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So, I went to see the doctor. Fortunately, it wasn’t a death sentence, but I was told that my vitamin D levels are as healthy as a basement apartment in November. On top of that, the doctor said my body could use some “increased mobility.” That’s doctor-speak for: “Stop rotting on the couch, you lazy bum.”
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your perspective—I’m married to a woman who considers uphill hikes to be good for the soul and whose eyes light up the moment she smells mountain birch and sheep droppings.
There’s just one problem. When I went to pack my gear for the comeback hike, I realized that my inner wilderness man has been in hibernation ever since the kids were in baby carriers.
I pulled the old mountain jacket out of the shed. You know, the one made of heavy cotton that weighs 14 kilos the moment a raindrop hits it. It smelled like a mix of mothballs and ’90s nostalgia. When I tried to zip it up, it screeched metallically, as if trying to tell me that we’ve both gained weight since the last time we went on a trip together.
And the boots? Their soles are so stiff that they must have been cast in concrete back in the ’90s. But you can’t just throw away things that “work”!
A walk on a perfectly ordinary Thursday afternoon.
The walk started off briskly. My wife set off at a pace that suggested we were competing in the national orienteering championships. I, on the other hand, spent the first hundred meters wondering if it’s possible to have a heart attack from fresh air.
“Look at that view!” she shouted, bounding upward like a mountain gazelle.
“All I can see.. are my own knees.” I grumbled back while discreetly leaning against a birch tree and pretending to study a rare species of lichen. The truth was that I had tunnel vision, which made it difficult to see even my own toes.
But here’s the thing: between the blisters forming in my old boots and the slight burning in my lungs, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t just the vitamin D seeping in; it was the feeling of being outdoors.
Admittedly, a retiree with a walker and a group of preschoolers on an outing passed me, but I made it to the top. As we sat at the summit—her heart rate resting and my complexion red—the coffee I’d brought tasted better than any I’d ever had in front of the TV.
So now it’s official: I’m back. I may not be the fastest on the trail, and I may look like a walking open-air museum, but I’m on the move. If you see a man in a faded anorak who looks like he’s fighting for his life on a moderate uphill slope, it might be me. That’s just me.
Give me a wave, but don’t expect me to answer. I’m conserving my oxygen.