When it comes to talking the talk and walking the walk, the talk is that I do more talking than walking, even when I’m on a walk.

That’s why I won’t walk back the fact that I talked my way through two recent walks, one on which I had a delightful talk with a retired doctor and the other on which I tried to keep up with my wife, Sue, an avid walker who thinks I talk too much.

I took my first walk on a sunny day that was too nice for me to go to the gym, where I usually get on a treadmill and walk a mile in my shoes without actually going anywhere. This makes me talk to myself because everybody else is too busy huffing and puffing to be interested in anything I have to say.

On the plus side, if you’re on a treadmill you can’t get flattened by a speeding car, which is a definite danger if you’re out for a walk around the neighborhood.

But I risked life, limb and mouth to get some fresh air while avoiding all the aspiring Formula 1 champions who whiz through the streets on my route. I would like to talk to them with words that can’t be printed in a family newspaper, but they couldn’t hear me anyway.

About halfway through my walk, during which I talked with a guy named Tom, making us Tom and Jerry, I stopped to catch my breath, which by that time was pretty bad.

Across the street was Molitus Michel, who was doing yard work. I went over to help him.

Just kidding! I went over to talk.

“I used to do yard work,” I told him, “but my wife fired me. She said I didn’t do a good job. And I worked for free. I guess I was worth every penny. Now we have a landscaper.”

“My wife hasn’t fired me,” he said, adding that he is 92 and has been retired for 25 years.

“What did you do for a living?” I asked.

“I was a doctor,” he said.

“What kind of medicine did you practice?” I inquired.

“Not the kind where you would be one of my patients,” said Dr. Michel. “I was an OB-GYN.”

“I’m a little too old to get pregnant,” I noted, adding that I’m 72. “But if I needed emergency medical treatment, you could help me, right?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Michel assured me. “And it would be free. I wouldn’t even charge you a copay.”

“Thank you, doctor. You’re priceless,” I said before heading off to finish my walk.

The next day, I went for a walk with Sue.

The first topic of conversation: Which side of the road should we walk on?

At that moment, we were on the right side and going with the flow of traffic.

“Shouldn’t we be facing the cars coming at us so we can see which one is about to run us over?” I inquired.

“Why?” Sue wanted to know.

“Because I’m chicken,” I answered nervously. “Want to know why the chicken crossed the road?”

Sue sighed and crossed with me.

“They see you coming and don’t slow down,” she observed as an SUV blew past us. “It doesn’t matter which side of the road you’re on.”

“This is like the toilet conundrums: Does the paper go over or under the holder? And does the seat go up or down?”

“Just walk,” Sue said with another sigh. “And don’t talk so much.”

I had a hard time keeping up with her because she walks even faster than I talk.

When we finally got home, Sue said, “Now you don’t have to go to the gym.”

“And I didn’t get hit by a car,” I replied. “But if I do, I know a good doctor. You’d love him. And his wife likes how he does yard work.”

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