Last week I sat down and had a long talk with myself and we agreed, my ego and I, that the time had come to act, but that to rush back to the gym involved an unacceptable risk of trauma. Instead I would ease into the pre-summer exercise regimen and so, gym shoes firmly laced and baggy shorts flapping in the late afternoon breeze, I strode off to the walkway along the Toowong streach of Brisbane River that runs parallel to Coronation Drive.

It's all a matter of rhythm, this walking business, and one of these days I will find mine. Until then, I must be content to strut along, arms and legs flailing the air like oriental fighting sticks, each limb marching to its own discordant tune.

Whenever I go walking I am reminded of my first attempt to snow ski. After several hours, my German instructor, a man who boasted of never having failed to teach a student to ski, abandoned me. As I lay there, face down in the snow, I heard his parting words: "I have never zeen zuch an unco-ordinated man in all my life." Mouth filled with snow, I was unable to reply but had I been able, would have made an impolitic remark, à la John Cleese, relating to the outcome of World War II.

I was just hitting my stride, and several people unfortunate enough to be within flailing distance, when the first one struck, glancing off my elbow, both of which were extended like chicken wings. "Gedoutatheway!" he yelled as he swerved around me and flashed past, causing my arms to flap in fright. If they'd flapped any harder, I would have taken off and landed in the river.

"Stuff 'em," I huffed as I plodded past the Regatta Hotel, casting a sidelong glance through its open doors and into the cool confines within. "Drunks and tosspots," I muttered as my head said "keep walking" and my heart said, "Don't be mad. You've been walking for ten minutes. You deserve a some booze." Then another one struck. "Pissorrrfoutatheway!" he screamed as he hissed past.

Hostilities, I can report, have broken out on the Toowong walkway, innocent waddlers like myself being blitzed by cyclists in their licorice allsorts tights and funny helmets. Where are the walkway police when you need them? Lord Mayor Campbell Newmann must send a security force before someone - me, for instance - gets run down.

I've taken to shouting abuse back at them but by the time I react, they're 50 metres down the track. I related my experience to a friend who had been out walking and had come to blows with one of these two-wheeled terrorists. As it turned out, his friend was an accomplished brawler who put the issue beyond doubt when he threw his assailant's bike into the river and offered to do the same to its rider, an offer that was declined.