Savage Words: Lesson learned as I fought through some pain

I’ve been walking a ton lately. I’ve talked about it in recent columns, but I’ve really been ratcheting it up over the last several months.

My neighbor is a cardiologist. He told me walking 10,000 steps per day increases your life expectancy by 15 percent. I told that same statistic to my doctor. He smiled, said that was pretty good, but thought I could do more and gave me a nudge.

I’ve got a Fitbit that I wear on my wrist that keeps track of the number of steps I take each day. My doctor was probably correct. After hitting 10,000 fairly easily each day by about dinner time, I knew I had more in me.

When you hit 10,000 steps, the Fitbit on your wrists buzzes and sends a note of congratulations for accomplishing your goal. After the smirk from my doctor, I went into my Fitbit settings and changed it to 12,000 steps before I got the congratulatory buzz each day.

That extra 2,000 steps may not seem like a lot, but for these 55-year-old knees and ankles, I can feel it at the end of the day.

I used to run a lot. Twenty years ago, I ran 25 miles per week, sometimes 30. It seems 35-year old knees and ankles could take that pounding. I have little doubt that I’m paying for it now.

When I do go for a walk, and thankfully I’ve been able to do it outside a lot more over the past few days, every step is met with a crack, a pop, and a little wince under my breath. 

I blamed the pain on my shoes, or on how tight I tightened my shoes, or on the concrete versus grass, on just about everything. The one thing I didn’t blame it on was the pounding my feet took when I was running six days a week.

Age, I thought, couldn’t be the reason for these frequent pops, cracks, winces. 

I have no doubt that people get a chuckle if they see me walking around town, or at the mall or grocery store when it’s cold. Every once in a while, a sharp pain drives deep into my foot and I look like Long John Silver as I stumble with a limp for a few feet.

But I always gather it back up, and trudge along. 

I try not to bitch too much when those sharp, quick pains go from the bottom of my foot, into my ankle and straight up my leg. It’s obvious when it happens, but I do my best not to complain.

But, it’s inevitable, I sometimes do indeed complain, out of frustration and also absorbing the reality that my body can’t do what it once did … even just 20 years ago. 

Last week I took a walk through Falls Park on the northern end of downtown Sioux Falls. It was one of those beautiful, warm, February days that we’ve now become accustomed to. 

The weather was perfect, but my feet were screaming at me. Honestly, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, bitching under my breath.

On the other side of the pedestrian bridge at the Falls, I saw a dude sitting by himself in a wheelchair. He didn’t look down on his luck, didn’t seem homeless, didn’t seem sad.                  

There was a bench near where he parked his wheelchair. I had a seat, mostly because my feet hurt, but also because I was curious about his story

We struck up a conversation. We talked about the weather, the park, the number of people out-and-about. I asked him where he was from. “Around,” was his answer.

That answer seemed fair enough, and perhaps a signal for me to button things up. But he was very young, probably mid 20s, and I had to ask what happened that got him in that wheelchair.

It was a skiing accident. It happened five years ago. I shut up after that, wished him well, and started along the Falls Park path again to continue my daily walk.

I got about 50 feet down the path, slowed, turned around and looked at my recent conversation partner. 

Suddenly, the pain in my feet didn’t really matter. I thought about how much he would have enjoyed that pain, just to be able to get up and walk with me.

Moving forward, I’m going to keep walking, and stop complaining.