Pilates Intel Online Newsletter for the Pilates Teaching Community

When summer came and the days got longer and warmer, Joe would suggest we take a walk in the evening after the late-afternoon rush was over. Usually we traveled downtown along Eighth Avenue. And that was a sight to behold, I am sure. On the street, Joe looked like a strange old man, wearing nothing more than a pair of skimpy gym shorts over his skinny bowlegs, a white turtleneck long-sleeve cotton shirt covering his barrel chest, and canvas slippers. He was deeply tanned and exceptionally muscular. He’d hook his arm into mine, Europeanstyle, somewhat dragging me along: a much younger guy wearing a well-tailored suit, a shirt and tie, and depending on the weather, sometimes a coat. We were a study in contrasts, walking at a very crisp pace. Sometimes Joe would have a pipe in his mouth, and in the bowl, sticking straight up, a cheap cigar. That the lit embers from the upright cigar blew in his face didn’t bother him.

Like so much else with Joe Pilates, our walks took a bit of getting used to. He had a glide to his walk with his legs doing the minimum to propel him, but at the same time, he was on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward, and swinging the outside arm as if he were running—the other was crossed with mine, and he used it as a pry bar to force me to keep up with him. He moved very energetically and aggressively, yet with hardly any effort. His pace was somewhere between a stroll and a power walk. We closed in on anyone in our path, and when we were behind someone, they sensed it and gave us the space to pass. Even with only one eye and diminished depth perception, nothing seemed to slow Joe down. We’d cut through the human traffic like a motorcycle white-lining it between lanes of slowly moving traffic down the LA freeways.