The Pedestrian
A true tale, written for rowdy recitation. First public performance: September 21, 2023
Here’s a true tale to cheer you, from Roosevelt’s era
Of a fellow who never stood still.
A gambler, a talker; above all a walker.
A pedestrian, if you will.
But a pedestrian king, if there is such a thing,
For at walking he had no peer.
He won long distance races in all kinds of places.
A "steam engine on legs", so I hear.
A walking race? That's a rather dull thing,
For us with our world of distraction.
But the nineteenth century had no TikTok or tweets.
Edward Weston was the attraction.
For thousands would come from cities and towns
to marvel at young Weston
Walk 6 days straight, night and day round a track,
Doing 500 miles before resting.
Turned out like a dandy in bowtie and ruffles,
Or a velvet suit, bowler and sash.
Weston was always the star of the show,
Winning races while cutting a dash.
No one before him made walking their business.
And perhaps no one has since his time.
He sold postcards, pamphlets, timetables, and tickets
To shows where he'd march and opine.
They gave him a name that cemented his fame,
Understated perhaps, but it stuck all the same:
"Weston the Pedestrian" they called him back then,
And his story has spurred me to pick up my pen.
Being newly retired, but decently fit,
I like to pretend that I still have that “it”.
I go on my runs, and I climb all those hills,
And attend to my miles much more than my bills.
When my legs are hurting and I feel a bit wracked,
I rally myself with this one blessed fact:
Weston's great walk came not in his prime,
But when he was 70 in 1909.
Picture this:
Edward Weston, dapper as ever,
Surveyed a growing throng.
They’d come to see him one last time,
That crowd 10,000 strong.
They'd come to New York's old Post Office
To wish him on his way.
He’d bet he could walk to San Francisco
In only a hundred days.
The savvy old fellow knew the appeal
Of the hundred-day claim he was staking.
Newspapers signed up for exclusive dispatches
Of the progress each week he'd be making.
And gamblers too were paying attention.
The brave ones bet he'd win out.
But most of them doubted the hundred-day mark,
And the odds reflected that doubt.
It was a bit after 4 on that late winter's day
When Weston started his walk.
He made Yonkers by nine, and dined with the mayor,
Then fronted a crowd who demanded a talk.
He lectured on diet, a firm bed at night,
The French marching style, and muscles too tight.
He regaled them with stories of feats by the score
Then bade them adieu and walked out the door.
He tramped until one in the morning that night —
Frost on the turnpike reflecting moonlight.
30 miles due north he'd strode on day one,
But west cross the land? He'd not even begun.
Now it’s 3000 miles across this big land,
If you walk on a line mostly taut.
But Weston’s route wandered 4000 miles
Through towns that would pay for his thoughts.
So, 40 miles a day was required,
and a speech most nights for his pains.
Due north for 6 days to Albany town,
Then west for his run to the plains.
In upstate New York the crowds lined the streets;
They knew him from earlier fame.
Some 40 years back, he'd won 10,000 bucks
Walking fast to Chicago from Maine.
Through Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana he barreled,
Into blizzards that were not in his plan.
His crew in a newfangled automobile,
Which broke down more than it ran.
Walking by day and speaking by night,
He managed to pick up the pace.
He was met in Chicago by ten thousand fans
Five weeks after starting his race.
Ahead of his schedule, twelve hundred miles in,
The roads seemed less muddy and the weather less grim.
He loudly proclaimed that he would win the prize —
Ahead were the prairies, flat roads and May skies.
Now, fortune's a river that rarely runs straight.
Old men should know it's not wise to tempt fate.
Nearly three thousand miles remained in his trip;
A chasm unseen twixt the cup and the lip.
He relaxed for a day, bulking up with a feast,
Penning glowing updates for the papers back East.
Repeating his boast that he’d finish in leisure;
The man was naïve of midwestern spring weather.
Moving out of Chicago the rain fell in sheets.
The cornfields were flooded and the roads ran knee deep.
The car bogged so badly that it sat for two days.
His walking slowed down to a funeral parade.
He lost all his cushion in one dreadful week.
A change was required, or the outlook was bleak.
County roads were his bane with their floods monumental.
But the railways were raised, and transcontinental!
If you've walked on a rail bed, you'll know what it's like:
Your legs never settle on a stride that feels right.
The gravel’s too soft and the ties make you pay,
And trains seem to think they have right of way!
It wasn't too hard on the wide-open planes.
He walked on the rail-bed; his crew rode the trains.
They traveled in comfort from station to station,
Securing his lodging and crowds for the oration.
Progress was steady, and sure if not fast,
But in Glasgow Missouri, he hit an impasse.
The great river Missouri was spanned at that spot
By a narrow rail bridge with no space to pull off
More than a mile long and 100 feet high,
The odds were not good should a train rumble by.
There was no other crossing for miles south or north.
He needed a schedule before he set forth.
A cheerful young local was keen to help out.
"After the next one, there's 15 minutes…about."
"About?" cried Weston. He needed precision!
But gone was the kid; Weston faced his decision.
Through the gaps 'tween the ties he could see only air,
And the muddy brown river returning his stare.
He paused for a moment, straining to hear
Any sound of a train, and then swung into gear.
Weston's river of fortune flowed smooth on that morn.
He gained the far shore ere the sound of a horn.
But the memory lodged in his dreams for a spell:
A train, or a river, to sweep him to Hell.
Across western Missouri, and then into Kansas
He trudged with an unflagging stride.
The headwinds were strong and the towns far apart.
Long gone were the crowds by his side.
Some days were scorching, and some nearly freezing.
Always the wind in his face.
Some days fair skies, but some days tornedos!
That hunkered him down in one place.
But by the last week of May he landed upon
The bustling burg of Denver.
The greatest city of those great high plains —
It welcomed him in splendor.
The Denver Post had organized
Grand fireworks for his arrival.
Perched on a balcony above the crowds,
He made light of his survival.
But just as speech was gathering force, he brought it to an end.
"Forgive me friends, I must attend to my progress for today.
There's 20 more miles before I'm done,
Though it pains me not to stay"
It was not just the calendar that pushed him along,
Though that hurry was hard to deny.
What he saw when he looked to the west chilled his blood:
Those mountains that reached to the sky.
Yes, the steepest peaks of the ragged Rockies
Now blocked him to the west.
So north to Wyoming a hundred miles,
Just to find a crossable crest.
Towns had been sparse in Colorado,
But Wyoming set him aghast.
One day he had to walk 36 miles
Before he could break his fast.
But then he reached, near Rawlins Wyoming,
The Continental Divide!
It's downhill from here, he said to himself
And the bounce returned to his stride.
Well, water wends its way downhill,
But a man isn't river or rain.
A thousand long miles were still to go;
Only twenty short days yet remained.
Maintaining that mileage through these harsh lands
Soon filled him with dread and dismay.
From here, every day would mean fifty miles -
A cruel price his old body must pay.
Two hundred miles later, a temporary reprieve:
For like the Mormons before him,
He found Utah, an Eden of grasses and streams,
That welcomed the weary pilgrim.
Now Brigham Young and his Mormon train
By the Great Salt Lake came to rest.
But Weston just cursed this inland sea
That now blocked his path to the west.
Abroad on the streets of orderly Ogden,
He again sought local advice:
Which path should he go round the big briny sea?
Either way might add days to his plight.
At last he located a knowledgeable chap
With a grin and a voice that did falter:
“If going around it’s … too far for your liking…
You could always just… walk on the water.”
A snort in retort was all he could muster
But indeed, no detour was needed.
A twelve-mile rail trestle crossed the water with room
For two trains to pass unimpeded!
The day he left Ogden, and trod on that trestle
Was a day he'd not quickly forget.
He logged 72 miles before he retired.
Perhaps he would triumph yet!
And the railway company had made him an offer
That filled him with bravado.
They’d provide a man on a velocipede
To help through the worst of Nevada
In case you were wondering:
A velocipede was gas-powered rig
Designed for checking the track.
But this one carried food, water and ice
A moveable feast at his back.
Now the worst of Nevada was a fearsome place:
Sandstorms that pummeled him raw,
Days so hot he walked only at night,
The darkness then slowing him more.
Through basins and ranges no respite was found,
And the miles came ever too few.
The closer he got to the snowy Sierra
The greater his deficit grew.
As far as we know Weston kept no journal.
And his dispatches were ever upbeat.
So we'll have to imagine the pain that he felt
When the math clearly signaled defeat.
The truth seemed to hit in Lovelock Nevada
Just 300 miles from his goal.
He would not set foot on the Golden Gate
On the date he'd so often foretold.
A lesser man might have stopped right there.
Not Weston, as ever unbowed.
The old man sent word that he'd finish his walk
"At a pace that conditions allow".
Up through the Sierra, down past Sacramento,
Conditions allowed a fair pace.
Released from the clock and done with the rails,
A smile returned to his face.
And crowds, growing crowds, around him each day.
They knew they’d not see this again.
That someone so old had done something so bold
Was almost too much to explain.
And somehow his fate of just missing his date
Made it all the more poignant and true.
For the lines on his face and the strain of his gait
Gave a hint at the hell he'd been through.
On day 104, from Oakland's long pier
He crossed Frisco Bay in a boat.
Precise to the end, he'd walked 3 extra miles
To make up for the distance afloat.
Standing erect at the bow of the ship,
Like Washington crossing the Delaware.
They spotted him coming from Telegraph Hill
And fireworks burst in midair.
They wanted to carry him on their shoulders
To his hotel a mile from the pier
But the dapper old gent politely demurred:
“I think I can make it from here”
The news went out across the wide land.
The President sent his compliment.
Calendar be damned! Not quite as planned,
But Weston had walked the continent.
That should have been that. The beloved old chap
Should have been justly contented.
Others before him had claimed such a walk,
But never so well documented.
And the papers moved on, for while he'd been gone
Robert Peary had reached the North Pole.
An age of exploration was opening up
That made Weston's brave march seem a stroll.
But to one old man, there remained the matter
Of the hundred days not met.
That his final walk had fallen just short
Consumed him with regret.
Of course, ballads like mine, longwinded and rhymed,
Delight in great heroes who fail.
Who now would know of the Mudville Nine
Had Casey somehow prevailed?
But a life fully lived is more than a ballad,
And who says when the story must end?
A man or woman can grasp their own fate.
Real lives contain twists that transcend.
Back in New York he carefully reviewed
Just where the time had gone:
The harsh high plains, the long detours,
and always the headwinds strong.
So quietly, the very next Spring
He rode the railway west.
Walking eastbound from Los Angeles
He moved like a man possessed.
I'll spare you the shorter route he took,
But the wind was at his back.
The weather held and miles flew by.
He was on the inside track.
Soon enough the press took note,
Reporting a preposterous boast:
"I'll wrap this up before summer hits…
90 days at most."
Tempting the fates by listing his dates
He then published a day-by-day plan.
After so much boasting throughout his career
Few now believed the old man.
This time, somehow, his word was good.
He crushed the 90-day plan.
Met back in New York on day 79!
By a quarter of a million fans.
Weston lived another 20 years,
Drawing crowds into his 80s
Marching through towns and doffing his cap
To the gentle-men and ladies
Yes, Weston's time was another age—
We think we’re so busy today.
We ride in our cars and tap on our phones,
And fritter our time away.
But I like to think the Pedestrian
Might be tramping out there still.
Showing you can do damn near anything
With enough vision, pluck, and will.
SO happy I was able to see this clever, humorous, poignant, and impressive performance. Can’t wait for the next one.