A Pedestrian Perspective

At the risk of sounding narcissistic, I’m a little bit of a celebrity in Downers Grove. I say this not because I came to that conclusion on my own, but because I’m told that on a very frequent basis. 

I am a walker—I walk five miles or so, just about every day. My route takes me from Highland Avenue, from where I park my car close to Good Samaritan Hospital, along Main Street through downtown.

It would seem that in a commuter town, a regular walker wouldn’t be such an oddity, but apparently it is. It’s rare for more than a couple of days to go by without someone stopping me on the street, at the store, at school, even outside of Downers Grove, to ask, “Are you the walker?”  I’ve even been “recognized” in Naperville, and once at the Chanel Boutique on Michigan Avenue.

I think I’m recognizable because I’m not exclusively a fair weather walker. For about the last 10 years, unless the weather conditions are deemed to be dangerous or there’s a lot of rain, ice or wind, I’m typically out there. 

Furthermore, I look like myself whether I’m out walking or doing other things around town. A lot of women runners and walkers pull their hair into a ponytail, put on a baseball cap and sunglasses, and wear workout clothes. I have big curly hair that’s always loose and I find myself compelled to wear makeup, jewelry and a coordinated outfit.  So I pretty much always look the same, which makes me easier to recognize.

It seems that people run the full gamut in how they perceive me. There are those who simply think I’m nuts. A very polite police officer pulled over one morning, rolled down his window and after a dramatic pause said, “It’s four degrees out.”

It was actually eleven degrees, but not wanting to split hairs, I replied, “yes, thank you,” and kept walking. Some people passing me, both strangers and friends, offer me rides. When you’re trying to get exercise, hopping into a car doesn’t count, so I decline—although I’m almost always pleased for the offer.  

There are those who have told me that they set my clock by me—if they see me past a certain point in my walk, they know they’re running late for work. There are others, and these are clearly my favorites, who are happy to see me.

One gentleman recently stopped to say that he formerly walked or ran, but had knee surgery and is no longer able to do so. He said when he sees me and I smile and say "hi," I make his day.  Others tell me that seeing me out there despite the weather has inspired them to walk or ride their bikes.

They say that a brisk walk is one of the best forms of exercise. I’m not always brisk because I sometimes top to chat, but I believe that walking has health benefits that cannot be beat.

Aside from burning calories, which should never be under-rated, it promotes a very real sense of well-being and chipperness. It’s next to impossible to be in a bad mood when you start the day out walking, getting fresh air and singing (did I mentioned I sing? Not necessarily in tune or with real lyrics, but I sing all the same).

On the days I don’t walk, I’m grumpy and anxious and have the potential of passing that along to my family. So my walking actually impacts the well-being and chipperness of my entire household.

There are times when people want to argue about how far I walk. It’s always about five miles, but people are often adamant that it’s more. One man saw me walking late one afternoon and then again the following morning.  He wondered if I had ever gone home in between. Since that time I’m careful to change the colors of my outfits every day. 

Anyone I find along the way is fair game for me to befriend. I’ve accumulated a fair number of good friends, casual pals and friendly acquaintances on my walks, including Downers Grove firemen, policemen, my favorite banker, delivery truck drivers, mail carriers, neighbors, PADS clients, crossing guards, patrons of the methadone clinic, and the 9:40 a.m. Metra engineer whose name I haven’t been able to lip-read, but who greets me through the window.

It’s amazing what people will share with me. It’s almost as if seeing me daily makes them forget that, in reality, I’m a stranger. In addition to the more mundane chit chat involving vacation schedules, bills, groceries and work, I’ve heard about family strife, divorce, marital infidelities and prostate health.

I've found a note on my car from a secret admirer and a note on my car legitimately criticizing my parking. I've been greeted by a man young enough to be my son, dressed up in a sport coat and waiting at my car to ask me to breakfast.

I've helped an 86-year-old woman, who became a dear friend, break into her house when she was locked out and determined to get in. I’ve helped a man who had been hit by a car while he was riding his bike—actually I just rubbed his back and made him laugh until the ambulance got there. 

I’m usually amused at how I’ve sort of become community property. I am sometimes reprimanded for what I’m wearing (“That jacket’s not warm enough, are you nuts?”), not wearing (“Why aren’t you wearing shorts? Are you nuts?”), my weight (“Have you lost some?”), my level of fitness (“You walk so much, you  must have the best calves in Downers Grove”), and my schedule (“Running a little bit late today?”).

There are people I’m sure I’ve never actually met, who greet me by name. I’m told that people who do know my name call me Wendy the Walker. I’m always encouraging them to show some respect and call me Wendy the Red Hot Walker Chick, but I don’t’ have any evidence that particular title is sticking. Still, I haven’t given up.

In spite of the fact that I pride myself on trying to appear well-coordinated, I’ve had a few embarrassing moments. I use rubber treads on the bottom of my shoes during the winter to give me traction on the ice. Last winter, I tripped on my own tread and fell flat on my face.

I was surprisingly bruised, despite the padding of my winter clothing. Still, I finished my walk, and then went back and took a picture of the indentation I’d made in the snow to post on my Facebook page.

The same type of tread once caught on my pant leg and I had to go hopping backwards on one foot through a busy intersection before I could sit down on the curb to unravel.

The funniest thing is when people see me in a car. They’re often amazed that I have one. Once I was sitting in my car at a stop light with one of my dogs. The guy in the van next to me signaled for me to roll down my window. I did so, thinking he was going to tell me how ridiculously adorable my dog is. Instead, he said, “HI! It’s so nice to see you in a car!”

Apparently, when on four wheels, I’m very much out of context.