For Mark Twain, “a good walk spoiled” was a game of golf. For me, it’s an earworm. I’ll explain.
I meet my tribe every morning. We don’t gather in a teepee or confer around the campfire. We meet on the streets, flagging our solidarity of purpose with a quick nod, a terse greeting, or a raised hand. My tribe are all moving – walking, jogging, running, biking – starting the day with forward momentum, accumulating mileage, embracing our peripatetic nature.
My biggest challenge, as a walker, writes Kennebunkport resident Steven Price, is keeping my head clear of earworms, most often in the form of annoying radio ad jingles like “Kars for Kids” or catchy old pop songs like “California Dreamin.” Steven Price photo
I am a walker. I used to be a jogger, but years ago my hips, knees and back rebelled. So I changed my attitude and my shoes, slowed my pace, and embraced my limitations. The changes made me more alert, awakened me to my surroundings and my inner thoughts. I paid more attention to the quality of light, the woodland sounds, the rise and fall of the terrain. I became a moving meditator.
And it changed my life.
Walking cleared my head, improved my mood, stimulated my appetite, and generated good story ideas. Almost every essay I have ever written started with an idea that came to me while walking. Walking was like a magic spell, a priceless gift. I became physically and psychologically hooked on it, believing that if I stopped walking I would die, like a shark that suffocates if it stops swimming.
My biggest challenge, as a walker, is keeping my head clear of earworms, most often in the form of annoying radio ad jingles like “Kars for Kids” or catchy old pop songs like “California Dreamin” by the Mamas and Papas. You get into a certain rhythm of repetitive motion and these tunes slip sneakily into your brain.
You can walk for miles before you realize you’ve sung “All the trees are brown/And the sky is gray” four hundred times. Your brain is on autopilot, possessed. You mumble, “Stopped into a church/I passed along the way.” Then brain cramp. blah, blah, blah … “California dreamin’” … blah, blah, blah … “California dreamin’…”
You are now a helpless captive, so you resort to Zen meditation tricks, trying to clear your mind with brain-cleansing visualizations, like sweeping clouds from the sky or settling the ripples on the surface of a pond. Eventually you rescue your embattled brain and slowly regain your sanity. Now you’re just walking, clear headed, without any interior disruptions.
Then, out of nowhere, from deep inside of your skull: “Well, I got down on my knees/And I pretend to pray.” Once again, madness reigns. “You know the preacher likes the cold/He knows I’m gonna stay.” Aaarrrggghhh!
Some members of my tribe listen to real music on their cell phones. I’d rather be in tune with my surroundings. But my mind is a monkey or, more accurately, a jukebox.
“I’d be safe and warm/If I was in LA/California dreamin’/On such a winter’s day.” Yeah, great. But it’s August and hot as hell. I turn back toward home, defeated. If Mama Cass were still alive, she’d be laughing.
And Mr. Twain would get the joke.
Steven Price is a Kennebunkport resident. He can be reached at sprice1953@gmail.com.
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