Walking my legs off-- part deux

Saturday was the longest I have ever walked in my whole life, EVER. 16 miles! Of course we met at the insane hour of 6:00 am...I don't know if I could have done it without my walking group. A nice group of ladies who walk at my pace. Some of them are obviously in better shape than I am. Like this one lady who just joined our group because the rest of her group didn't show up. They are obviously the sane group doing something normal on a Saturday, like sleeping until a reasonable hour, grocery shopping, watching McGyver re-runs and tossing in a few loads of laundry. Like I used to do, back in the pre-walking quest days. Anyway this guest lady is 20 years older than me and can basically hand me my ass on a platter fitness wise. I would hate her except at about mile thirteen when I was completely be-draggled and on the verge of swearing in a fashion that would make a longshoreman blush--plus I was falling behind and too ashamed to ask for a slow down. She slowed down and chatted with me and encouraged me. I look at her perhaps as a guy would his war buddy who gave him some water during the Bataan death march during World War 2, though I met her only hours before in the dreary industrial parking lot north of the Broadway Bridge where the walk began. We then meandered about the Pearl district and then walked over the Steel Bridge to the Eastbank Esplanade.

The Eastbank Esplanade is a fairly new walkway along the eastside of the Willamette river. Here you will find all the crazy, clean-living Portlanders walking, running, rollerblading, and biking along. Even at the barely sane hours it was packed with people. I ask myself "Who the hell are these people? Why the hell are they so frickin' happy at 6:45 am on a Saturday?"

The regulars in my walking group know that I'm basically on auto-pilot until 8:00am. I look sullen and grunt at them when they attempt to engage me in conversation. Luckily, they know not to take it personally. About 8:00 I feel pretty human and can chat with my fellow walkers and actually register what they say to me. When I started talking, one lady in our group said, "Ah, Stacy's awake now!"

Talking makes the time go faster, we talk about families, jobs, walking tips, and other odd bits, like the whole Tom Cruise-Brooke Sheilds controversy about post-partum depression. A unanimous decision that Tom is crazy, and what the hell would he know about post-partum depresssion?

As we converse we are making it all the way to the South end of the city to the Sellwood bridge. Here we head up into town through the streets lined with antique shops in Sellwood. We then head through a little neighboorhood nestled between Sellwood and the Waverly Country Club. Ellie, our leader had helpfully written a brief history of this neighborhood in our walking instructions. The neighborhood was established in 1915 with the concept of the homes being as if they were plunked down in Portland after being lifted out of the English countryside. Many of the homes were Tudor style or English cottage style. The lawns were meticously kept, and faithful to the theme even 90 years later, the gardens were gorgeous. Some houses were smallish cottages others were large and stately English manor style. The streets had English names like St. Andrews, Manchester, and Exeter. The only thing that marred the theme was apparently a brief period of architectual disloyalty in the 1950s. A few '50's style ranch homes were scattered about. Why in the '50s people decided the best style for homes were ugly, low-slung shoebox style homes is beyond me. Did it have something to do with the fear of Communism? Were the low-slung houses designed to more easily survive an Atomic bomb from the dirty commies? Was ranch-style the only McCarthy approved design? Would you be hauled before the House UnAmerican Committee if you lived in a beat-nik, commie Victorian style home?

But even these were carefully kept, and looked brand-new. I wonder if I walked across the expansive, emerald green lawn and peered in the window, would I see a June Cleaver-esque woman vacuuming in heels and triple strand pearls? I half expected to see a law sign in red, white and blue declaring "We like Ike in '56!"

After we left the time-warp, turn of the century pastoral England with a dash of America in the 1950s, we headed back to the Sellwood bridge and walked over it to the west side and headed to back to the Broadway Bridge, many miles in the hot, humid, soggy distance. Here is when I thought I was going to lose it. I was really hurting and hating the other cheerful quick stepped walkers. I began to tell myself I'd been through worse, like natural childbirth. Anytime you're involved in an activity that approaches the pain of pushing a 7 and half pound baby out the opening the size of the dime aided only by some Tylenol 3, then you know you are in trouble.

Anyway, guest walker lady pitied me and help me make it. I went home and soaked the feet, long shower, nap and honestly I felt pretty good, realitively unhobbled, and more than a little proud.

Today I laid by the pool as my daughter and her friend swam and splashed around. I read my book and drifted in and out of sleep as I looked at the cornflower blue, cloudless sky and watched the trees sway in a perfect breeze. My reverie was interupted by another poolside mom who I am guessing was formerly a drill sargent in the Marine Corps. Not so much by her appearance, but rather by her booming, authoratative, fog-horn loud voice. As any mom knows kids when excited abandon all volume control. Girls in particular can emit high pitch squeals understood only by dogs and dolphins. Sgt. Mom had three lovely girls ages 8 down to about three. They would get excited and yell and squeal. Then mom swung into action. By action I mean remaining completely prone in her lounge chair and yelling "Kendin! Kaya! Keegan! You SHUT UP right now!! YOU are too loud!!"

I thought, "Holy crap! I wonder where they get it lady!" I then drifted nearly back to sleep, and nearly leapt out of my lounger when she was at it again "Kendin! you get Keegan out of that floatie NOW! I MEAN NOW!" Although my favorite moment that actually caused me to laugh right out loud, was when she shouted "Kendin, Kaya, Keegan, you girls are too damn loud! YOU ARE DISTURBING ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE AT THE POOL!"

Yelling mom stopped when back up arrived in the form of a junior high age daughter number 4. Who effectively wrangled her other sisters. I didn't get her name (Kayla? Kelly? Kashandra?)

Noticing that I was a nice, crisp red and that new islands of freckles had sprouted up, it was time to leave the pool. I nearly shouted to Allie it was time to leave. But I thought better of it. I walked over to the side of the pool and motioned Allie closer. In a pleasant tone, I said, "Time to go."