The Air Walk saga- My eight glorious paces of Ridiculousness

 The Air Walk Saga: My Eight Glorious Paces of Ridiculousness

Gravity, ageing knees, and a craze I had no business attempting.

Have you ever attempted something so ridiculous, so utterly absurd, that embarrassment was inevitable… and yet you couldn’t resist?

That, my friends, is how I found myself attempting the Air Walk — the mystical move where you drift in slow motion like a low-budget sci-fi hero, then — WHOOSH — break into a sprint as if someone yelled, “FINAL CALL FOR BOARDING!”

Naturally, I thought, How hard can it be?

First came mental rehearsal. In my head? Majestic. Weightless. Feather-in-the-breeze elegance. I even imagined a heroic soundtrack.

Then came sofa rehearsal. I sat there, mimicking the footwork. I looked like a confused pigeon. My cat glanced at me, then walked away, unimpressed.

Finally, bed rehearsal. Legs in the air, toes pointed, feeling oddly powerful. Thank goodness my wife and grandkids were downstairs — their expressions would have been legendary. I imagined their applause anyway, which made the effort feel cinematic.

Now, before you judge: I am old, but not yet ancient. I can walk unaided, jog a bit, even manage an energetic sprint. You get the drift. But extreme sporty stuff like AIR WALKING? That’s a different ball game. I had promised myself the days of reckless heroism were behind me — no more illusions of youthful bravado. Some things are best admired from a safe distance.

And yet, here I was. Every so often, a crazy thought strikes: Tonight — Air Walk. Adrenaline pumping. Silly, but thrilling. I slipped out quietly, like a secret agent on a ridiculous mission.

I slunk onto the little dead-end road near our place. Not a soul in sight. Perfect — my runway, my destiny.

The air was cool, carrying a gentle hush. A few stars shimmered above, shy against the city glow. Streetlights cast soft pools of light, and a wind rustled the leaves — as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

Then, like solemn critics in a front-row box, our two stray cats appeared. One perched on the curb, tail flicking, the other lounging in shadows. Their eyes followed me with unblinking attention — the only witnesses. My daughters and sons-in-law would have been spellbound. My wife? Possibly questioning all her life choices.

Deep breath… steady… and go.

Slow start. Check. Picked up the pace. Check. Limbs cooperating, Sketchers loyal, dignity mostly intact.

Then: the REAL DEAL.

Before you could say “Jackson” or “Elvis Presley,” I was AIR WALKING — eight glorious paces of pure ridiculousness. Muscles protesting, movements exaggerated, cats judging in solemn silence.

By the end… collapse in slow motion. Breathless. Gasping. Limbs flailing like a hero in a low-budget action scene. Muscles staging a full revolt. Utterly spent, yet undeniably legendary.

The only regret? I didn’t record it. No one will believe me. My colleagues might have muttered, “Is that really Mr Guzder?”

Calves tight. Knees sulking. Back threatening to resign.

And yet… for those eight glorious paces, I was weightless, ridiculous, and entirely, unapologetically alive. I was not just a senior citizen — I was a hero, a performer, a legend — if only in the solemn, judging eyes of two unimpressed cats.

The Air Walk is deceptive. It looks easy. It feels glorious. It humbles you. It mocks you. It leaves you questioning every life choice… while laughing at yourself harder than you have in years.

I may have promised myself no more illusions of bravado, no more reckless heroics. But for those eight absurd, glorious paces, I would do it all over again — slow motion, flailing, pride bruised, dignity optional… and loving every ridiculous second of it.