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Steve Brewer: For me, walking is an extreme sport

The Home Front

By Steve Brewer
Thursday, April 12, 2007

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Reading an interview with 30-something actor Giovanni Ribisi, I came across this remark: "I used to have this overwhelming fear of sharks, so I took up surfing to get over it."

Now, see, I would've done the exact opposite. If I had an overwhelming fear of sharks, I'd stay out of the ocean. I'd lounge on the beach while everyone else romped in the surf, and I wouldn't worry about sharks at all.

But that's me. Always the easy way out.

Many red-blooded guys say the best way to vanquish your inner demons is to jump right into the "extreme" activity that scares you most. Afraid of heights? You should go rock climbing. Really, it'll cure you. Or, you'll hang from a cliff by your fingertips and die screaming. Either way, you won't be afraid of heights anymore.

Scared of snakes, bears? Go hiking. Your leg's broken? Walk it off. Get back on that horse and ride. Then we'll go hang-gliding. Or surfing with sharks.

Such busy boys are off somewhere every weekend, roaring across the countryside in muddy trucks, armed with shotguns and/or golf clubs. No matter which sport they choose, they'll likely see each other later, sharing the warm fellowship of the emergency room.

Not me. Years ago, my best friend and I formed the Sit-in-the-Shade club, or SITS. We SITS members are a little older, a little more fragile. We've grown weary of injury. The rest of you go run around in the sun, chasing after fly balls and being healthy and stuff. We're content to sit over here and watch. Thanks.

You reach a certain age, you don't have to be "extreme" anymore. You can find many ways to hurt yourself without ever strapping on a snowboard or trying your hand at rugby.

Recently, I hurt myself walking my dog. Right in my own cul-de-sac. Directly in front of my own house. No special equipment or four-wheel-drive required.

My dog Elvis and I decided to take advantage of a sunny afternoon and throw ourselves out of doors. We circled the cul-de-sac and headed back upslope. I admit I wasn't watching where I was going. I was looking at my yard, pondering the fine line between "landscaping" and "underbrush," when I stepped off the edge of the curb.

My gimpy ankle (ancient basketball injuries) and bad knee (extreme falling-off-a-rope-swing 33 years ago) both gave way, and I fell splat on my face.

You know how, sometimes, when you fall, it feels like it's in slow motion? Like you're a lumbering brontosaurus and it takes forever for all your different parts to finish settling to earth?

This wasn't one of those times. My fall went like this: One second, I'm humming along, upright, and, the next second, whap, I'm face-down on the sidewalk.

Normally, I'd jump right up again, brush myself off and hope nobody noticed. But this fall was so sudden and hurt so much, the embarrassment factor didn't even register.

I lay there, moaning pitifully. I called the dog, who'd scampered to safety out of the fall zone. To his credit, Elvis came back and sat beside me until I could drag myself to my feet and limp indoors. If only he'd had one of those little brandy kegs like a Saint Bernard, I might be out on the sidewalk still.

After the initial shock, the only damage was a sprained wrist. I wore an Ace bandage for a couple of days, then I was fine.

But I was reminded of the dangers of extreme sports such as inattentive dog-walking. Time to go sit in the shade.