It was 05:30, so Mary and I headed out for a brisk walk — which quickly turned into something else.
This is a thing we do. Drag ourselves out of bed at a time when only pigeons and people on night shifts are awake, then start pounding the streets in a noble effort to keep the weight off.
Not literally pounding. No hammers involved. And no exchange of money either. I mean walking. With intent.
And this weight? Yeah, I’m 60 and Mary’s 59. You’d imagine putting on weight wouldn’t be a thing by now. But it is. I look at a custard cream during Elevenses? Straight to my stomach. Not in it — around it. Like a biscuity airbag.
So there we were, rattling along at a decent pace. Lifting the heart rate—
Wait. How do you lift your heart rate? I pictured reaching into my chest like a surgeon with a step ladder.
Anyway, hearts were pounding. Muscles were working.
Are muscles like mathematicians, do you think? Always doing “workings out”? No idea. I just know mine were complaining.
“Let’s jog for a bit,” said Mary.
“Erm… yeah, right. OK.”
“C’mon, let’s go!”
And off she went — jogging. I followed.
“Why are we doing this?”
“We’ll burn more calories!”
Fair point. So we jogged.
“What you doing?” asked my knees.
“Jogging. It’s good for you.”
“Yeah? We’ll be the judge of that.”
They’ve become very chatty lately, my knees. Especially when I ask them to do anything beyond a gentle amble.
Mary glanced at me. I glanced back. We stopped to walk a bit.
Then off we went again — like a pair of gazelles who’d forgotten what agile meant.
We kept it up until the final road back home. We walked that bit.
“Finished larking about, have we?”
“Yes, Knees. That’ll do.”
“Right. Expect aching later. Just sayin’.”
It hasn’t kicked in yet. But knowing my knees? It will.
I wandered into the kitchen to make a brew and reflect on the brisk walk that turned into something far too energetic.
Went to put my trainers away. I’m pretty sure they smirked and said, “Jogger now, are we?”
I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out at 05:30 tomorrow.