go.Jimmy.go

It was one of those afternoons when I needed to make a quick run to the grocery store for a few things. Nothing important, really. The trip probably could have waited until my next full shopping excursion.

But I was out of green tea and that, apparently, was reason enough. I grabbed my keys, headed to the garage, and drove the two miles to the local grocery store.

Driving has become second nature. Whether it’s a trip across town or just a few blocks away, I rarely even consider any other option.

As I made the short drive, my mind wandered—as it often does. Surprisingly, I wasn’t thinking about what else I needed to buy or whether I should stop for gas while I was out. Instead, I found myself thinking about all the places I used to walk when I was growing up.

Back then, if I asked my parents for a ride to the Palmer Park Mall to play video games or to Mr. Monster’s Comic Crypt to pick up the latest Spider-Man, the answer was almost always the same.

“No.”

Eventually, I stopped asking. Instead, I’d round up my friends, lace up my Chuck Taylors—with the obligatory rainbow-colored shoelaces, because this was the 1980s after all—and we’d simply start walking.

Every Friday during the summer we’d make the trek downtown to Mr. Monster’s or Luco’s because that’s when the new comics arrived.

We never questioned whether the walk was too long, because it wasn’t. What awaited us at the destination made every step worth it. The newest adventures of Spider-Man or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles always outweighed the possibility of sore legs or aching feet.

Maybe it was because we had nowhere else to be. Maybe it was because life moved at a different pace back then. Whatever the reason, we didn’t mind covering miles on foot.Maybe it was because we had nowhere else to be. Maybe it was because life moved at a different pace back then. Whatever the reason, we didn’t mind covering miles on foot.

We crossed lush green fields, wandered city streets, soaked up the summer sun, and let warm breezes carry us wherever we were headed. Those walks weren’t just about getting somewhere. They were about the conversations.

Sports.

Music.

Dungeons and Dragons.

Life.

And, naturally… girls. Funny how they seemed to become a little less “icky” with every passing summer.

One of our longest expeditions took us from South Side Easton, Pennsylvania, to Phillipsburg, New Jersey—a four-and-a-half-mile journey to visit a hobby shop.

To save time, we had what we proudly considered a shortcut. It involved climbing steep hills, scrambling over rocks, and making our way onto a railroad trestle between the States that stretched nearly forty feet above the Lehigh River.

Looking back, I can’t believe we thought this was a good idea.

As we stepped onto the bridge, our rules were simple.

First, don’t look down.

Second, pray no train came.

On the New Jersey side stood an old rusted railroad signal that glowed a steady red, and in our teenage minds that meant the tracks were clear. After all, what could possibly go wrong with that flawless piece of engineering logic?

Then one afternoon, halfway across the bridge back to Pennsylvania with the latest in Dungeons and Dragons goodies in tow, I glanced toward the signal.

It had turned green.

My heart stopped.

We couldn’t hear a train yet. We couldn’t see a train. But none of that mattered.

We ran.

I’ve never seen a group of teenagers move so fast in my life.

Halfway across, one of my friends looked over at me, panic written across his face.

“Wood,” he gasped. “I’m scared.”

Being the compassionate friend that I was, I shouted back the only compassionate advice I could think of:

“Shaddap! Don’t be scared… RUN!”

We reached the far side in what felt like seconds, collapsed beside the tracks, and laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

No train ever came.

Today, I realize just how incredibly lucky—and unbelievably stupid—we were.

My daydream ended as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot.

Oddly enough, my heart was racing a little just from reliving that sprint across the bridge all these years later.

I grabbed my green tea, headed home, and parked back in the garage.

Standing there, I wasn’t really thinking about the train trestle anymore.

I was thinking about walking.

About green fields.

City streets.

Summer breezes.

About friends who made every mile seem shorter simply by being there.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve become conditioned to drive everywhere—even when the destination is only a mile or two away. Maybe we’ve lost something in that convenience.

So the next time I need more green tea, I think I’ll leave the car in the garage.

I’ll lace up a pair of Hokas and make the trip the old-fashioned way.

After all…

It’s only two miles.

And this time, there isn’t a train trestle to cross.