I value the act of self propulsion. It began out of love for my grandfather who himself walked Scotland as a boy and matured following the exploits of the golden age of British mountaineering. Heights don't bother me, they terrify me; but they excite me to go higher. I've cycled beyond the point of guts ache and diarrhoea. Passing landscapes are my addictive video.
London is for walkers. And lately cyclists. On the real estate website Zoopla you can find a three bedroom flat south of the Tower Bridge for 3.5 million. Sterling. A major selling feature is it's half mile distance from the nearest tube station. That's a mile of walking every day. If you can't pony up 3.5m you will be walking more. Or maybe just cycling the whole way to your job in the bureaucracy. Probably in the rain. If you can't get on your feet you'll be selected out pretty quickly. Shoes sell well in London. Always have.
Alex comes from London and for the past 10 years or so it's back to London we go. For many years we had the good fortune of a house-sitting assignment every time London friends of ours travelled to America. But our friends have aged, don't travel any more, and we haven't been to London for three years. But opportunities opened up, cheap tickets came available and at the last minute we dropped everything, stuffed bags, left Giles in charge, said goodbye to Ciucio [the dog] and flew to London. Out of the sunshine, into the fog.
Surprisingly London was warmer than Italy and not foggy at all. In fact, the Perugia airport was so socked in, our flight was delayed, the plane couldn't land, and they bussed us down to Rome for a flight some 4 hours later than our intended. We straggled into our digs in the dark, apologizing to Wiss and Caroline who we had intended to see for lunch.
And so began ten days or so of marching. Walking in London is fun. You need a map. And you need an Oyster card. The Oyster card is a plastic card read by every bus and subway. You put money on the card and it can take you anywhere. Anywhere except where you are going. To get to your doorstep you have to walk. With your groceries or your luggage. Yes, there are lots of taxis, but they are for the one tenth of one percent, or at least those who pretend to be. Once you've figured out the basics, you are set for some of the best walking east of the Cascade range. History, art, architecture, street culture, fashion, theater, huge parks, public events, any kind of shopping, music, cool cars, lots of bikes, food, rain, and tons of people from all over the world. And most people you bump into respond to english and decent manners. It's all neat and tidy presenting a well repaired and scrubbed look, even the old stuff. Completely different from Rome where even the new stuff is broken. I suppose if you've just ridden home from work, in the rain, and there's no beer in the fridge; another splendid walk in all this wonder might not be so inspiring. I'm not saying living in London is fun, just walking. And I also suppose most of you have already visited London and know all this.
But to get back to the point, all this walking gave me sore feet. I never imagined I would suffer from sore feet. I admire nice hiking boots. I buy fairly expensive insoles. I love my knitted wool socks. Some have said it's a fetish. And perhaps that's all the more reason this is such a trauma for me. I didn't even notice it for the first few days. I did notice I was falling off the pace at times. Alex sets a mean pace. And the effort to keep up did require effort along with a certain discomfort; but I was mainly careful with my metal hip splint, the result of a bike crash fifteen years ago. A little ache in the feet? I'll change shoes when I get home. With four days to go I took the kids to Oxford street to see the post-Christmas shopping buzz. Luckily it was a lot of stop and go walking, but my feet were now becoming the main problem. The next night we walked to the Old Vic for the Lorax show and I was trying to hide my limp. The next day we toured St. Paul's and in the evening a stroll down Victoria Street to the Thames new year fireworks. I didn't want to go. The next day offered a pre-dawn luggage drag to the airport bus followed by a classic airport panic and a run to the gate. Finally, after landing, Alex and I walked four kilometers to our car parked at a nearby wharehouse.
I've self-diagnosed a mild form of idiopathic pes cavus, which is a high arch of the foot that does not fully touch the ground when standing. I always thought it was healthy, the sign of a natural-born walker. But no. The joints of the tarso-metatarsal bones of the arch tend to buckle upwards, pinching and eroding the cartilage between the bones. Prognosis: not so hot. Treatment: asprin and suck it up as long as you can, then screw the bones together and lose your balance.
I swear, ageing is the same for everyone. Every tick of the clock is another nail. Happy new year.
