The Curmudgeon was too easily motivated. His doctor lit a fuse when he innocently mumbled something about “mild walking exercise”. The Curmudgeon ran with it. “Got it doc! Hike a million miles a week or die trying!” The befuddled doctor tried to backpedal. He stammered that “or die trying” was not a phrase spoken in medical facilities. It was pointless. The Curmudgeon was already out the door; a man with a new mission in life.
Weeks later and hundreds of miles away, the Curmudgeon’s truck ground to a halt. He was in a “big city”. He’d availed himself of commercial delights unavailable in his usual rural world. He’d purchased something he’d never seen in an actual store (or real life), had been too uncertain to buy online, and yet had been pondering for years; trekking poles. He’d wanted a set since, years ago, he’d seen an ultralight tent pitched with a pair on a YouTube video. He’d refused the expense until a doctor explained (in the Curmudgeon’s mind) that trekking poles were vital medical equipment.
He stepped out of the truck. Like a kid on Christmas, he stripped the packaging from his new toys. He hefted the poles. Pointy! You could spear a chipmunk with these things! He grabbed his day pack and, ignoring paved walking trails, set out in a straight line directly across the groomed grass of an inner city park.
He belonged in the park like a water buffalo fits belongs in a roller rink. It was a pretty river with steep rocky banks. It was flanked by hiking/biking trails on either side. Assorted rabble clustered around the parking lot near a charming walking bridge over the water. The only one carrying a pack, wielding trekking poles, or carrying water and “supplies” was the Curmudgeon.
The rabble was making noise; plenty of it. The Curmudgeon fumed that “cultural diversity” seems sparse on “cultural” and lacks in “diversity”. He’d give his left nut to hear Handel emitting from one of the many Bluetooth speakers blaring in the vicinity. Would Baroque kill ‘em? Or maybe Amalia Rodrigues singing in beautiful, yet incomprehensible, Portuguese? Why not an instrument or three to slice the air with a pentatonic or even a major scale? Heck, the Curmudgeon would even smile to see some theater kid role playing Diogenes of Sinope. Perhaps the august persona encountering a Big Mac and (being Diogenes) bitching about it? That would be unexpected and therefore diverse! But no, everyone was dressed the same and the music was uniform rhythmic yammering.
Swinging his trekking pooles like a Nordic skier he’d worked up a righteous head of steam only to encounter a sign that said “sidewalk closed”. Was it truly blocked? The Curmudgeon considered anything short of concertina wire to be “wide open for walking”. Then again, he was in a foreign environment. He’d promised himself he’d behave as a guest and avoid anything dramatic. He refrained from tossing the sign in the river, executed a pole assisted about face, and marched for the walking bridge.
On the other side, the blaring music faded in the distance. Electric bicycles of every shape and size zoomed silently by. None were being peddled because, as far as the Curmudgeon was concerned, electric bikes are just scooters without the efficient and cheap gas motors God intended. Meanwhile he was the only walker with trekking poles. He fretted that he stood out. Maybe trekking poles were only appropriate for athletic women wearing spandex? As a bearded geezer, the poles probably made him look pretentious. The nerve of him! He had an urge to kick his own ass.
Then he passed a section of slow moving water and saw his reflection. Instead of a paranoid beardo doofus poser, he saw a man striding like he was doing the Rocky montage. He didn’t look fake and gay, he looked like an aging but motivated persistence hunter working up to running a gazelle to the ground… an act which was absolutely on the Curmudgeon’s bucket list if not probable for him to actually attain.
It was hot and he was sweating more than anyone there (especially the breezy electric bike riders). A spandex clad pair, a man and woman (both built like a sports catalog) jogged by. They gave him a wide berth but didn’t look at him funny. Maybe he was fitting in!
His imagination fired, he began to hear the Rocky theme, Gonna Fly Now. A blaring trumpet section became counterpoint to the click click click of his poles. He strode harder. He was in the zone. He wished there was a side of beef to punch.
More in part 2.
