Blame it on Tchaikovsky

Before I was a walker, I was a runner. I ran through Lincoln Park in Chicago, along Todd's Road in Lexington, around the reservoir in Central Park. I ran in the suburbs for a while, too — until my knees caught up with me. Now I walk — fast — figuring it's better for my body if I keep at least one foot on the pavement as I pace.

Sometimes when I'm feeling strong and listening to good music, though, my emotions get the better of me. That happened yesterday. It was a brass-driven piece, loud, bombastic, a show stopper. The sort of symphony that provokes applause after movements. If I can't move around as well today, I'm blaming it on Tchaikovsky.