Books, Arts & Manners: Take a Walk

WHEN I was a schoolboy, walkers were considered the Clintons of the time. They were the wimpy ones who did not go out for sports, excelling instead in theatrical pursuits, and whose girls during the prom weekend resembled young Barbra Streisands. Walking was compulsory for boys who refused to give it the old college try, and being boys, we sure gave them a hard time when they crossed the football or soccer fields on their way to the woods. If memory serves, there was a kid that was a dead ringer for Clinton by the name of Dave Simon. His thighs touched when he waddled along, and his silver tongue almost had us convinced that sport was for fools. One night we shaved his hair off and then his eyebrows; we had to resign from the student council and were prohibited from competing in sports for the rest of the year as a result.

I mention all this because now, having passed the 55-year mark, I am starting to realize that old Dave Simon may have been right. I have arthritic knees and ankles, shoulders and elbows that creak in the night, and a poitrine that Sharon Stone would envy as a result of having pumped iron. Like the present occupier of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Dave Simon did not believe in much except avoidance, and just like Bill Clinton, things worked out for him. My spies tell me that Simon—who I haven’t seen since 1955—walks as free of pain as Clinton, and his hair is just as thick, obviously because of our having shaved it. The moral of the story, however, is not to cheat, but just to take it a little bit easier. Walk, do not run.

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WHEN I was a schoolboy, walkers were considered the Clintons of the time. They were the wimpy ones who did not go out for sports, excelling instead in theatrical pursuits, and whose girls during the prom weekend resembled young Barbra Streisands. Walking was compulsory for boys who refused to give it the old college try, and being boys, we sure gave them a hard time when they crossed the football or soccer fields on their way to the woods. If memory serves, there was a kid that was a dead ringer for Clinton by the name of Dave Simon. His thighs touched when he waddled along, and his silver tongue almost had us convinced that sport was for fools. One night we shaved his hair off and then his eyebrows; we had to resign from the student council and were prohibited from competing in sports for the rest of the year as a result.

I mention all this because now, having passed the 55-year mark, I am starting to realize that old Dave Simon may have been right. I have arthritic knees and ankles, shoulders and elbows that creak in the night, and a poitrine that Sharon Stone would envy as a result of having pumped iron. Like the present occupier of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Dave Simon did not believe in much except avoidance, and just like Bill Clinton, things worked out for him. My spies tell me that Simon—who I haven’t seen since 1955—walks as free of pain as Clinton, and his hair is just as thick, obviously because of our having shaved it. The moral of the story, however, is not to cheat, but just to take it a little bit easier. Walk, do not run.