Walking

There was a time, long ago, when the only type of locomotion I could actually do comfortably was running. I was, apparently, quite different from my peers in this regard, as a lot of people would say to me that they just “couldn’t” run. When I was young, agile, and quite ableist, I would scoff to myself and feel superior.

It turns out that I wasn’t superior, I was just lucky.

My mother used to tell me that I ran before I walked. In the literal sense, that is actually impossible. In fact, there is an idiom that says you need to walk before you can run (which essentially means that you need to learn the basics of something before doing the fancy stuff). However, my mother said a lot of things about me that indicate that she found my behaviour curious and frustrating. I suspect that running before I could walk was both a metaphor for my independent and unconventional approach to life and a reflection of my neurodivergent development (which could explain why, fifty or so years later, I was diagnosed with something that is classed in the psychiatric literature as a ‘neurodevelopmental disorder’).

As a young child I found running, and it’s distant cousin twirling (a fairly common self-stimulation behaviour, or ‘stim,’ for neurodivergent children), were incredibly fun and represented freedom. I loved the sensations of both activities. Riding merry-go-rounds or just spinning around and then lying on the ground, watching the sky turn slowly above me was an incredible feeling.

Years later, when I started drinking, I, unlike my mates, found the sensation of the bed spinning to be one of the things I enjoyed most about getting ‘tipsy.’ I also found that running helped me get drunk faster.

I was neither quick nor graceful as a child. I wasn’t picked first for sports teams or known for winning races. I hated sports that involved kicking or hitting balls (and still do) and I certainly could not do those things whilst running! But I also disliked walking. Walking was slow and boring. Walking did not give me the rush of freedom and endorphins or the sensory stimulation that I got from running (and spinning).

In high school, I started to fear that I was too unfit. Unfit, most likely, meant ‘fat,’ although objectively, looking at old photos, I definitely was not. Running seemed like the best way to get fit, which led me to join Cross Country and Track and Field (“Athletics”). At my school, these sports were open to all regardless of ability. I soon found that, in addition to loving the feeling, I actually had some innate ability for long-distance running. My endurance and slow-twitch muscles (and massive calves) could keep me going long after the other kids had petered out.

So I carried on running — further and faster, through high school and university, graduating to marathons, triathlons, and mountain trail running. I believe that running saved my life, carrying me through some very dark places. It was a constant — something that would keep me going when nothing else would.

“But wait!” I hear you say, “I thought this was an essay about walking!” And so it is. But it is, simultaneously, about ability, disability, expectations, ableism, and how life often takes us on unexpected journeys.

If running was such a great love, how did I get to a place where I willingly get up early in the morning to?walk??I often walk 5–10 km over hill and dale, on bush tracks and roads. These walks are often strenuous, usually beautiful and, most of all, they are precious connection time with my sweetheart and I can now say truthfully that I?love?to walk.

The simple answer: injuries. Three ACL repairs (none related to running and only one related to sport) and a broken neck took their toll. To make a long story short, despite years of physio and hard work, the appeal of running is now outweighed by pain and an ever-present fear of further injury. A good dose of gratitude and soul-searching have helped me turn my old, narrow-minded, ableist thinking (the same thinking that actually led me to say out-loud that I’d rather die than be unable to run) and start to really enjoy walking.

The tortuous journey from toddling to running and back to walking has brought me to a place where long walks, hilly walks, strenuous walks, and even short leisurely walks have become my happy place. I am now the person at whom I used to scoff. I have learnt many lessons in this process. Ability and disability are not necessary static or clearly defined categories. I have both at once. I have been disabled by my injuries because I could no longer do things I loved or that gave my life meaning. I have been disabled by my own and other people’s expectations of what I can or ‘should’ be able to do and what I can’t. But, in the process, I have been blessed to find other abilities that provide me as much or more pleasure and satisfaction.

When I was younger, running was a vehicle for problem solving. I worked out calculus problems and composed essays in my head as I ran. Later, it became a way to stay alive, propelling me out of bed and giving my brain a shot of anti-depressant neurochemicals to get me through just one more day. At various times it was my drug, allowing me to run?away?and avoid facing my demons.

With walking, the chemical rush isn’t nearly as strong and, these days, I have to be very careful where I step. I walk on rough tracks but I do so carefully because I’d like to maintain this ability for as long as I can. I’ve heard it said that life is more like a marathon than a sprint. I’m in it for the long haul and the evidence is good that movement helps stave off the unpleasant effects of ageing. But walking has forced me to slow down and observe my surroundings more closely. Walking with my partner is an amazing experience that I never had while running. We hold hands, point things out to each other, and they stop and take photos of flowers, leaves, and bugs whilst I survey the scenery or make up stories in my head about the people we’ve just passed.

Walking and running aren’t just two different forms of exercise. They are entirely different experiences. While running allowed me to escape, walking forces me to be present. Walking?is?slower but it is not boring. It doesn’t provide the rush of endorphins that running did but it gives me so much more. I feel connection and a sense of gratitude. I will never take walking for granted, I will do it as long as I can, and I will?never?again put stipulations around what abilities I can or cannot live without.

All we have is today and today is all I need. Today I can walk. I can also sit and write, I can sleep, I can dream, I can be present with my thoughts, and most of all, I can be grateful.

Running taught me tenacity, perseverance, and the amazing power of my mind and sheer grit. Walking has taught me that there is more to life than running. Contrary to that famous idiom, I believe that I actually had to run?before?I could learn to walk.