Ease On Down The Road

Defending the Slow-Walking St Andrean

I have brought up the problem of slow walkers to almost everybody I know in this town. Each time I was told the same thing: walking etiquette is dead here, the slow walkers have laid siege to the fortress of reasonable walkers, and now we are all compelled to stare at the back of their heads as they gorge themselves on our minutes. At first, I was happy that my social circle was filled exclusively with righteous walkers — free thinkers, the good that stood against the evil; clearly, we were all in agreement. Nobody I knew, and thus tacitly approved of, was clotting Market Street by standing in a circle of their friends or swerving about the pavement like Snow White dancing with the seven dwarves. They were all good people with pavement smarts — and it could’ve stayed this way. I could’ve stayed comfortable in my ignorance. But when it came to writing about slow walkers, I suddenly no longer felt secure in my worldview; I produced these horrible sentences which stripped these people not only of their claim to the pavement but of their dignity. It did not read well.

So, in the interest of outreach, I set out to walk amongst the snails. I made multiple attempts to put myself in the sloth’s way. Again, these rage-filled thoughts started coming through — “How could you be so careless? Who raised you? If I could, I’d transform you into a slug.” So, I had a problem: evidently, a slow walker was all it took to unravel my dedication to becoming my kindest self. 

This is a challenge we face as a species: everybody wants to be kind and reasonable until it’s counterintuitive. I’ve met many people who, I thought, understood the importance of empathy, only to see that they withhold it from the people they’ve predetermined aren’t worth their time. But offering each other empathy and kindness is not supposed to be easy — it’s supposed to be a battle against yourself, one which can often seem counterintuitive, precisely because it challenges your idea of who deserves it. If we all treated slow walkers with this kind of counterintuitive empathy, maybe St Andrews would be a town capable of fostering that same grace in the world at large. 

I want to pose the question: what if slow walkers represent a trial run for living with the irrationality of others? Wouldn’t that make them incredibly important, even worthwhile members of this community? I understand the impulse to see uncharitable grudges against the odd slow walker as inconsequential. Nevertheless, I am a firm believer that small morals become big principles and, if we are to remain good people, the latter are what we need to cultivate.

In my case, it’s not that my hatred of slow walkers was uniquely terrible or even unjustified; it’s just that, whichever way you slice it, I assumed something of my fellow humans that shouldn’t be assumed. I assumed they existed exclusively to thwart my will, to make me suffer, and thus I denied them even a moment of consideration as I bulldozed my way to lectures. How could these people — innocent tourists, schoolchildren, students, workers, and residents — be expected to accommodate my frantic, rabid need to keep a fast pace? They couldn’t. Which means they aren’t the problem at all — I am. 

So, I’d like to offer my formal apology to the slow walkers of St Andrews. I’m sorry I wanted to transform you into slugs, and I’m sorry I questioned your personhood because you stole one or two minutes from me on my walk to class. You can rest easy knowing that I’ve retired my pitchforks and extinguished my torches — I’m ready to hear the lessons you’re offering to teach me, even if you don’t know what you’re offering. Then again, maybe ‘apology’ was a bit of a strong word. Let’s call it a tenuous truce. Now, get out of my way.

Illustration by Hannah Beggerow