THIS MORNING AS I SAT SIPPING my coffee and pondering my next step, I noticed a gentleman who was wearing a T-shirt that said, “Canyonlands – Moab, Utah.”
When I stumbled up to get a refill I stopped by his table and we chatted about that remarkable part of the country. As we spoke I saw the sparks light up in his eyes. He was like me – a man who breathes better on the road.
ON OUR RECENT JAUNT through the Southwest we stayed in a number of different places. Some were better than others.
I LOVE TRAVELLING. I have always loved it. Even as a kid I looked forward to family trips even if they were to visit relatives.
I liked travelling so much that I began to suspect that I was adopted and that I was really born into a Gypsy family. There were times I’m sure my parents might have wished that were true. I was never the kid who asked, “Are we there yet?” My question was always, “How long before we go?”
It didn’t take me long to discover something about myself and travelling – I always felt better when my body was in motion. It didn’t matter whether it was the hum of the car on the road or the rumbling back and forth of the trains that we rode to visit my mother’s sisters in Cleveland and Chicago. Later on when I had my first taste of airplane travel it was the constant vibration of the whole aircraft. Somehow it all made me feel physically better.
It still does.
The recent trip that my wife (the lovely and time zone hopping, Dawn) and I just finished consisted of long flights separated by lots of time on the road exploring the many canyons in Utah and Arizona. I do have to admit that the long hours cruising through the southwest did make some of my aging bones complain, but it also sang the old song to me about the open road and the feeling of comforting movement.
It doesn’t have to be on long trip across the country to give me that sense of well-being and bodily goodness. Riding around Terre Haute (That’s French for “The Grand Canyon it ain’t) running errands or on a shopping excursion down to Sam’s Club or even a quick dash to St. Arbucks can give me that same feeling that has blessed me since I was a kid.
Being in motion, heading somewhere, even if it is an unimportant journey sets my cells into action. From the wind coming through the open window (I rarely use the AC) to the sound of the tires on the road, feeling the pressure of acceleration against my body, to the sense of the power at my fingertips, it all feels good.
Taking a walk has given me the same things even though no power source is involved other than my legs and desire to go.
Now, as I get older and my physical strengths and abilities are diminishing at a much too rapid pace, I find that my desire – no, my need for my own therapeutic motion remains.
I can’t walk as fast or as far as I used to. I know that my hiking days in the State Parks are ended, but I have learned to accept smaller and less strenuous trails give me what I need. Give me a shopping list and the aisles at the Kroger supermarket can give me what I really hunger for.
I don’t know if others feel this same way about being in motion. I’ve asked a few people about this and all I usually get are awkward stares in return. I don’t understand. Why don’t other people feel what I feel? Is my physiology so unique that I’m the only one who benefits from the simple act of going somewhere? I’d really like to know.
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
Does anybody feel what I feel?
THERE ARE GOOD SIGNS and there are bad signs. And then there are signs that are just disappointing.
The other day when my wife (the lovely and epicurean, Dawn) and I were out and about around town. And we were feeling hungry. It was a little after two in the afternoon when I spotted a café that had a large sign in the front window –
“Breakfast Served All Day”
Down the Hall on Your Left 