Walk in the hills no stroll in the park
Ladies, I seek your advice. The subject is walking. I walk for various reasons. I walk because I like it. I walk to maintain my gracile silhouette. I walk to justify a diet of fried food and bottled pleasure. I walk because walking straightens a tangled mind. (Are you struggling with a crossword clue? Take a walk. Putting one foot in front of the other will solve it.) And I walk because walking isn’t jogging.
I once had a friend who liked to jog. He said it induced spiritual thoughts. The only thought jogging has ever induced in me is how soon I can stop. Besides, jogging is antisocial. The jogger is a solitary creature, muted by exertion. And the look on his face, spittle-flecked and blood-engorged, is an eyesore. It is part self-absorption, part self-hatred.
The walker, in contrast, not only glows with wellbeing but also has the breath to commune and the time to smile. When walking I make a point of greeting every oncoming dog and patting their owners. And it’s rare for tails not to wag in response. We walkers are a cheerful bunch.
The places I walk are the winding streets and lanes of Lyttelton, the skinny tracks that run from bay to bay, and the Port Hills where the paths are narrow, steep and often unfrequented. And I walk them briskly. I like to raise the pulse and generate a sweat. But in that briskness lies the problem. It concerns those who are walking in the same direction as I am, and in particular the women and the girls.
Picture this. It is late afternoon. I am walking the narrow track between Cass and Corsair Bays. There is nobody about. I round a little curve, and ahead of me is a young woman walking more slowly than I am. I keep going. The first she knows of my presence is the sound of footsteps behind her, or possibly, since my step is
light as thistledown, my breathing.
The young woman has not been born who doesn’t look around when she hears breathing close behind her. Instinct plants a look of alarm on her face.
Now, no preux chevalier likes to alarm a woman of any age. To allay her fear I switch on a smile, a smile that announces I am all benevolence. But you know how it is with willed smiles. They look willed.
So the poor woman, on turning round, sees a 14-stone man bearing down on her, sweating, breathing heavily, and with a look on his face of unmistakable lecherous intent. I’m surprised none have yet died of fright.
But what am I supposed to do? Cough as I approach? Sing? Toll a bell? Wear one round my neck like a cat?
And there is worse. Just yesterday I was climbing a track on the hills when again
I noted a woman ahead of me. The path was narrow. For me to pass she would need to step to one side. The gap between us shrank. She did not turn round. I trod more heavily. She did not turn round. I coughed. She did not turn round. Then I noticed two little white plastic wishbones, one in each ear.
Why anyone should wear earphones when walking on the hills I cannot tell you, but there she was, engrossed and oblivious. How was I supposed to let her know I hoped to pass. Quoi, as we preux chevaliers put it, faire?
So, ladies, tell me what I should have done. Answers on a postcard please to: Better ideas than a tap on the shoulder, House of Lamentation, Lyttelton.