Strategic walking: showdown on sedgwick street

I had a terrifying experience on the hard streets of Lincoln Park the other day. There I was, minding my own business while en route to the train. And that’s when I saw that two-bit jackal of a walker: me.

You see, I walk a lot. I live in cities, mostly rely on trains and buses for longer trips, then fill in whatever gaps this public transportation can’t cover by trekking on foot. I like walking. It’s how I learn about neighborhoods and see the underbelly of bridges and figure out what’s in all those stores with crowded signs that I couldn’t interpret at 30 mph.

So I’ve had a lot of practice and I take pride in having honed a pretty smooth walking style that maximizes my flow and the flow of those around me. Having diligently studied the art for years, I’m keenly aware of different walking styles and I’ve worked to adapt my own approach to any circumstances.

For instance, in the subway stations and streets of New York I was a darter: you’re dealing with a swarm of people who’re out for blood, so you can’t expect anyone to yield to you. Plus, there’s rarely room to forge your own path on the perimeter of the flow so you have to work in the same spaces as the masses. That means you take the openings when you find them. You move fast, often laterally, and always have your eyes two or three people ahead to gauge the plans of those in your vicinity.

In Washington, I played the perimeter game. It's a more conservative place, so although the sidewalks and subways might have pedestrians, you could normally squeeze a bit of space to yourself on slightly riskier terrain, i.e. streets and rumble strips next to the subway tracks. It was a little dangerous, but the rewards were plentiful so if you kept your head, you’d move swiftly and safely beyond the masses.

Here in Chicago, I haven’t quite developed my local style but I’ve performed relatively well by varying my approach with a given neighborhood. All was going swimmingly until the other day:

You see, I was playing the rumination card during a mid-morning stroll, so I had my head ducked a bit and hands tucked safely in the pockets. My pace was brisk, but not dangerously so. I snuck a surreptitious glance ahead on the sidewalk-which is a crucial element of this advanced walk style. Sure enough, I spotted somebody approaching me directly about 50 feet ahead.

No big deal. The alarms didn’t blare immediately because my sentinels didn’t sniff any trouble. They’ve since been replaced. So I resumed my downward glance but was startled a moment later by some shuffling gravel ahead.

This joker was moving faster than anticipated! My nerves tingled slightly as I quickly glanced upward, still trying not to make any direct eye contact. At this moment, I realized that I’d have to make the first move to prevent certain peril. If I did it now, this guy probably wouldn’t pay any attention to our awkward situation and we’d pass each other anonymously and safely. No harm done. We still had about 35 feet of separation at this point but were closing on each other rapidly. I mustered my courage and veered slightly to the right, thinking this would suffice for a close, but safe pass.

To my horror, I realized he had made the same veer to his left. Outrageous, I thought, as we raced directly at each other. Having faced this uncomfortable situation a few times before, I felt certain there was still time. 25 feet. Alright, we both made the early calculation that this scenario could be troublesome, I thought, so we’re both going to make an equally quick decision to take the second move. This dude’s legit, but If I play my cards right, I let him make this second dodge to his right to avoid the collision. It may give him the glory, but it lets us both walk another day.

So, thinking I was the better man, I sucked it up and maintained my course. But the fires of Hades burned for me that day because this half-wit refused to take the move that I handed him on a silver platter. Instead, through his gross negligence and brazen unwillingness to make the second sway, we were careening headlong towards each other with precious seconds ticking away.

My god, I thought, this could be it. I thought back to all the training I’d done the previous years to get to this elite level of walking. Could it really all be for naught?

12 feet. 12 feet separated me from this cold-blooded killer. He’ll probably take a swipe at my knee as he passes, level me with an elbow to the temple, or poke my eyes out with a fork and leave me writhing on the cold, hard cement to be put out of my misery by a passing Fed-Ex truck, I thought. Why, oh Why?!!

Knowing it was now or never, I dropped the act and faced this insufferable fool with straight eye contact. But oh no! Oh lord, those eyes! Those eyes burning with a manic expression of fury and fear; those eyes were my eyes. This fool wasn’t a ravenous blood-thirsty contract killer out for nothing but another obituary and a stack of cash. This was just a poor novice thrown into a walk-off he’d never dreamed could have such high stakes!

6 feet. I went even farther right, he went even farther to his left. 4 feet. A shriek, a holler, bystanders covering their children’s eyes to prevent permanent trauma. Hands out of pockets, a slide to the left on loose gravel followed by an unimaginable, pivot-foot-270-degree-hop-from-the-off-foot carried out in unison like a synchronized swimming pair performing for their lives in front of an otherwise bored shah looking for two additions to his head-on-a-pike collection for the terrace of the summer palace. Scheherazade, your spirit lived with us that day.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt the cold wind of his being pass within a centimeter of me. Breath held and senses numbed, we looked at each other as if in slow motion as we dusted off our shoes and backed away slowly. There were no laughs, there was only terror. A tragedy was averted by the tiniest of margins and we were shaken beyond comprehension. I’d lost my cool, my reputation was blown in this neighborhood and I’d never walk with the same bravado that turned heads on passing buses. I was done here.

That walk could have ended it all. The rumination strut is out for now. I’ll have to rethink my entire Chicago strategy. As for that poor fool, I can only hope that he has the sense to take a gift the next time it’s offered. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll save his walk and his life.