Fiction: Catalog of Rural Road Walkers
Not all who walk the roads of the countryside for their health are equal. There is variation of all kinds even within such a specific category. Over my years walking the rural roads, I have encountered many such individuals, and as with all things, I wish to catalog them.
This is the result.
The Insecure
He walks with his hands in his pockets, looking around furtively. Something is eating at his mind. It's impossible to tell what.
The "walk" is not so much a walk as it is a shuffle, or perhaps a trot. You get the feeling he'll burst into a run at any moment.
He recoils from passing cars.
Perhaps he simply isn't used to the terrain.
The Mechanical Man
Arms move back and forth, bent at the elbows. Legs swing out, straight and then bending. Breathing is regular, head moves in prescribed increments, and there appears to be no independent thought. All movement is kept within a careful range between three to four miles per hour.
There are very specific rules that must be followed for "power walking". He has memorized all of them.
One wonders what the inventor thinks.
The Runs-Like-A-Yeti
His back is bent, his arms are swaying below him, and his legs churn as he ambles up the hillside. He moves quickly, wanting to get out of the ditch and back onto the side of the road. In this man's movements is reflected a long chain of primitive ancestors and missing links.
One is reminded of the Patterson footage. It doesn't help that he forgot to shave.
He's lucky this isn't the backwoods, or else a redneck might have shot him by now.
The "Sweet Jesus, Is This Really on My iPod?"
Partway through his walk, he comes to a complete halt. One hand dips into his pocket and returns with an MP3 player. Only then do you notice the wires leading up to his earbuds.
He blinks, examining the screen as though it contains the Akashic records, and then taps a button. Satisfied, he returns the device to his pocket and resumes his travels, though his face still bears a hint of confusion.
He had forgotten that brief period where he listened to Madonna.
The Strut
He rules the road. His legs swing out, balls of his feet hitting first, and his arms swing back and forth, elbows curled. That outfit would be more suitable on a gigalo.
Pity nobody is there to notice him. It's as though he had meant to be in the city.
(Next time: the Catalog of Urban Pedestrians.)
This is the result.
The Insecure
He walks with his hands in his pockets, looking around furtively. Something is eating at his mind. It's impossible to tell what.
The "walk" is not so much a walk as it is a shuffle, or perhaps a trot. You get the feeling he'll burst into a run at any moment.
He recoils from passing cars.
Perhaps he simply isn't used to the terrain.
The Mechanical Man
Arms move back and forth, bent at the elbows. Legs swing out, straight and then bending. Breathing is regular, head moves in prescribed increments, and there appears to be no independent thought. All movement is kept within a careful range between three to four miles per hour.
There are very specific rules that must be followed for "power walking". He has memorized all of them.
One wonders what the inventor thinks.
The Runs-Like-A-Yeti
His back is bent, his arms are swaying below him, and his legs churn as he ambles up the hillside. He moves quickly, wanting to get out of the ditch and back onto the side of the road. In this man's movements is reflected a long chain of primitive ancestors and missing links.
One is reminded of the Patterson footage. It doesn't help that he forgot to shave.
He's lucky this isn't the backwoods, or else a redneck might have shot him by now.
The "Sweet Jesus, Is This Really on My iPod?"
Partway through his walk, he comes to a complete halt. One hand dips into his pocket and returns with an MP3 player. Only then do you notice the wires leading up to his earbuds.
He blinks, examining the screen as though it contains the Akashic records, and then taps a button. Satisfied, he returns the device to his pocket and resumes his travels, though his face still bears a hint of confusion.
He had forgotten that brief period where he listened to Madonna.
The Strut
He rules the road. His legs swing out, balls of his feet hitting first, and his arms swing back and forth, elbows curled. That outfit would be more suitable on a gigalo.
Pity nobody is there to notice him. It's as though he had meant to be in the city.
(Next time: the Catalog of Urban Pedestrians.)