Confessions of a Hopelessly Addicted Bookworm, Walker, and Cyclist

Confessions and addiction in one title spells gossip. Nevertheless, albeit with great reluctance, I must admit that I have a problem. A deep, all-consuming addiction that has taken hold of me over the years. One that I have tried, truly I have, to shake it off, but to no avail.

The truth is I am addicted to books, long walks, and cycling. It is a full-blown, incorrigible addict. And the worst part? I have no intention of recovering or renouncing. Funny, yeah?

Well, unlike most addictions, which lead to financial ruin, social exclusion and embarrassing mugshots, mine have dared to improve my life. Not just that! As I have aged – gracefully, of course, like fine wine or a stinky cheese (I am not sure of the latter) – these compulsions have only deepened.

So, I write this piece not as a cry for help, but as an open letter to all, young and old, women and men, loyalty and commoners. It is a clarion urge to fall into the same delightful trap.

The Bookish Addict: A Dangerous Descent into Intellectual Bliss

Let’s start with the most dangerous of my addictions: books. It began innocently enough, as most afflictions do. A short book here, a pastime read there. Before I knew it, I was knee-deep into 1200-page books like Build to Last, neck-deep in autobiographies like Mandela, and drowning in history reads (reconnaissance and Medieval).

Books have led me to questionable decisions, such as carrying a hefty hardback on a supposedly “light” vacation or a 6-hour office day. My back and a severe shoulder strain are a testament.

I have lost sleep because “just one more chapter” is a lie I tell myself with reckless abandon. I have spent hours debating whether an ebook is as satisfying as a physical copy (ruling: nothing beats the smell of real pages).

Yet, despite all this, I refuse to go to rehab. The benefits are undeniable. Books have made me smarter, more empathetic, and infinitely more interesting at dinner tables. The only disclaimer – provided the conversation is about some interesting scientific discovery or philosophical dispensation and not the latest reality TV scandal.

They have transported me to realms unknown and introduced me to people far wiser than myself. They have also given me the magical ability to escape awkward social interactions simply by pretending to be engrossed in a piece of literature. Who needs small talk when you can feign deep concentration in a book and avoid human contact altogether?

The Walkaholic’s Confessions to Avoiding Chaos

While books may have enslaved my mind, walking has taken full control of my feet. There was a time when I considered walking a mere means to an end, a way to get to school or the shops (convenience store for the sake of language convenience). Oh, how foolish I was. Now, walking is my meditation, my therapy, my ticket to sanity.

At first, I walked for fresh air. Then, I walked to clear my head. Before long, I was walking because the sheer thought of staying indoors for too long made me itch like I was wearing a sweater made of regret. Or with some stinging nettle leaves.

Walking has gifted me with the ability to process my thoughts like a wise old monk. A good, long walk has solved more of my problems than any counselling, mostly because my problems tend to be along the lines of “What should I read next?” and “Why did I say that awkward thing in 2017?” I am sure someone connects with me.

There is a peculiar magic in walking; leisure walking for that matter. The world slows down. You notice things: the way leaves gossip in the breeze, the smell of impending rain (this is better with the natural ground after a hot sunny afternoon), and the suspiciously judgmental stare of a passing pigeon.

You also become adept at dodging joggers, who always look like they regret their life choices, and groups of teenagers who think standing in the middle of the sidewalk, sometimes covering the whole of it, is a human right.

Health benefits aside (strong heart, stronger legs, huge sense of superiority over those who take elevators), walking has also sharpened my ability to mind my own business. When you walk alone, there’s no need for pointless chitchat. You can simply observe life from a safe, non-committal distance, like a silent documentary filmmaker with zero audience.

Pedal Power: The Two-Wheeled Love Affair

And then, there’s my bicycle. My two-wheeled accomplice. My partner in crime. My noble steed. It is a black vintage Peugeot Crush.

If walking is meditation, then cycling is freedom. The wind in my hair, the thrill of speed, the sheer joy of knowing I am not contributing to traffic jams – purely intoxicating. I have pedalled my way through rain, through questionable terrain (with a few punctures), and through many a personal crisis. Something about spinning those wheels makes life’s troubles feel as distant as the motorists yelling at me for existing on the road.

Cycling has, of course, led to its fair share of absurdities. Like the time I cycled so far from home that I briefly considered dialling for an an emergency evacuation. Or the time I got so lost I had to bribe a local cat with my sandwich promise just to keep me company while I figured out Google Maps. Some cats though!

But all these pale in comparison to the sheer euphoria of finding a downhill stretch, lifting my hands off the handlebars (momentarily, before panic sets in), and screaming with glee like an overgrown child. You know the feeling, right?

The Art of Minding One’s Own Business

One unexpected side effect of my addictions has been my growing expertise in the fine art of minding my own business. Reading, walking, and cycling have all taught me one invaluable lesson: life is far too interesting to waste energy on unnecessary drama.

While others have expended their mental resources on gossip, heated social media debates, and unsolicited opinions, I have chosen the blissful path of detachment. When someone asks if I heard about the latest scandal, I can truthfully say, “No, but I just finished a book on medieval bread-making, hahahaa.”

When confronted with political squabbles, I opt to go for a walk instead, where the only debates I entertain are between my two legs about which direction to take. And if ever I find myself in a particularly absurd situation, my bicycle is always ready to whisk me away (like the Secret Service) at an impressive 20 km/h.

Why You Should Join Me in This Madness

I suppose, if I must give advice (which I normally avoid because I mind my own business), it would be this: develop a few wholesome addictions. Read books. Walk aimlessly. Ride a bicycle until your legs feel like jelly. Your mind will expand, your body will thank you, and you will learn to enjoy your own company in ways that will make others marvel at your contentment.

Life, I have found, is much easier when you are delightfully obsessed with things that bring you joy. I do not need the latest trends, the never-ending online debates, or the exhausting social obligations.

I have my books (my e-library is becoming a museum of all books, ancient or contemporary), my walks, my bike, and an unwavering sense of peace. And if you ever need me, you’ll know where to find me – lost in a book, wandering through a park, or speeding down a quiet road, blissfully detached from the madness of the world.

So, here’s to our good addictions. I need to focus on my astronomy book about stargazing – you now know of my next addiction. But I wanted that to be a secret. Ouch!