The Bird Walk, Part One
They are, in fact, quite real
A few months after covid wrecked everything, I began to add long walks to my fitness routine. My motivation was two-fold: one, to delay the onset of tasty (and pricey) IPA’s filling a beer glass near me, and two, to burn off some of the persistent beer-bolstered blubber besieging my belly. Thus was born the Beer Walk Pledge: all beer must be earned by a minimum walk of 4 km, and all beer must be carried home regardless of season and current conditions. Rain, snow, heat dome, no matter: thou shalt walk, and suffer as thou wilt.
Now, as walkers go, I was a weakling. Grind out a stiff bike ride with superior athletes for 3 hours? No problem: pulverized thighs are part of that game and to be expected, and a lessening of the misery is attainable by drafting. But walking? Discomfort from the get-go, worsening the entire way, from feet that were displeased to a gradually stiffening lower back and hip and achy knees and a desire for deliverance from this self-imposed pillory. On the first walk, I glanced at my swaybacked reflection in a shop window, marveling at the deadpan expression I sported despite the utter hatred I felt for the activity. GOD I HATE THIS was not evident whatsoever!
My route selection didn’t help matters: all paved roads and traffic noise and a who’s who of the most broken and disenfranchised of the local populace. The King George Boulevard stretch was particularly loathsome, always heavily trafficked and featuring alarming scenes like the fellow with the walker cutting across during a lull, with no hope of reaching the safety of the far side before the next wave came flying down the hill. Unaesthetic, worrisome and unpleasantly loud as well.
But I stuck with it, found less fractious routes, and improved. Calves, ankles, knees, hips adapted to upright locomotion and my spine was visibly straighter and no longer playing the dishonourable opposition. Traffic was muted with earbuds and music, which soon gave way to podcast series such as Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History, Lawrence Krauss’ Origins, Michael Lewis’ Against the Rules, and Lex Fridman’s prolonged conversations with scientists and cultural icons, which got me listening to Vincent Racaniello’s enormously pertinent This Week in Virology. Walks of 8 to 10 km found their way into the routine with only occasional bodily complaints and the need to take a day or two off.
But our old pal covid proved to have considerably more endurance than me, and continued to wreck everything. The group rides petered out as the weather worsened. Visits to Tania’s remained impossible through closed border crossings. Standing near each other and chatting across the border ditch was miraculously upgraded to in-person visits at Peace Arch park, which was summarily closed, because ‘of course it was’. Loneliness lead to drunkenness and cynicism and gloom. At least I still had the walks, which I forced myself to execute no matter the atmospheric conditions.
On one particularly uninspired cold November walk, it got into my head that I was hamster-wheeling, that some variety might help, so I took a slightly different route and soon realized that what had from a distance seemed a playground was in fact an outdoor workout centre. Plunked in the middle of a grassy park, it was quite the setup, rubber-floored with an assortment of typical gym machines: seated bench press, stationary bike, elliptical machine, and so on, but what REALLY caught my eye was the standing hand-cycle. As you’d expect from machines exposed to the elements and malicious humans, considerable wear and tear was evident, and the hand-cycle seemed no different, with the crank handles hanging down limply to either side of the contraption. To my delight, I found that the device was actually in perfect condition and equipped with a clever friction clutch and inertial engagement that allowed for independent crank positions: you could pedal with the cranks opposed, as on a bike, or with them lined up as I’d first seen them, or any position in between.
Some minutes later, I was THRASHED. I knew my formerly climbing-hardened upper body wasn’t what it once was, but this was brutally humbling: pumped out of my mind with arms that barely functioned and pecs so engorged they felt like they might pop and blast muscle chunks right through my shirt. Unacceptable! But I’d found the workout humiliation I’d been desiring, without having to set foot in a ‘Super-Spreader’s Fitness and Plague’ outlet, which hadn’t been an option anyways since the covid disaster struck.
The hand-cycle was perched adjacent a luxurious and well-tended grassy slope, which curved around to the right, leveling out at a small monument to the company who’d generously funded purchase and installation of my new-found set of toys. A glossy pair of crows were strutting nearby, examining the turf with some dignity whilst keeping a suspicious eye on the gradually ruddying exorciser. It became clear they were hunting for edibles - no, not that kind - and I was considered a lurking hazard. I’d previously befriended a backyard corvid, who I’d dubbed ‘Mr Crow’, and felt slightly miffed that they didn’t trust me. Mr Crow knew I’d provide only the finest, unhealthy snacks like chunks of extra-hot pepperoni and potato chips, but these snobs looked beyond the reach of friendly fare.
In fairness to your author, Mr Crow and wife were also treated to healthier snacks like cashew chunks - lightly hot-sauced to repel squirrels - and during a prolonged snowy cold snap I provided roast chicken scraps to the entire local murder from the carcasses *I* had squirreled away in the freezer for that huge pot of soup I always ‘meh’d to another day. I’d also purchased a 20lb bag of black oil sunflower seeds (the carrying of which should have informed me as to my diminished might), after reading that excessive salt was bad for tiny-kidneyed critters.
So, before heading out for my next walk, I loaded a plastic bag up with sunflower seeds, intent on befriending the workout park crows. You will appreciate me, you will trust me, you will look for me, and in time, you will ADORE me, dammit! By now, perceptive readers are likely reflecting on the dangers of limiting human contact during stressful times. My introversion proved to have limits, and I’d been pushed well beyond them. In truth, my default trust setting is probably pretty close to that of most crows: hell is people, to paraphrase Sartre, but as I’m not a crow, no people at all is a far worse hell. For now, though, avian people would have to suffice.
I was excited enough to nearly forgo my standard route and shortcut over to the park, but forced myself to stay in my rut, the better to reach full podcast ‘intelligent people conversing’ nirvana. A few blocks from the house, a crow was disconsolately flipping leaves on a lawn, searching for anything edible that might lurk below. Nothing. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well, heck, bet that varmint would appreciate a handout, thought I to myself, roughly, and pulled out the feedbag. Hey, ya want some seeds? got its attention, so I gave the bag a shake, inciting a watcher crow above to caw out an alarm. Flipper flew up and joined the alarmist on the power line. Sigh. ‘Hey, you fools, it’s FOOD!’ I told them, put some in my hand, held it out for ease of identification, and then tossed them next to the curb. They regarded the seeds, looked at me, and crouched as if to spring away and fly off. I backed away, pointed at my gift, said ‘there ya go! see ya later!’ and walked off, looking back occasionally to see what they’d do. When I was very safely distant, one swooped down to investigate, quickly discerned that this was no trick, and yelled to the other to come on down and get in on the freebies.
I carried on toward the park, tossing seeds whenever I encountered a crow, until I reached the droopy-horned demon, where I again embarrassed myself with a max-effort paltry performance. ‘God, at least this thing can’t speak’ I thought, ‘the mocking would be unbearable’: ha HAAAAAAH! you wanker! I’ve been turned by stronger 9 year-olds! and what’s with that GUT!? DONE ALREADY!? I couldn’t even find solace in an act of charity, as the self-punishment-park crows were frustratingly absent, but I knew they’d all come around, as Mr Crow had, and I’d have plenty of socially - not to mention biologically - distant companions in the near future.
My photo from January 9th 2023, which captures the feel of the area too well. Yes, they’re snacking on tasty black oil sunflower seeds.