The Jog

One thing about ageing? Things sag, droop and ache more than they used to. But your waistline? That still expands like a balloon if you eat anything sweet.

A while back, I made a mistake. Worked a lot. Sat a lot. But loads of timber on. Then, I got cancer. Which taught me something. Being healthy isn’t only for smoothie-drinking gym bunnies.

To fix that, I spent years jogging about the place. Early mornings. Out pounding the pavement. It worked as well. I lost a lot of timber. I cracked on. Shifted seven stone through better eating, sure and a lot of running.

But then I had a series of more medical problems. Stopped me in my tracks. The jogging stopped. The pavement pounding stopped. The lard returned around my middle.

Well, I’ve had enough of it.

It took a lot of effort to shift the last lot. And here I am back to being a lard arse. Well, the medical issues can fuck off. I’m jogging again.

I started earlier this week. Shorts on, trainers on. Baggy old top. Off I went. Walk first. Then jog. Has to be that way. It’s been a while. And I’m in my sixties. Nothing physical is easy anymore. Not that it ever was.

I made it round the 5K course. Slow. Painful. As much walking as jogging. But then I went the next day. Same thing, almost. But more jogging.

I got up early to go the next day. Knackered. I swung my legs out of bed. Swung ‘em back in again. Went back to sleep. No way.

But then, the day after that? I got out again. Jogged the whole thing — almost. Four minutes of walking. The rest, jogging.

I’m sitting here writing this. Aching, sore in places I’ve not been sore in for ages. But chuffed. I made it.

The plan now? Keep going. One day at a time. There’s a word. Momentum. It’s important. While I’m jogging for obvious reasons. But overall as well. Keep going, daily.

I’ll be out there tomorrow. Slow. Like a broken-arsed bloke. But I will be out there.

That’s what matters.

I reckon.