THE VAGABOND[2]
Give me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek the heaven above
And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field—
Warm the fireside haven—
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask the heaven above
And the road below me.
II
WHEN TO WALK
Any day—every day, if that were possible. Says Thoreau, “I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least [in the open]”; and, again, he says of himself that he cannot stay in his chamber for a single day “without acquiring some rust.”
Recall Thoreau’s Journals. Their perennial charm lies largely in this, that he is abroad winter and summer, at seedtime and at harvest, in sun and rain, making his shrewd observations, finding that upon which his poetic fancy may play, finding the point of departure for his Excursions in Philosophy.
At What Season
“The first care of a man settling in the country should be to open the face of the earth to himself by a little knowledge of Nature, or a great deal, if he can; of birds, plants, rocks, astronomy; in short, the art of taking a walk. This will draw the sting out of frost, dreariness out of November and March, and the drowsiness out of August.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Resources.”
The Daily Walk. Walking is to be commended, not as a holiday pastime, merely, but as part of the routine of life, in season and out. Particularly to city-dwellers, to men whose occupations are sedentary, is walking to be commended as recreation. Will a man assert himself too busy?—his neighbor plays a game of golf a week; he himself, perhaps, if he will admit it, is giving half a day a week to some pastime—may be a less wholesome one.
It is worth a man’s while to reckon on his walking every day in the week. It may well be to his advantage, in health and happiness, to extend his daily routine afoot—perhaps by dispensing with the services of a “jitney” from the suburban station to his residence, perhaps by leaving the train or street car a station farther from home, perhaps by walking down town to his office each morning.
The Weekly Walk. The environs of one’s home can scarcely be too forbidding. A range of ten miles out from Concord village satisfied Thoreau throughout life. Grant the surroundings of Concord exceptional—Thoreau’s demands were exceptional. Those who will turn these pages will be for the most part city folk; the resident of any of our cities may, with the aid of trolley, railway, and steamboat, discover for himself a dozen ten-mile walks in its environs—many of them converging to his home, some macadam paved and so available even in the muddy season, and any one of them possible on a Saturday or a Sunday afternoon.
What could a pedestrian ask more? A three-hour walk of a Saturday afternoon—exploring, perhaps, some region of humble historic interest, studying outcroppings of coal or limestone, making new acquaintance with birds, bees, and flowers, and enjoying always the wide sky, the sweep of the river, the blue horizon. No other recreation is comparable to this.
It is pleasurable to walk in fair, mild weather; but there is pleasure on gray, cold, rainy days, too. To exert the body, to pit one’s strength against the wind’s, to cause the sluggish blood to stream warm against a nipping cold, to feel the sting of sleet on one’s face—to bring all one’s being to hearty, healthful activity—by such means one comes to the end, bringing to his refreshment gusto, to his repose contentment.
The consistent pedestrian will score to his credit, every week throughout the year, ten miles of vigorous, sustained tramping. Five hundred miles a year makes an impressive showing, and is efficacious: it goes far to “slam the door in the doctor’s nose.”
The Walking Tour. Apart from, or, better, in addition to the perennial weekly walking about one’s home, there is the occasional walking tour: a two or three-day hike, over Labor Day, perhaps, or Washington’s Birthday; and then there is the longer vacation tour of two or three weeks’ duration.
With important exceptions, we, in our northern latitudes, arrange our walking tours in summer time. And, so far as concerns the exceptions, it will here suffice to remind ourselves of mountain climbing on snowshoes in winter, of ski-running and skating, and of the winter carnivals of sport held in the Adirondacks, in the Alps, and in the Rocky Mountains. In our southern states, however, no disadvantage attaches to winter; to the contrary, over a great part of that region, winter is the pleasanter season for the pedestrian. But summer is the season of vacations, and is, generally speaking, the time of good roads, fair skies, and gentle air. Then one can walk with greatest ease and freedom.
The choice of the particular fortnight for the “big hike” may be governed by all sorts of considerations; if the expedition be ornithological, and there is free choice, it will be taken in May or June, or perhaps in September; if to climb Mt. Ktaadn, it will preferably be in August. Again, one’s employer may, for his own reasons, fix the time. It is well, therefore, to formulate general statements, helpful in making choice of place, when once the season has been fixed.
In early summer, from the time the snow melts till mid July, the north woods are infested with buzzing, stinging, torturing mosquitoes; to induce one to brave these pests, large countervailing inducements must needs appear. Mountaineering in temperate latitudes is less advisable in the early summer than later; there is more rain then, and nights are cold, and, in the high mountains, soft snow is often an impedance. Throughout much of our country, June is a rainy month. In May and June, accordingly, and early July, one should by preference plan his walk in open settled country, in the foothills of mountain ranges, or across such pleasant regions as central New York or Wisconsin.
Late July, August and September are, for the most part, hot and dusty. At that season, accordingly, the great river basins and wide plains should be avoided; one should choose rather the north woods, the mountains, or the New England coast.
For the pedestrian September in the mountains and October everywhere are the crown of the year; the fires of summer are then burning low, storms are infrequent, the nip in the air stirs one to eagerness for the wide sky and the open road.
“The world has nothing to offer more rich and entertaining than the days which October always brings us, when after the first frosts, a steady shower of gold falls in the strong south wind from the chestnuts, maples and hickories: all the trees are wind-harps, filling the air with music; and all men become poets, and walk to the measure of rhymes they make or remember.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
If one is so fortunate as to have his holiday abroad, he will find the Italian hills or the Riviera delightful either in early spring or in late autumn; he will find the Alps at their best in midsummer; and, at intermediate seasons, there remain the Black Forest and the regions of the Seine, the Rhine, and the Elbe. As for Scotland and Ireland, no one has ventured to say when the rains are fewest.
The Hours of the Day
“Can you hear what the morning says to you, and believe that? Can you bring home the summits of Wachusett, Greylock, and the New Hampshire hills?”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Country Life.”
It is well, and altogether pleasantest, on the hike, to be under way early in the morning; and sometimes—particularly if the day’s march be short—to finish all, without prolonged stop. Ordinarily, it is preferable to walk till eleven or twelve o’clock, then to rest, wash clothing, have lunch, read, sleep, and, setting out again in the middle of the afternoon, to complete the day’s stage by five or six o’clock. Afterward come bath, clean clothes, the evening meal, rest, and an early bed.
But one’s schedule should not be inflexible; one should have acquaintance with the dawn, he should know the voices of the night. One forgets how many stars there are, till he finds himself abroad at night in clear mountain air. An all-night walk is a wonderful experience, particularly under a full moon; and, in intensely hot weather, a plan to walk by night may be a very grateful arrangement.
Dr. John H. Finley, of the University of the State of New York, writes in the Outlook[3] reminiscently of walking by night:
“But the walks which I most enjoy, in retrospect at any rate, are those taken at night. Then one makes one’s own landscape with only the help of the moon or stars or the distant lights of a city, or with one’s unaided imagination if the sky is filled with cloud.
“The next better thing to the democracy of a road by day is the monarchy of a road by night, when one has one’s own terrestrial way under guidance of a Providence that is nearer. It was in the ‘cool of the day’ that the Almighty is pictured as walking in the garden, but I have most often met him on the road by night.
“Several times I have walked down Staten Island and across New Jersey to Princeton ‘after dark,’ the destination being a particularly attractive feature of this walk. But I enjoy also the journeys that are made in strange places where one knows neither the way nor the destination, except from a map or the advice of signboard or kilometer posts (which one reads by the flame of a match, or, where that is wanting, sometimes by following the letters and figures on a post with one’s fingers), or the information, usually inaccurate, of some other wayfarer. Most of these journeys have been made of a necessity that has prevented my making them by day, but I have in every case been grateful afterward for the necessity. In this country they have been usually among the mountains—the Green Mountains or the White Mountains or the Catskills. But of all my night faring, a night on the moors of Scotland is the most impressive and memorable, though without incident. No mountain landscape is to me more awesome than the moorlands by night, or more alluring than the moorlands by day when the heather is in bloom. Perhaps this is only the ancestors speaking again.
“But something besides ancestry must account for the others. Indeed, in spite of it, I was drawn one night to Assisi, where St. Francis had lived. Late in the evening I started on to Foligno in order to take a train in to Rome for Easter morning. I followed a white road that wound around the hills, through silent clusters of cottages tightly shut up with only a slit of light visible now and then, meeting not a human being along the way save three somber figures accompanying an ox cart, a man at the head of the oxen and a man and a woman at the tail of the cart—a theme for Millet. (I asked in broken Italian how far it was to Foligno, and the answer was, ‘Una hora’—distance in time and not in miles.) Off in the night I could see the lights of Perugia, and some time after midnight I began to see the lights of Foligno—of Perugia and Foligno, where Raphael had wandered and painted. The adventure of it all was that when I reached Foligno I found that it was a walled town, that the gate was shut, and that I had neither passport nor intelligible speech. There is an interesting walking sequel to this journey. I carried that night a wooden water-bottle, such as the Italian soldiers used to carry, filling it from the fountain at the gate of Assisi before starting. Just a month later, under the same full moon, I was walking between midnight and morning in New Hampshire. I had the same water-bottle and stopped at a spring to fill it. When I turned the bottle upside down, a few drops of water from the fountain of Assisi fell into the New England spring, which for me, at any rate, has been forever sweetened by this association.
“All my long night walks seem to me now as but preparation for one which I was obliged to make at the outbreak of the war in Europe. I had crossed the Channel from England to France, on the day that war was declared by England, to get a boy of ten years out of the war zone. I got as far by rail as a town between Arras and Amiens, where I expected to take a train on a branch road toward Dieppe; but late in the afternoon I was informed that the scheduled train had been canceled and that there might not be another for twenty-four hours, if then. Automobiles were not to be had even if I had been able to pay for one. So I set out at dusk on foot toward Dieppe, which was forty miles or more distant. The experiences of that night would in themselves make one willing to practice walking for years in order to be able to walk through such a night in whose dawn all Europe waked to war. There was the quiet, serious gathering of the soldiers at the place of rendezvous; there were the all-night preparations of the peasants along the way to meet the new conditions; there was the pelting storm from which I sought shelter in the niches for statues in the walls of an abandoned chÂteau; there was the clatter of the hurrying feet of soldiers or gendarmes who properly arrested the wanderer, searched him, took him to a guard-house, and detained him until certain that he was an American citizen and a friend of France, when he was let go on his way with a ‘Bon voyage’; there was the never-to-be-forgotten dawn upon the harvest fields in which only old men, women, and children were at work; there was the gathering of the peasants with commandeered horses and carts in the beautiful park on the water-front at Dieppe; and there was much besides; but they were experiences for the most part which only one on foot could have had.”
In answer to a request for a contribution to this handbook, Dr. Finley replies generously, and to the point:
“I have never till now, so far as I can recall, tried to set down in order my reasons for walking by night. Nor am I aware of having given specific reasons even to myself. It has been sufficient that I have enjoyed this sort of vagrancy. But since it has been asked, I will try to analyze the enjoyment.
“1. The roads are generally freer for pedestrians by night. One is not so often pushed off into the ditch or into the weeds at the roadside. There is not so much of dust thrown into one’s face or of smells into one’s nostrils. More than this (a psychological and not a physical reason) one is not made conscious by night of the contempt or disdain of the automobilist, which really contributes much to the discomfort of a sensitive traveler on foot by day. I have ridden enough in an automobile to know what the general automobile attitude toward a pedestrian is.
“2. Many landscapes are more beautiful and alluring by moonlight or by starlight than by sunlight. The old Crusader’s song intimates this: ‘Fair is the sunlight; fairer still the moonlight and all the twinkling starry host.’ And nowhere in the world have I appreciated this more fully than out in Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine, where the Crusaders and Pilgrims walked by night as well as by day. But I have particularly agreeable memories, too, of the night landscapes in the Green Mountains.
“3. By night one is free to have for companions of the way whom one will out of any age or clime, while by day one is usually compelled, even when one walks alone, to choose only from the living and the visible. In Palestine, for example, I was free to walk with prophet, priest, and king by night, while by day the roads were filled with Anzacs and Gurkhas and Sikhs, and the like. Spirits walk by day, but it takes more effort of the imagination to find them and detach them. One of my most delightful night memories is of a journey on foot over a road from Assisi that St. Francis must have often trod.
“4. There is always the possibility of adventure by night. Nothing can be long or definitely expected, and so the unexpected is always happening. I have been ‘apprehended’—I do not like to say ‘arrested’—several times when walking alone at night. Once, in France, I was seized in the street of a village through which I was passing with no ill intent, taken to a guard-house and searched. But that was the night of the day that war was declared. Once, and this was before the war, I was held up in Rahway, toward midnight, when I was walking to Princeton. I was under suspicion simply because I was walking, and walking soberly, in the middle of the road.
“5. By day one must be conscious of the physical earth about one, even if there is no living humanity. By night, particularly if one is walking in strange places, one may take a universe view of things. Especially is this true if the stars are ahead of one and over one.
“6. Then it is worth while occasionally to see the whole circle of a twenty-four hour day, and especially to walk into a dawn and see ‘the eye-lids of the day.’ I had the rare fortune to be on the road in France when the dawn came that woke all Europe to war. And I was again on the road one dawn when the war was coming to its end out in the East.
“7. There are as many good reasons for walking by night as by day. But no better reason than that one who loves to walk by night can never fear the shadow of death.
“You will ask if I have any directions to give. I regret to say that I have not. I seldom walk with else than a stick, a canteen of water, and a little dried fruit in my pocket—and a box of matches, for sometimes it is convenient to be able to read signboards and kilometer posts even by night.”
Speed and Distance
Stevenson speaks contemptuously of “the championship walker in purple stockings,” and indeed it is well to heed moderate counsel, lest, in enthusiasm for walking, one misses after all the supreme joys of a walk. At the same time, there is danger of too little as well as of too much. To loiter and dilly-dally (to borrow again Stevenson’s phrase) changes a walk into something else—something more like a picnic.
Really to walk one should travel with swinging stride and at a good round pace. Ten or twenty miles covered vigorously are not half so wearying to body nor to mind as when dawdled through. One need not be “a champion walker in purple stockings” covering five miles an hour and fifty miles a day.
If one is traveling without burden, he should do three and a half to four miles an hour; if he carries twenty pounds, his pace should be not more than three and a half; and if he carries thirty, it should be three miles an hour, at most. When traveling under a load, one has no mind to run; on an afternoon’s ramble, one may run down gentle grades “for the fun of it,” but on the hike it is best always to keep one foot on the ground. The perennial, weekly, conditioning walk should require about three hours; and the distance covered should be at least ten miles. On a tour, continued day after day, one should ordinarily walk for five, six, or seven hours a day, and cover, on the average, fifteen to twenty miles. With three weeks to spare, one has, say, ten to fifteen walking days—rain may interfere, there are things to be seen, one does not want to walk every day. At the average rate of twenty miles a day—which one can easily do under a fifteen-pound pack—the distance covered should be 200 to 250 miles. If one carries thirty pounds, he travels more slowly, and makes side trips, and covers a stretch of say a hundred miles of country.
The figures given are applicable to walking in comparatively level regions; in mountain climbing, of course, they do not hold. To ascend three thousand feet in elevation, at any gradient, is at the least a half-day’s work; it may be much more. Furthermore, in mountaineering at great and unaccustomed altitudes—8,000 feet and upwards—great care must be taken against over exertion. One who has had experience in ascending Alpine peaks will remember that, under the leadership of his guides, he was required to stop and rest for fifteen minutes in each hour, to eat an Albert biscuit, and to drink a swallow of tea mixed with red wine.
Professor William Morris Davis, in “Excursions around Aix-les-Bains,” gives the following notes upon speed in mountain-climbing:
“While walking up hill, adopt a moderate pace that can be steadily maintained, and keep going. Inexperienced climbers are apt to walk too fast at first and, on feeling the strain of a long ascent, to become discouraged and “give it up”; or if they persist to the top, they may be tempted to accept bodily fatigue as an excuse for the indolent contemplation of a view, the full enjoyment of which calls for active observation. Let these beginners remember that many others have shared their feelings, but have learned to regard temporary fatigue as a misleading adviser. There is no harm done if one becomes somewhat tired; exhaustion is prevented by reducing the pace when moderate fatigue begins. Let the mind rest on agreeable thoughts while the body is working steadily during a climb; when the summit is reached, let the body rest as comfortably as possible while the mind works actively in a conscious examination of the view. Avoid the error of neglecting the view after making a great effort in attaining the view point.
“An ascent of 400 or 475 m. [1300-1550 feet] an hour may ordinarily be made on a mountain path; where paths are wanting, ascent is much slower; where rock climbing is necessary, slower still. Descent is usually much shortened by cutoffs at zigzags in the path of ascent: the time of descent may be only a half or a third of that required for ascent.”
One should not set out on any tour, whether in the mountains or elsewhere, and, without preparation, undertake to do twenty miles a day. During the weeks preceding departure, one should be careful not to miss his ten-mile weekly hike; and he should, if possible, get out twice a week, and lengthen the walks.
In planning his itinerary, he will not fix the average distance and walk up to it each day. Let him go about the matter gradually—fifteen miles the first day, twenty the second; on the third day let him lie by and rest, and on the fourth do twenty again. With the fourth day he will find his troubles ended. The second day is, usually, the hardest—ankles tired, feet tender, shoulders lame from the burden of the knapsack; but, by sticking at it bravely through the afternoon, the crest of difficulty will be overpassed.
In this matter of speed and distance, figures are to be accepted with freedom. Individuals vary greatly in capacity. The attempt has been made to give fair estimates—a rate and range attainable by a fairly vigorous, active man, with clear gain. The caution should be subscribed, “Do not try to do too much.”
Stunt Walking
These are tests of endurance in speed, in distance, or in both; the play of the habitual pedestrian. Discussion of the matters of speed and distance gives opportunity for the introduction, somewhat illogically, of this and the following sections.
There is, in the environs of a certain city, a walk of ten miles or better, a favorite course with a little company of pedestrians. No month passes that they do not traverse it. Normally, they spend two hours and a half on the way; if some slower-footed friend be of the party, it requires an hour more; their record, made by one of their number, walking alone, is two hours and twelve minutes.
Fired by the example of a distinguished pedestrian, who in the newspapers was reported to have walked seventy-five miles on his seventy-fifth birthday, one of the company just mentioned essayed to do the like—a humbler matter in his own case. He is, however, so far advanced into middle age that he won with a good margin the trophy of the League of Walkers, given to every member who covers thirty miles afoot in a single day.
Championship Walking—World’s Records
| EventTime | Holder | Nation | Date |
| 1 mile—6m. 25 4-5s. | G. H. Goulding | Canada | June 4, 1901 |
| 2 miles—13m. 11 2-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | July 13, 1904 |
| 3 miles—20m. 25 4-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | Aug. 19, 1905 |
| 4 miles—27m. 14s. | G. E. Larner | England | Aug. 19, 1905 |
| 5 miles—36m. 1-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | Sept. 30, 1905 |
| 6 miles—43m. 26 1-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | Sept. 30, 1905 |
| 7 miles—50m. 50 4-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | Sept. 30, 1905 |
| 8 miles—58m. 18 2-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | Sept. 30, 1905 |
| 9 miles—1h. 7m. 37 4-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | July 17, 1908 |
| 10 miles—1h. 15m. 57 2-5s. | G. E. Larner | England | July 17, 1908 |
| 15 miles—1h. 59m. 12 3-5s. | H. V. Ross | England | May 20, 1911 |
| 20 miles—2h. 47m. 52s. | T. Griffith | England | Dec. 30, 1870 |
| 25 miles—3h. 37m. 6 4-5s. | S. C. A. Schofield | England | May 20, 1911 |
| 1 hr.—8 miles 438 yards. | G. E. Larner | England | Sept. 20, 1905 |
| 2 hrs.—15 miles 128 yards. | H. V. L. Ross | England | May 20, 1911 |
Competitive Walking
Mr. George Goulding, the Canadian world’s champion, has generously contributed the following paragraphs on Competitive Walking. The definition of a “fair gate,” taken by Mr. Goulding for granted, is, “one in which one foot touches the ground before the other leaves it, only one leg being bent in stepping, namely, that which is being put forward.”
“In the present mad scramble of the business world, men forget the need of exercise; they are intent on rapid transit, but give little thought to walking. Walking is the natural mode of travel, it is one of the best forms of exercise, and should be engaged in by everyone, and by most people in larger degree.
“If ordinary walking for health and recreation has fallen into disuse, so has speed walking in competition. There are, however, still a few of the old school left, in Weston, O’Leary, Ward, and others, who remind us of the time when the art of fast walking was more highly esteemed in the athletic world.
“You have asked me to give my ideas on fair heel and toe walking for competition, or speed walking, and in replying I ask you at the outset to take Webster’s Dictionary from your shelf and see what the definition of walk is: ‘To proceed [at a slower or faster rate] without running or lifting one foot entirely before the other is set down.’ Based on that definition, a set of rules has been drawn up to govern the sport, differentiating a fast walk from a running trot. The chief thing for the novice just starting is to get thoroughly acquainted with the rules and stick to them, never violating them in the slightest.
“I cannot here make minute comment upon all the rules of championship walking, but I will do my best to bring out in a brief way the essentials. To simplify and make vivid what I have in mind to say, let the reader accompany me to some athletic track and see with me a bunch of walkers in action.
“It is a principle of walking which I have set before myself, to economize effort, to attain maximum speed with minimum expenditure of strength; but you do not see that principle carried out by all the walkers before you on the track. One fellow over there is twisting his body on the back stretch in an awful contortion, showing he is not a natural walker. Another, just behind him, is jumping in a jerky way all the time, owing to the fact that he is not using his hips to advantage. But look at this young chap just taking the turn, how smoothly he works! What freedom of action he has! Look at his hop motion! In order to get a better view, let us step out upon the track. Now see how his hip is brought well round at each stride, the right being stretched out a little to the left, and the left in the next stride to the right, in order that he can bring his feet, one directly in front of the other. Notice that he walks in a perfectly straight line. That is to say, if a direct line were drawn around the track, he would place each foot alternately upon it. Bear in mind that the shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. By this time the walker has passed us, and we get a view of him from the field. In contrast with the other contestants, he does not seem to have any hip action. That is because his stride is perfectly straight, no overlapping; his stride shoots out right from the waist; he gets into it every possible inch, and yet there is no disturbance of the smoothness of his action. And with his perfect stride note how he works his feet to advantage: the right foot comes to the ground heel first, and as the left leg is swung in front of the right, the ball of the right comes down; then, as the right foot rises to the toe position, the heel of the left strikes the ground and in turn takes the weight of the body. Notice how one foot is on the ground all the time; there is no possibility of a lift. A good test, to judge whether a walker is ‘lifting’ or not, is to note whether his head moves in a straight line; for, when one lifts, the head moves up and down.
“Now notice the difference in the way the different men ‘lock’ their knees. The knee should be perfectly straight or ‘locked’ as the foremost foot reaches the ground, and should continue so through the beginning of the stride. It is easier to reach forward with a straight knee than with a bent one. As the heel comes to contact with the ground, the weight of the body is shifted from the rearward to the forward foot, and the leg that has just swung forward now begins to propel the body. The straightened knee is at this instant locked. The ‘lock’ should be decided and complete. Remember this clearly, that the knee should be first straight and then locked. A knee bent throughout the stride is not to be approved. The rules call for a fair heel and toe walk, with a stiff knee, and we have got to live up to them.
“With our walkers still in view as they go around the track, let us study their arm motion. Notice how that fellow is slashing away across his chest. That is not necessary. Neither is the action of the man just ahead of him, who is throwing his arms away out laterally from the hips. Now look at the fellow with the freedom of action we have already noted. His arms are fairly low, they do not rise higher than the breast. On the forward swing of his arm the elbow does not pass the hip, and on the backward swing the hand does not pass the hip. The man does not carry corks. (The less concentration of mind upon the action of muscles the better.)
“I think I have illustrated the chief points involved in walking according to the rules laid down. Perhaps a summary of the rules for fair heel and toe walk will be useful:
“Hip motion: Just enough twist or curve given to bring the feet alternately in one straight line.
“Leg action: Below the waist shoot the leg out in a straight clean drive to its full, natural limit: hip locked, knee locked, and free play given the foot.
“Foot action: The heel of the right foot strikes the ground first. As the left leg is swung in front of the right, the foot of the right comes down flat, then, as it is raised to toe position, the heel of the left strikes the ground and in turn takes the weight of the body.
“Carriage of the body: To be perfectly upright, with the center of gravity on the heels, the head all the time traveling in a straight line.
“Knee action: Knee to be straight at first and afterwards locked.
“Arm action: Arms act with the shoulders to give good balance. Keep them fairly low, not ascending any higher than the nipples; good even swing; hand and elbow alternately reaching the hips.
“Hands: Recommended to be kept loose, corks not necessary.
“Having pointed out to you wherein individuals differ, and having indicated what constitutes a fair heel and toe walk, a few hints on training may be helpful. My first advice to any athletic aspirant is to undergo a medical examination, in order to find out if he is strong enough constitutionally to risk strenuous track work without injury to his health. I would further suggest that such an examination be an annual affair.
“What is the purpose of training? We train to gain efficiency in whatever branch of sport we enter. To train properly one must concentrate attention upon whatever pertains to his particular sport. Through such attention one strengthens the muscles and nerves, gains knowledge of the strength he possesses, so that he can use it in the right way and at the right time, to attain the maximum amount of speed with the minimum amount of effort. Training increases strength of mind, self-confidence, strong nerves, patience, thinking power, and character.
“The amount of track work needed to prepare for a walking-match will depend upon the individual, but remember that staying in bed and reading a set of rules will not do. There is a lot of hard work ahead. To start with, I would never think of entering a race without at least three months’ preparation, be it daily or three times per week. A long and careful training is far better than a short and severe one, and so I would recommend easy work for the first month, with a gradual increase of speed as one goes along. Do not bother with a stop watch until the second month at the earliest.
“Let me also suggest that one do a little morning calisthenics. These exercises should focus on developing alertness and endurance; consequently, light, rapid movements that give the muscles tone and firmness are the qualities to seek in such individual exercise.
“I have always found deep breathing a great help when training for a contest. I always practice deep breathing when out for a street walk, inhaling through about eight steps, exhaling for a like period.
“One of the things I learned early in my career was the value of sun baths. The blood needs light, and one needs pure blood to win a race. The direct rays of the sun on one’s body will give it. Of course one should use discretion in taking a sun bath.
“One should not forget that he needs a lot of sleep—eight full hours of it. Sleep is necessary for resting not the body only; it should also be a rest for the mind and the nervous system. Remember that sleep is not mere rest in the sense of inaction; sleep is a vital process in repairing and rebuilding used-up nerve and brain cells, so you see it is essential that the brain be at rest in order to gain full recuperation.
“As one becomes more advanced in the sport he will realize how large a part the mind plays in a race. Mental action has a great deal to do with winning. A man should not be bluffed; let him make up his mind he is going to win, and that he must not get rattled; let him have his thoughts well collected, and he will be all right.”
