My day-to-day life living like a Swiss-Aussie happens in a 45-minute radius which you might find either confining or freeing. Come along with me before you decide.

I’ll start with the walk to work. That’s me rushing around the house, frantically packing lunch, finding my coat, running back upstairs to get a scarf, did I turn off the straightener, do I have Kleenex, keys, my work swipe card. Like anybody, the mental checklist is exhausting before I even get out the door.

But once I hit the sidewalk, the checklist fades and my brain goes blissfully blank, solves problems or starts writing. Which means that some days I’m that goof dictating a voice memo into their iPhone. Other days I’m paying attention to the people and scenery around me. There’s usually a hello and a chat with a regular, often a stop each day at the same spot to take a quick photo of the forest (side project coming soon).

On foot, the world comes alive in ways you can’t experience inside a car. It’s early April and I feel the push-pull as winter fades and spring rushes in: Brisk and cold one morning, warmer the next with the promise of more to come. I get to work calm, ready to tackle the day.

The walk home is my chill time, a chance to burn off the day and recalibrate. I rush to yoga a couple of nights a week, a welcome antidote to eight hours of too much sitting. Other nights I do our household shopping along the way: neighbourhood grocery store for a bit of this or that, a meat run at the butcher once a month or so. I shop where people know me, not super-well, but it feels good to be part of a community.

At least one night a week I don’t go anywhere, just home. I’ll take a longer route through busy downtown to the forks of the Thames where Dundas St. gives way to the trail and ends in a quick trip across the old Kent St. bridge. The view is incredible just when the sun sets. The river turns pink and purple, glinting and shining like the scales of some exotic fish.

Life as an urban hiker takes a lot of planning. I pack in my gear for the day, then pack it back out. This often includes lunch, workout clothes, sometimes a laptop, papers for a project I’m working on. I don’t have a car for a portable closet, so I travel lean but not necessarily light: my backpack weighs anywhere from 10 to 25 pounds.

Sure I get some funny looks when I arrive in boots and a knapsack at social or networking events but I suck it up in support of a lifestyle I love. And I usually find a few outliers who, like me, wouldn’t give this walking life up for almost anything.

But here’s the painful part.

In my mid-20s I had a car accident. Got t-boned at an intersection, had the fortunate instinct to drive between a telephone pole and light standard, then hit the brake just in time to avoid crashing into the front window of a dry cleaner’s. I was even more fortunate that I didn’t have a passenger. With the impact, they wouldn’t have made it.

I was goddam lucky. And it was all my fault. I was making a left, should have waited/didn’t wait, at least not long enough. I saw the oncoming van slow down on the yellow and in the end we both gunned it through the intersection. Classic mistake, or so I’m told.

I drove a bit after the accident but never really got back on the horse. I made the decision later that year to follow my partner’s move to a new city where I started my own business and lived downtown. Everything was pretty walkable and when it wasn’t, I used transit or cabs.

In case you’re wondering, yes, my partner drives and, no, he doesn’t drive me around everywhere. Very rarely in fact. We do a big grocery shop together every six weeks or so and if we’re travelling to see family out of town, he drives. I plan, shop and sometimes navigate. The division of labour works for us. Ditto generous family and friends: If they’re driving, I take on other responsibilities.

But I worry. What if someone gets sick on the way and needs me to take over? What if we have an accident and I have to follow the ambulance? What if my parents, who live in another city, need me right now? What if I just want to hop in the car and go to the damn beach for the day? What if, what if, what if. The rat gets on the wheel and runs and runs and runs.

I think about driving again. If I did I’d start like a teenager at the mall parking lot, just to get my car-legs and re-learn the basics: start, stop, turn left, turn right, park. Then I’d take lessons with a real driving instructor, a seasoned pro who’s calm and patient. Maybe skid school after that, slaloming through the tire course, hard brake and turn to avoid the dummy who pops out at random intervals on the simulated streetscape. I do ok. I get the prize.

Then what?

Even as I write this, I feel queasy deep in my gut. The preparation, not being able to just close the front door and go. The bulk and negotiation. The sickening speed on the highway. The random shit that comes at you rapid fire: someone blows a stop, someone does a hard right and throws their flashers on, a pack of bratty teens at the high school jostle and shove each other off the curb, expecting traffic to just flow around them. Low-level panic hums just under my skin.

I wish there was a better ending to this story. I wish I could just pull up my socks and do this thing. I wish I could “lean in” for fuck sakes. But I can’t.

And in my heart I know the real reason. I worry I’ll make the wrong decision on that left turn. Again.