Men Dread Walking

The soft footsteps approach the door of my darkened lair, which is lighted only by my monitor’s blank glow.

“Come on dear, let’s go,” my wife beckons for a second time.

I know this walk will be good for me, will unclog my veins, thicken my aging bones, tone my muscles, increase my sexual appetite and, most important, stimulate my neurotransmitters for writing. But I dread it anyway. I review the stock responses of an uninspired, middle-aged, at-home male writer--”Not now, I’m on a roll,” “Before dinner might be better,” “I’ll eat a light breakfast instead,” “I haven’t had my coffee” or “I can’t find my Lipitor.” The problem is, I can’t tell her the truth.

Walking is not a manly thing to do.

First of all, the ladies call it “power walking.” For males, “power” is a sacred word reserved for Russian weightlifters, muscular basketball forwards and home-run-bopping, steroid-popping baseball sluggers. For women, walking “power” emanates from two sources--the rapid swaying of their hips like race walkers during the Olympics, and a rhythmic lifting of their arms, sometimes with weights, like a pursed-lipped Shirley Temple strutting fast-forward on the Good Ship Lollipop. At the end of a true power workout, a guy wants to sit on a bench, drink Gatorade and drip orange and green sweat; a gal cools down with a latte frappe vente, a combo bagel topped with sliced tomato, onion, avocado and “lite” cream cheese, and a copy of Elle.

My wife calls a third time from the sidewalk, and I immediately sneak out the side door to meet her in stride, hoping that all the guys on our block are either at work or still sleeping. For men, walking in the ‘hood is the first sure sign of aging, a workout on a track reserved for the geldings, a time when testosterone and estrogen have reached a perilous equilibrium. It’s one thing to jog down by the beach or on adjoining treadmills with your girlfriend or your new wife in matching neon Dolphin shorts, ankle socks, wristbands and college T-shirts. That faint glimmer of hope for a post-workout shower and massage guides each masculine stride, and as women well know, a glimmer is all a man needs. However, it’s quite another thing to conduct a brisk crawl with the mother of your children, who seems to be doing a slow-motion boogaloo on sidewalks full of bulky mountain bikes, squatting dogs and SUV-sized baby-joggers.

As we ease from our tract onto the main thoroughfare, the dreaded “greenbelt,” I rue the change in fashions. I’m still in my faded, somewhat taut T-shirt and standard-issue Costco shorts, socks and Payless cross-training shoes. However, the strutting ladies have traded sex for substance: loose sweats, knee-length spandex bike shorts or their daughters’ baggy P.E. shorts, sports bras beneath baggy T-shirts. And each lady is armed with a utility belt that puts Batwoman to shame with Band-Aids, cellphone, water bottle, sun block, tissue, headphones and a CD player squeaking out Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs” or Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire.”

I know that if Rod or Bruce joined us on this power walk even once, it would be the last time my wife listened to them. We turn the corner and head uphill toward our kids’ school, and I must admit I’m getting worn down, not by the exercise but by words. Men don’t talk during a workout. We pant, grunt and grimace, but we never feel the urge to discuss our son’s third-grade teacher’s biosphere project, or what we heard about our daughter’s boyfriend’s brother’s fiancee from her mother’s next-door-neighbor’s pool man. On a power walk, I’ve slowly learned the unstated rules of friendly engagement. For example, if my wife recognizes the driver of a passing car, an acknowledging upturned hand is in order. If it’s a friend she hasn’t seen in a while, a vigorous raised arm-shaking comes in to play (but not enough to make them pull over). An unknown walker, upon first eye contact, receives a cheery “good morning,” but a female with a lively dog, sedate child or both in tow, requires supportive, smiling, generic comments--”Oh, how cute!” “How old is he/she?” “He/she certainly is well behaved.”

My wife’s acquaintances require a bit more flexibility; on approach, the degree of familiarity dictates the amount of conversation. However, she never comes to a full stop; she even resorts to walking backward if the pleasantries have not been concluded. The only people who are allowed to bring us and our targeted heart rate to a dead standstill are easily offended neighbors, good friends and those rare beacons of the community who have all the latest gossip. My only focus is on the finish line; I generally acknowledge any sweating males jogging by with a quick, tail-between-the-legs nod.

As we turn back into our tract and head for home, two things have become quite clear. First, the neighborhood power walk surpasses my other dreaded experiences--asking for directions while driving, asking for help in Lowe’s or finding a movie that we’ll both like at Blockbuster. Second, by the time I’m mentally old enough to accept power walking, I’ll be dead, which will clear the way for my wife to move to the greater Phoenix area. Power-walking nirvana exists there in air-conditioned malls that open before the stores to allow for the Holy Trinity of female exercise--walking, talking and window-shopping.

We’ve reached the safety of our cul-de-sac. I scan the houses, then slowly sneak by Nate, the tan, muscular firefighter who has returned from a 100-mile bike ride to work out with weights in his garage. I’d like to join him, but I’ve been informed that I need to take a shower with St. Ives Apricot Scrub and a loofah mitt in order to exfoliate my pores. Of course, afterward, I’ll shave my beard without lather.