Until now, I’ve resisted writing about walking. Not because I lack stories, but because walking has become a kind of ritual—my daily meditation. It feels strange to dissect something so deeply woven into my life.
Most mornings, during my three-month Oregon adventure, I start before the sun comes up. The cabin is warm, the river darker than the sky, and the first steps out the door feel like a small act of commitment. I pull on the same gear: boots or trail runners, merino wool layers, glove liners, a waterproof shell that doesn’t care whether it’s raining or not. I stopped negotiating with weather a long time ago. I go because it would be harder not to.
From my secluded stretch of beach, I follow the same route: two and a half miles down the coast, the Columbia sliding past with its slow, heavy patience. At the hidden cut in the bank where almost nobody goes, I strip down and slip into the river. It’s quick and bracing—just enough to flip a breaker switch inside me. Then I pull my clothes back on, fast, and walk the same two and a half miles home.
This isn’t “exercise” in the conventional sense. It’s not a step count or calorie burn. It’s a doorway. After decades of moving my body under load—Army, backpacking, running, mountains—the chemistry hits differently now. Endorphins, cannabinoids, and all kinds of useful internal chemistry start firing when a human moves with purpose long enough. If you’ve done aerobic work for years—real years, decades—you know the shift I mean. It’s not euphoria. It’s clarity and creativity, two conditions that rarely show up in the chaos of a busy life.
Some afternoons, I take an old trail out to the lighthouse with my weighted vest. Forty-two pounds bouncing against my sternum. At sixty-six, there’s a particular kind of pride in that motion. Not competitive pride. Identity pride. A quiet acknowledgment that no one else is doing what I’m doing. Not at my age. Not with that weight. Not with that history. The miracle isn’t that I can do it—it’s that I rebuilt the man who can.
It’s easy to forget how far I’d fallen. At fifty-seven, I was ninety pounds overweight, joints aching, nightly reflux, moving through the world like someone much older. The worst part? I didn’t stand out. Among executives in their late fifties, this was normal. That was the danger.
So I went back to the one rope I trusted: walking. Simple, repeatable, humbling. And it saved me. One day at a time, one mile at a time. A vest, then a heavier vest. Balance practice. Jumping rocks like a kid again. Eventually running with the load—not because I had to, but because I could.
Walking has become the quiet center of my life. My church, my meditation, my reminder that the world is still manageable if you take it in strides.
But here’s the part that matters for you:
You don’t need my route. You don’t need my vest. You don’t need a cold plunge or a pre-dawn ritual. You don’t even need a plan. You just need to start. One small walk. Ten minutes. Around the block. Down your street. Through a parking lot. Whatever you can manage today.
Here’s something you rarely hear, but it’s true:
If you lose 30–60 pounds between the ages of 40 and 60, you will feel like you put on a Superman suit.
That’s the only doorway that exists—the one you actually step through.
If you’re beginning your own walking practice, or beginning again, tell me in the comments. I’d like to know where you’re starting from. Post a photo if you want. Or just a sentence. It helps more than you think.
And if you want to follow along with what I’m building here, I’m posting updates and videos on Instagram at @theGarrettGoodway.
All my essays live at GarrettGood.com.
We’ll walk this part together.
Leave a Reply