I TAKE A BRISK WALK around the neighborhood every morning. I love those walks. They loosen my back and get the blood pumping and on mornings after I’ve had a few drinks (never more than 20 days a month; well, not never, but rarely; oh, skip it) they clear my head. Olympian good health, though, is not the only benefit. There’s kind of a Jeremiah Johnson-thing that happens when modern man slips into his Nikes and heads off alone into the dawn’s early light, The Big Lonesome, just a short, suburban left and right from the 7-Eleven. True, one often squanders these brief, reflective opportunities day-dreaming about the woman in the next cubicle at work, but that’s probably nothing compared to the paltry fantasies of Jeremiah Johnson himself, who, after all, was limited to those yearly visits from Will Geer.
Both sides of the road are lined with parked cars as I go, but I don’t think I ever noticed any of them until the other day. I was power-walking along, heel-and-toe, elbows swinging, hips swaying; in other words, looking like a perfect idiot.
