Paces on a Path

Everyone has his own pace.
Some paces are fast, like the young athlete, almost desperate in his speed, reflecting a fast-paced life, one of competition. The tightness of a middle-aged woman’s stride reflects her frustration at work, the pain of running a needed outlet for her stress. An old man, wiry and fast, pushes himself with every step to maintain his rapid pace, the pace of a marathon runner, even as age begins to eat away his endurance. A young man, showing the weight of a few months of heavy eating and too little exercise, pants as he watches the ground in front of each step, willing his feet to cover miles. A group of five friends, dressed in puffy coats and jeans strolls down the path, chattering as their pace belies their status of visitors, here to experience Austin together. A girl in tight-fitting clothes passes, her pace that of the chronic runner, desperate to lose weight she doesn’t need to lose. An old woman in sweatpants and old running shoes. A young man in shorts and an old man in too-short shorts. A mom walking her dog, her pace relaxed and comfortable.
“Frida, stay off the path.”
Two friends coming from opposite directions, meet, exchange breathless greetings, and merge paths.
“Hace frio, no?”
“Si, muy frio!”
A group of guys jog in a close pack, discussing a movie as they keep an even, social pace.
“Antony, Cleopatra, Julius Ceaser…”
“Sparticus?”
“No, not Sparticus. Herod, I think Herod’s in it.”
Many paces. And I’m just sitting, watching.