The ankle bone's connected to the shin bone.

There used to be a guy in Lawrence, Kansas, where I lived for six years, who walked 12 miles to and from town every day. Not for work -- he actually didn't have a job -- but just because the road was there and he was going to use it. People called him Walking Man. They also called him crazy, but I think his act was majestically sane.

When he died unexpectedly one evening, Walking Man was memorialized on a temporary mural downtown: serene look on his face, long and winding road ahead of him. He knew what many diehard pedestrians know: The world slows down a bit when you're walking. Your head clears. You become aware of your senses, your muscles, your very center of gravity in ways you otherwise tend to overlook.

I remembered this pretty keenly during a recent snowstorm, which kept me from my usual bike commute, and made a hike to and from the train (for just two stops, no less) seem kind of silly. I only work a couple miles from home, and the prospect of a long walk through new snow was downright irresistible.

I bundled myself up and took to the sidewalk. I walked for nearly an hour, deliberately varying my route from the usual arterials. I don't own an iPod or even an old Walkman, and I wouldn't have wanted the distraction anyway. The point of a walk, at least for me, is to take in the world around you. Swallow it up. Choke it down if you have to. But be palpably, openly in it.

That particular day, I took in rogue art, men at work, a waft of baked goods fresh from the oven, the rising tide of foreclosure, signs of budding economic development, and some neighbors' stubborn refusal to say good-bye to the holidays.

That night, I did the whole thing over again. Same world, different lighting. But the earth was just as sturdy underfoot, and my boots rose to the challenge.