Slow Walk on a Sunny Afternoon

I'm slow. I think quickly, but I walk slowly. I don't want to walk slowly, I just do.

I'm not one of those people who shuffle. Don't think of me as one of those types who might as well be wearing bedroom slippers (I've actually seen a few of them). I don't drag my feet like a Thorazine addict. I don't have drop foot. I don't drag ass. I'm just plain slow.

How do I know this? I walk a fair amount. Have my whole life. And for my whole life I'm always asking people to slow down. To walk half-a-step slower. When I walk from Suburban Station to work on Rittenhouse Square, people pass me. Like I'm standing still. I'm the slowest walker I know.

Now, I don't think it's because of my leg length (I have a 32 inseam, which is "average," I guess. It's not like the 36+ that I know some have). It doesn't seem to be because I drag my feet (I don't). And it honestly doesn't feel like it's because I'm genetically related to a three-toed sloth. (I have five toes on each foot, thank you very much.) So what gives? Why am I the guy people tailgate on 18th Street until they can fly by me like I'm standing still?

My slow walking never bothered me much before. But I've been noticing how people whiz by me, people who make walking look effortless. I try to move my legs faster, but that just seems choppy. And unseemly. A guy my age just shouldn't look like he's rushing anywhere. So, I think I'm going to look at my stride length. Do a little analysis. Figure out why I'm the little kid always being told to hurry up. (What did the Father Tomato say to his son, who was always lagging behind? Ketchup.)

I'll let you know how my little experiment goes. And I'm willing to take suggestions. And if you see me microstriding the streets of Philadelphia, just take a step to the left and fly right by. I'll be the guy in your dust.