Abandoning the pristine pleasure of my Toyota Corolla to go 'backpacking' to The Gleaner's headquarters on North Street, downtown Kingston, was painful, especially as I plod reluctantly past my betters, shielded in their cars by tinted windows and revelling in hurricane-force wind from their AC.
"What the hell am I doing?"
By the time I reach Abbey Court, a distance of about 300 metres from home, the lactic acid is already building up and my hamstrings and other leg muscles, gone soft from the sedentary office job - punctuated only by mini trips to the canteen or to that journalism monument, the coffee machine - started to creak under the strain.
I was determined to complete my marathon. Moving on to the sun-scorched stretch of Trafalgar Road was one of the biggest challenges. After trudging past the Atrium bank, the sidewalk becomes a virtual oven with no trees to provide respite from the revenge of rays. One of the key things to observe when you're making mega-treks, as I learnt, is to carefully stick to shady corners, even if it means zig-zagging along your route.
Usually I travel straight down Trafalgar Road and on to Lady Musgrave, but considering the sunny road to hell that was paved with good intentions, I skip that option and cut across to the more favourable Knutsford Boulevard, where there is a bunch of 'protesters' (or so I thought) who turn out to be Digicel pan-lickers beating up a marketing storm in front of the Claro headquarters. Alas, my dreams of front row to a potential cellphone firm street fight are dashed as I have to hurry on.
No need to rush
By the time I round the Pegasus, my brisk walk peters off to a sluggish crawl as my gas - and initial enthusiasm - run out. It's now 9:16 a.m. - and I resolve that there's no need to rush as time seems to be on my side.
After safely navigating the Oxford Road/Old Hope Road intersection, I spy a traffic cop chatting up a female motorist. Suddenly, I hear his parked motorcycle beckoning to me. "Take me for a joyride." My hand twitches as I consider the bike-jacking. The alluring imp vanishes and good sense prevails. Since Jamaican cops aren't too shy about pulling the trigger, I keep out of harm's way. Passing Edna Manley College, it's 9:32 a.m.
A fellow walks by me, then does a U-turn, and strikes up a conversation. He says he was a teacher at my high school (his face doesn't register) and then starts trying to fill in the details. Then comes the hard-luck story about his car being hauled along by a wrecker and needing fare to get back to Ewarton. Sorry, too many cons are about (even if the story was true) and I wasn't going to part with my hard-earned money so easily. At the Tom Redcam traffic lights, I ruefully turn down a fellow editor's give me a lift. As he drives on, I curse myself.
Midway Marescaux Road, I'm still making good time. It's 9:46 a.m. and it's now becoming a leisurely stroll, except for the occasional pangs from sunshine. I criss-cross that quasi-dustbowl called Heroes Park to cheat a smidgen of distance. I coast down East Street. My shirt is just slightly damp in spots, but it's hardly a sweat thunderstorm.
It's 10:05 a.m. when I reach The Gleaner, so I'm only five minutes late, and 10-15 minutes earlier than I sometimes clock in (hope no one from Personnel is reading this).
Tips: It's great exercise; just make sure you wear an undershirt. If your workplace has a shower, have a quick one and freshen up with perfume or cologne.
Cost: $0
My projected petrol savings:
Workweek , Monthly , Yearly
$1,250, $5,000, $60,000
Tools: UV shades, hankie or small rag, umbrella (of course, we men are too macho for that), bottle of water.