I don’t run these days. I’m a bit old for it, and if I were to run, I’d prefer to do it in a game with teammates—passing, chasing, laughing—not as a solitary exercise.
But I walk every day, and rarely alone. In fact, as I write this, I’m heading out the door with the dog. She runs ahead through the university, nose down, tail high, looking out for her friends. When she spots them, there’s always a joyful pause for play. Her walks are never just exercise—they’re social occasions.
I always walk to the shops. It takes the same time to walk there as it does to drive and park, and even with a load of groceries, I’d rather walk. It’s good exercise, and the less I use my car the better. In fact, I look forward to the day when I no longer need a car. May that day come soon.
I walk with my work too. No bin in my office, by choice—I’d rather carry things to the recycling bins. But more than that, I walk the corridors and the courtyard. Culture stops with me, and I want to know how things are going, how people are going. Often that means pausing for a chat, making sure someone feels seen and heard.
And I walk with friends. This week, through a damp bush track in the nearby national park, I walked with a friend. We talked, paused, looked around. Along the way we saw two wallabies—one here, another further on—each alone, feeding quietly in the undergrowth. The track was quiet enough that we didn’t disturb them. They seemed content with our presence, so long as we kept a respectful distance. Encounters like that make the walk feel like a gift.
So how often do I walk?
As often as I can—because every walk is a chance to walk with someone or something, never really alone.
The Afterword 
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