sporting life (4)

And then, on orders from another doctor, to complete the triumvirate of activities the Fool’s body is still deemed capable of performing without too much risk of further injury, there came on the scene another «sport» – and its name it is Walking. That we should be calling it a sport at all is fair indication of just how far standards slide once you stumble onto the wrong side of the hill.

 Whatever. Sport or no sport this walking caper is, at least, a bit higher than the other two on the social scale. Certainly you are likely to meet a better class of person out doing it. And the dress code, you will be relieved to hear, doesn’t require the wearing of lycra (unless you really want to wear lycra, in which case I wash my hands of you).

So you needn’t be ashamed of being caught down by the riverside, running shoes on your feet and a spring in your step (for the doctor recommended «a brisk pace»). 

Until, that is, you find yourself being overtaken left, right and centre by mere slips of girls – legs up to their armpits, hips swaying, arms swinging, mouths gabbing, gliding by at warp speed.

It’s humiliating, and one would be tempted to just chuck it all to hell if it wasn’t for the fact that it really is good for you, even if your brisk pace is these babes’s snail pace. It won't make you recover lost abilities, you understand, or even stop you from losing more of them. But it will slow the slide, and at this age one is grateful for small mercies.

No one, however, likes to be humiliated, so it becomes a question of saving face for the short while that your path crosses their path.

My advice? Always take a camera. That way, you can top it the sensitive photographer, out for a stroll in the beautiful glow of the setting sun, when the slanting light sharpens contrasts and lengthens shadows, and the day is winding down, and the overworked anonymous masses are being ferried home to the consolation of family and hearth and TV dinners. Nothing to do with exercise, dears, I don’t do exercise. I meditate on the meaning of the Universe; I watch the stars come out and the river ripple its way into the sea; the birds scurrying along the sea wall, scavenging for food; the ships bravely preparing to brave the uncertainties of the open ocean …

That kind of shit. 

Ruddy turnstone (Arenaria interpres), called rola-do-mar, sea dove, in this country,
possibly because its back plumage vaguely resembles a turtle dove's

Ferry terminal