The Column: Counting the rewards of a daily walk

In 1957, a group called the Solitaires had a minor doo-wop hit called “Walking Along.”

I think of the tune, and the years that have passed, as I take my daily hike along the harbor — three miles when possible; sometimes, two; always at least a mile-and-a-half.

Walking along just feeling glad

Singin' a song I won't be sad

Oh, happy day

I'm just walkin' along …

Feeling glad? You betcha’.

Who wouldn’t be singing “Oh, happy day” pounding out the miles at this point in life?

Could change any time, but for now I’ve beaten the odds. No hip replacements. No sciatica, no slipped discs, swollen ankles or knee braces.

Dumb luck, most likely, or a fortuitous bequest of genes from my mother who, well into her 80s, walked a couple miles to the Lutheran church in Brooklyn every Sunday wearing little black pumps and carrying a handbag the size of the Gutenberg bible — both volumes.

“Why don’t you take the bus, Mom?"

“Don’t be silly. Fresh air’s good for you.”

Also good for you is to just get away from it all for an hour or so — the web, the email, the scam phone calls (relax, you are not wanted by the IRS), the solemn purveyors of TV news, the political ads claiming a vote for the other guy assures Armageddon, the commercials hawking improved Medicare benefits (phone now!), the all-points alert from your wife that the washing machine spin cycle is kaput, and let’s hope we can get Phil the repairman before he heads to Puerto Rico again for vacation.

I’m not saying you can walk the world away, but it’s reassuring to see the fellows at the firehouse hosing down their big red rigs, or Nicky at the counter of the post office substation chatting up customers (“Hello, Brother,” Nicky says if I drop in. “What’s goin’ on?”) or the runner who stopped to ask about my sweatshirt with the big gold “Mizzou” on the front.

“University of Missouri,” she says, trotting in place, “you went?”

“Yup, journalism. Great.”

“I’m from Missouri — southeast.”

“Brooklyn, but loved it out there.”

“See ya,”

“Yup, see ya.”

I chug past the seafood joint and the pub where we sit outside in warm weather and have burgers — veggie, medium, please — and onion rings and icy IPAs and then, at the traffic roundabout, take a breath before crossing the street in the pedestrian walkway. Once a guy in a fast car yelled at me for taking too much time — he commanding a couple tons of steel; me in a pair of worn New Balance sneakers. Wait until you’re my age, pal, I thought to myself.

At the boat showroom, I squint through the window at the price tag of a sleek, cream and blue model — somewhere in the $200,000 range, wow, and others more expensive. “Can’t get them fast enough,” the owner tells me when I ask “how’s business?” Imagine that. Everyone’s worried about inflation, but there’s a booming market in speedboats.

On my route, regulars — a veteran in his red Airborne cap, twin sisters dressed identically, a woman deep in daily conversation on her cellphone, a neighbor who calls out that the Mets are going nowhere without better relief pitching — hustle by, all business, few words.

“Morning.”

“Whassup?”

“Not much.”

“G’day.”

By the boat ramp, there is a place to sit and look at the harbor and the clouds that often arrive in afternoon. Next to a guard rail, someone has put together a memorial. It’s been there for months.

There are photos of a young man — maybe in his 20s — next to religious candles with images of Jesus. “Oración del Señor,” says a label in Spanish, referring to the Lord’s Prayer. The young fellow is wearing a blue suit jacket, vest and white bow tie, maybe a tux. I don’t know who he is or the significance of this spot. Was it a favorite? Did something happen here at the water’s edge? I stop often to pay respects.

Soon, I am back at the house. Pedometer says 2.9 miles. Not bad.

“Home,” I call out with a grunt, unlacing my sneakers.

“Phil’s coming,” says my wife.

Oh, happy day.