is the sloping expanse of the Denny’s parking lot. Usually, one of the employees is outside sweeping the steps for the breakfast rush. (It’s mostly retirees cashing in on the senior specials who don’t get started until nine or so.) I guess I fit the customer profile, because the Denny’s people always greet me warmly and then look surprised as I walk past the entrance. Maybe one day I’ll leave early and stop in for the French Toast Extravaganza, which they’ve been advertising with three color posters in their windows for weeks. Something about being up close and personal with a three foot tall slice of fried bread with a gallon of syrup dripping off of it that just makes a person hungry.

Next week – Part 2, Cross Roads, or How Two Highways Tangle