I'm back!
August 29, 2010
Victor on Avon
Walking alongside the Avon on Tuesday afternoon, I thought about how much I hadn’t written about our trip. The same can be said of walks along the river on Wednesday and Thursday.
On the way to Stratford, we managed to avoid stopping at the Edison Inn in Port Huron. And that’s, to coin a phrase, As I Like It.
That non-stop was a plus, because we enjoyed a noonday meal at Othello’s behind Stratford’s City Hall, where it doesn’t take 30 minutes for the food to come. Of course, I could have used such a wait-time at Edison’s to do some writing, but that would have been rude.
I managed to get in a light nap after lunch, leaving no time to write before that leisurely stroll along the Avon.
Tuesday evening the writers gathered at Bentley’s on the town’s main drag. I picked at a Caesar salad and sipped a bloody Mary as I pondered the play we’d be attending just a block or so away. I hadn’t really investigated “Do Not Go Gentle.” If I had, I’d have scolded myself for not having written anything before, during or after my 3 p.m. nap, because the one-character show was all about Dylan Thomas, the writer, on writing. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
In fact, it WAS Dylan Thomas, back after all these years to talk about his life of competing with Will Shakespeare. “Now there’s a writer,” Dylan said with an ever-growing hint of jealously as he consumed more whiskey as the play progress.
His stage was covered with rejected wads of paper and retrievable pages of manuscript. Several times, he picked up the retrievables with considerable care, only to toss them in the air, landing helter-skelter.
I have neither wads of paper to wad nor manuscripts to toss. My legal pad is in my backpack, far from the pen I always carry.
On Wednesday, as I dredged my last bite of deep-fried fish in a pool of malt vinegar on my plate at Molly’s Irish Pub in downtown Stratford, the thought crossed my mind: I’ve been here for 24 hours, and I haven’t written anything yet.
I had been inspired some by a morning lecture on the development and history of Shakespeare’s “The Tempest.” I listened like a journalist, but I took no notes. No paper, no notes.
Plagiarism was really cool back when Will was writing, using a survivor’s tale of a shipwreck in the Caribbean. And the Bard got away with it, because there was no such thing as plagiarism as we know it as journalists, students and teachers. Maybe I could write about that.
But wait a minute, didn’t Dylan Thomas say that everything possible has already been written. How can write anything without it already having been written without plagiarizing?
An idea: I could wait until I get back home and write about the meals I had and all the times I thought about writing but didn’t. Intermix the meals with performances of “Evita” and “Kiss Me Kate,” and I’d remember everything of importance and weave it into an original masterpiece of entertaining wit and wisdom.
Let’s see, what did I have for dinner on Wednesday, or breakfast and lunch on Thursday? Darn, I must have digested those meals already.
But I readily recall lobster, scallops and shrimp on Friday at Whitey’s in Davison. Yes, we drove right past the exit for Edison’s again, cutting copious amounts of time off our drive back to Greater Lansing.
To coin another phrase, I say, All’s Well That Ends Well.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Asheville Walk
In the middle of June in the middle of a heat wave, the record kind, I'm walking, but not as much as I planned. More later.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Walking to class 45 years late
Victor W. Rauch (revised June 1, 2010)
In 2003, I began renewing my pedestrian’s-eye view of the campus of Michigan State University, walking some paths I first took as a student.
What a difference 45 years makes.
As I walk to class this time, I’m the instructor, the main campus is bigger and the distances are longer.
I had driven the two miles in past couple of semesters, but I vowed that this summer, with a class three days a week, it was time to tone up my body, save some gas and parking money and to get my feet ready for negotiating the steep streets of San Miguel de Allende come January.
The distance is at least twice what in my freshman year was a long stretch from my dorm room Bailey Hall to Mrs. Doty’s Spanish class in Berkey Hall.
But now I was walking from my house near the Hannah Community Center on Abbot Road to the Communications Arts Building on MSU’s South Campus, in an area that probably was a sheep meadow back in 1958.
The walk seemed to get easier each time. And after five times, I didn’t pause to rest on the walk home in the hot midday sun. I just wanted to get back to my air-conditioned home.
As I became familiar with two or three variations of routes, I rediscovered thinking while walking. Thinking and contemplating and daydreaming can be hard to do when walking the dog or when walking with Ellen, although we sometimes express deep and meaningful thoughts. For the record, the meaningful expressions are between Ellen and me, not the dog and me.
Thinking while walking solo helped me plan for timely to do in that day’s class and future sessions.
For four or five years back in the ‘eighties when I lived in Kalamazoo, I trod a slightly longer distance two or three times a week from my house on the west side to my newspaper office downtown. And in the late ‘nineties, there were the morning walks almost every day after Robin died. Praying as well as thinking while walking paid dividends, too. More than once, I marveled at seeing shooting stars at 4 or 5 in the morning.
Good habits, such as walking, contemplating, praying and eating what’s good for you, seem to fade away over time. And it’s tough to get restarted.
I’m not sure what got me going in the summer of 2003, but I was hoping it would become a habit that stayed a while.
The climb up Sunset Street became less steep. Knowing when and where to cross Grand River Avenue was less of a challenge. The paths past the red brick dormitories, Beaumont Tower and the Library take me where no car can go.
Those designated crosswalks look different when they’re part of my path. Now the roads are the crossings.
There was a squirrel in the Beal Gardens between the Library and the Red Cedar River that wanted to say hello to me one day, but I told him I had no peanuts. I forgot to bring any the next day.
The pedestrian bridge behind the library took me over the rain-swollen Red Cedar. My steps took me past Wells Hall. A recorded voice at the intersection of Red Cedar and Shaw Lane, unintelligible to me from my car, was still unintelligible the first four times I walked, suddenly registered with me one day. “Crosswalk for Shaw Lane” and “Crosswalk for Red Cedar Road.”
Anticipating cars on the traffic circle at Red Cedar and Wilson Drive soon became second nature to me. When I arrived in Comm Arts, I pushed the button to ride the elevator to my third-floor office. The next week, I remembered the peanuts and I started using the stairs.
In 2003, I began renewing my pedestrian’s-eye view of the campus of Michigan State University, walking some paths I first took as a student.
What a difference 45 years makes.
As I walk to class this time, I’m the instructor, the main campus is bigger and the distances are longer.
I had driven the two miles in past couple of semesters, but I vowed that this summer, with a class three days a week, it was time to tone up my body, save some gas and parking money and to get my feet ready for negotiating the steep streets of San Miguel de Allende come January.
The distance is at least twice what in my freshman year was a long stretch from my dorm room Bailey Hall to Mrs. Doty’s Spanish class in Berkey Hall.
But now I was walking from my house near the Hannah Community Center on Abbot Road to the Communications Arts Building on MSU’s South Campus, in an area that probably was a sheep meadow back in 1958.
The walk seemed to get easier each time. And after five times, I didn’t pause to rest on the walk home in the hot midday sun. I just wanted to get back to my air-conditioned home.
As I became familiar with two or three variations of routes, I rediscovered thinking while walking. Thinking and contemplating and daydreaming can be hard to do when walking the dog or when walking with Ellen, although we sometimes express deep and meaningful thoughts. For the record, the meaningful expressions are between Ellen and me, not the dog and me.
Thinking while walking solo helped me plan for timely to do in that day’s class and future sessions.
For four or five years back in the ‘eighties when I lived in Kalamazoo, I trod a slightly longer distance two or three times a week from my house on the west side to my newspaper office downtown. And in the late ‘nineties, there were the morning walks almost every day after Robin died. Praying as well as thinking while walking paid dividends, too. More than once, I marveled at seeing shooting stars at 4 or 5 in the morning.
Good habits, such as walking, contemplating, praying and eating what’s good for you, seem to fade away over time. And it’s tough to get restarted.
I’m not sure what got me going in the summer of 2003, but I was hoping it would become a habit that stayed a while.
The climb up Sunset Street became less steep. Knowing when and where to cross Grand River Avenue was less of a challenge. The paths past the red brick dormitories, Beaumont Tower and the Library take me where no car can go.
Those designated crosswalks look different when they’re part of my path. Now the roads are the crossings.
There was a squirrel in the Beal Gardens between the Library and the Red Cedar River that wanted to say hello to me one day, but I told him I had no peanuts. I forgot to bring any the next day.
The pedestrian bridge behind the library took me over the rain-swollen Red Cedar. My steps took me past Wells Hall. A recorded voice at the intersection of Red Cedar and Shaw Lane, unintelligible to me from my car, was still unintelligible the first four times I walked, suddenly registered with me one day. “Crosswalk for Shaw Lane” and “Crosswalk for Red Cedar Road.”
Anticipating cars on the traffic circle at Red Cedar and Wilson Drive soon became second nature to me. When I arrived in Comm Arts, I pushed the button to ride the elevator to my third-floor office. The next week, I remembered the peanuts and I started using the stairs.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Art Fair Amble
May 23, 2010
For me, one of the least satisfying kinds of walking is the air fair amble.
It’s like being on an obstacle course in slow motion. It’s certainly not conducive to beneficially raising one’s heart rate.
And there's no easy way to determine one’s stride and pace with so many sidesteps, stops and reverses.
Blocking my way are people, baby strollers, dogs and an occasional golf cart or wheelchair. Why do people bring dogs to these things?
Some of the people responsible for these obstructions are at the art fair for the same reason I am: To see what’s on display in the various booths.
But I’m also in the way of people, baby strollers, dogs and the occasional golf cart or wheelchair.
And to top it all off, I’m jaywalking.
I’m in the middle of Albert Street in downtown East Lansing, zig-zagging back and forth with hundreds of other jaywalkers. On any other day, we could be cited for crossing or occupying the street where there is no crosswalk.
Thank goodness the entire downtown has been barricaded to keep motorized traffic away from Albert and sections of Abbot Road and M.A.C. Avenue. The art fair area is pedestrian-friendly.
I sometimes wish that some downtown streets were open just to pedestrians all the time. Of course, I wouldn’t want MY street blocked. How would I get my car out?
I shouldn’t complain too much about the art fair amble. I knew the pace wouldn’t be anything like hurrying to Dem Hall Field in under 15 minutes to watch the start of band practice or trying to reach Coral Gables in 40 minutes or less.
I chose the Art Fest. I’m glad I went on this warm and sunny day, and I saved a lot of money by not buying anything.
And I think I set a new time record for my walk home from downtown. I shoulda, coulda, woulda visited the restroom at the Post restaurant if I had really considered the effects of downing a 20-ounce glass of Bell’s Oberon.
For me, one of the least satisfying kinds of walking is the air fair amble.
It’s like being on an obstacle course in slow motion. It’s certainly not conducive to beneficially raising one’s heart rate.
And there's no easy way to determine one’s stride and pace with so many sidesteps, stops and reverses.
Blocking my way are people, baby strollers, dogs and an occasional golf cart or wheelchair. Why do people bring dogs to these things?
Some of the people responsible for these obstructions are at the art fair for the same reason I am: To see what’s on display in the various booths.
But I’m also in the way of people, baby strollers, dogs and the occasional golf cart or wheelchair.
And to top it all off, I’m jaywalking.
I’m in the middle of Albert Street in downtown East Lansing, zig-zagging back and forth with hundreds of other jaywalkers. On any other day, we could be cited for crossing or occupying the street where there is no crosswalk.
Thank goodness the entire downtown has been barricaded to keep motorized traffic away from Albert and sections of Abbot Road and M.A.C. Avenue. The art fair area is pedestrian-friendly.
I sometimes wish that some downtown streets were open just to pedestrians all the time. Of course, I wouldn’t want MY street blocked. How would I get my car out?
I shouldn’t complain too much about the art fair amble. I knew the pace wouldn’t be anything like hurrying to Dem Hall Field in under 15 minutes to watch the start of band practice or trying to reach Coral Gables in 40 minutes or less.
I chose the Art Fest. I’m glad I went on this warm and sunny day, and I saved a lot of money by not buying anything.
And I think I set a new time record for my walk home from downtown. I shoulda, coulda, woulda visited the restroom at the Post restaurant if I had really considered the effects of downing a 20-ounce glass of Bell’s Oberon.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
First steps
I do a fair amount of walking.
Sometimes I walk to save gasoline. Other times I’m trying to stay healthy. I know I’ll need plenty of staying power for our next stay in San Miguel de Allende, where almost everything is uphill.
When I walk I like to have a destination. Like church, Spartan Stadium, the Breslin Center or a nice place to eat.
Last month, after being released from jury duty in downtown Lansing, I walked home. It took 75 minutes.
In the last year or two, most of my walking is to breakfast twice a week and a Weight Watchers meeting once a week.
My usual breakfast place in Coral Gables, two-point-two miles from home. An occasional other place is the Flap Jack Shack, which I call Flappies, about one mile away. The Weight Watchers site, which I call Weights, is in Frandor, also about one mile away.
I’ve stopped thinking so much about my walks in distances, but in times.
The first few times I walked to the Gables, I allowed nearly an hour. But fifty-five minutes became too big of an allowance. I’d have to stand outside until Alex unlocked the door at 7 a.m.
So I started allowing 50 minutes, and later 45 minutes.
I now adjust my pace according to the time I leave the house. If it’s 6:10, I go at an easy, relaxed pace. If it’s 6:15, I pick it up a bit. If it’s 6:20, I can still make it by 7 with some extra effort.
Flappies is about 20 minutes and Weights is about 25. Earlier this month, the friend I meet on Wednesdays at the Gables joined me for a five-kilometer walk competition on the MSU campus. We started at the parking ramp on Trowbridge near the Communication Arts Building, went east, then north, west and south to the Kellogg Center and finally east to the fifty-yard line in Spartan Stadium.
Five kilometers is three-point-eleven miles. We covered the distance in less than an hour. Thanks to a computer that recorded the times and paces of all the walkers, we learned that Jim and I averaged a mile every 17 minutes. That’s roughly 3.5 miles per hour.
Not bad for a couple of old guys. We finished one-two, two-tenths of a second apart, in our age group, which had only four people in it.
At that pace, it should take me about thirty-eight and a half minutes to get to the Gables if I feel like it.
Jim doesn’t walk to the Gables for breakfast. He lives out in Shaftsburg and has opted to drive the eleven or so miles. If I lived that far, I might try walking a time or two.
Anyway, next year, I’m not going to let Jim beat me in the five-K.
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