Back in February, I decided to wage war against the slow southerly migration of body mass that I noticed taking place on my middle-aged frame. I set my sites on a 5k scheduled for the first weekend in June and began training in earnest.
During the first few weeks of my regime, I surprised even myself with my determination, walking at first, then crossing over to the more ambitious run/walk maneuver. My sons were encouraging. On days when I was less than motivated, they’d lay on the guilt. On days when I was really dragging, they pulled out the heavy guns – they offered to join me. Knowing that they’d run circles around me, I’d smile and decline their offer as I headed out the door.
Somewhere along the way, though, my right knee decided it was not on board with my plan.
The orthopedic specialist I saw promptly ordered an x-ray. After reviewing it, she informed me of the diagnosis, uttering the “A” word with a chirpy enthusiasm that is usually reserved for cookie-selling Girl Scouts.
“But I’m not even 50. Not by a long shot!” I implored. “How can that be?”
After assuring me that a touch of (pause to take a deep breath) arthritis shouldn’t slow me down one bit, I felt compelled to rush to the drug store and purchase a cane. The next day, the forecast called for what seemed like the 35th snow storm of the season.
I shelved my training plan and made a double batch of chocolate chip banana bread (recipe available upon request).
Since then, the snow has cleared. I’ve resumed my walking routine and, so far, my knee is cooperating. Meanwhile, my sons have registered for the race and I’ll be there to cheer them on, banana bread breath and all.