In 1957, a group called the Solitaires had a minor doo-wop hit called “Walking Along.”
I think of the tune, and the years that have passed, as I take my daily hike along the harbor — three miles when possible; sometimes, two; always at least a mile-and-a-half.
Walking along just feeling glad
Singin’ a song I won’t be sad
Oh, happy day
I’m just walkin’ along …
Feeling glad? You betcha’.
Who wouldn’t be singing “Oh, happy day” pounding out the miles at this point in life?
Could change any time, but for now I’ve beaten the odds. No hip replacements. No sciatica, no slipped discs, swollen ankles or knee braces.
Dumb luck, most likely, or a fortuitous bequest of genes from my mother who, well into her 80s, walked a couple miles to the Lutheran church in Brooklyn every Sunday wearing little black pumps and carrying a handbag the size of the Gutenberg bible — both volumes.
“Why don’t you take the bus, Mom?”
“Don’t be silly. Fresh air’s good for you.”
Also good for you is to just get away from it all for an hour or so — the web, the email, the scam phone calls (relax, you are not wanted by the IRS), the solemn purveyors of TV news, the political ads claiming a vote for the other guy assures Armageddon, the commercials hawking improved Medicare benefits (phone now!), the all-points alert from your wife that the washing machine spin cycle is kaput, and let’s hope we can get Phil the repairman before he heads to Puerto Rico again for…
