Generally speaking, people don't turn up for appointments on foot in Los Angeles (unless you count the walk from car to curb). But Mark Phillips, a 38-year-old graphic designer turned documentary maker, is different - very different, as I discovered when I met him by chance the other day. We had been put in touch by a friend of mine, from whom Mark was sub-letting an apartment in Little Russia. Because this friend was out of town, it was my job to give him the keys and take his first month's rent.

Little did I know what I was in for.

“Did you find parking?” I asked when we met outside the stucco-covered apartment building.

“Oh, I walked,” Mark replied.

“In LA? Brave man,” I joked. “Where did you walk from - Hollywood?”

“New York,” came the matter-of-fact reply.

Here we go, I thought. Another LA fruitcake. Another actor with a reality problem. I mean, just look at him: food repository beard, half-mast trousers, the kind of hair that could double as a wildlife reserve. Of course he hadn't walked from New York, it's 4,000 miles away. To walk that far would take you...

“Took me nine months,” said Mark, proudly. “Started out March 4 on Staten Island. Got here December 2. Need a place to crash while I edit a documentary about it.” (Note: you can see clips on YouTube by searching for “Walking Fool”.)

The following week, I bought him lunch, during which I discovered that there is a small but dedicated club of Americans who spend their lives travelling between sea and shining sea on foot. Sometimes these lone backpackers meet up as they cross the Midwest in opposite directions. For the most part, however, theirs is a rough and lonely existence. A clean-shaven, short-haired cubicle worker when he left the East Coast, Mark crossed the country by camping illegally, getting up at dawn every day, walking for up to 21 hours at a time, and eating 99-cent meals at McDonald's (despite this catastrophic diet, his waistline reduced from 36 to 30 inches - a sort of reverse Super Size Me). The trip cost him $10,800. For that, he could have crossed the country in a few hours on a private jet while being served vodkas and tonic by a Playboy model.

Incidentally, Mark did the walk purely for the hell of it. There were no sponsorship deals or charities involved. He got the idea after getting locked out of his office in upstate New York one day. Bored while waiting two hours for the keys to arrive, on a whim, he took a long walk and ended up in the next town. During his wander he began to fantasise about how cool it would be if he just kept going.

Anyhow, since this chance meeting with Mark, I have started to wonder whether post-superpower America, like post-empire Britain, will become a nation of such eccentrics - a population of overeducated ironists who have long since given up trying to rule the world and now spend their time trying to pogo naked across Antarctica, or teach zoo animals to play the harpsichord.

I hope so. After all, there something wonderful about the fact that between March and December, while oil prices were spiking, the US economy was imploding, and the red and blue states were at war with each over, one man was oblivious to it all, walking from dawn until dusk, appreciating every step of the way, discovering that Americans are generally decent, good humoured and generous (with the exception of West Virginians, one of whom pulled a gun on him).

Not that Mark formulated many profound thoughts about his country during his journey. When I asked him for any insights, he shrugged and said: “There are a lot of bears in Wyoming. Makes it quite difficult to camp, y'know?”

What bugged him

You would have thought that hiking 4,000 miles non-stop for nine months would make you ill. Not if you're Mark Phillips. Apart from a pair of sore feet - unavoidable, even with three different pairs of running shoes - he remained in almost freakishly good health throughout. Or at least until he reached Utah, home of the multiple-wife household.

“I caught a flu from all those Mormon kids running around,” he admitted, still sounding peeved. “I was out of action for a week.”

City of lights

For me, the most fascinating statistic from Mark's adventure is how long it took him to walk from the eastern border of Los Angeles County to Santa Monica beach, where the sprawl ends at the Pacific shore - one week.

“I crossed the entire country, then spent a solid week just getting across LA,” he told me.

How on earth could it have taken him that long? “You have to wait at every damn street corner for the lights,” he said. “Takes forever.”

No wonder nobody walks.

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