Deadened woman walking

Cold. Dark. Morning. Those are three of my least favorite words.

So it strikes me as odd that I gave my neighbor’s e-mail a second look. Someone I hadn’t met, she’d e-mailed all the families in our pocket of cul-de-sacs:

Neighbors,
Is anyone interested in a neighborhood walking group? A few of us are planning to walk for about 45 minutes on weekdays at 6 a.m., before the craziness of the day begins. Would you like to join us? It's a great way to catch up with neighbors and friends and also get your exercise first thing in the morning. If you would like to join us, please email me, or just plan to meet in front of my house at 6 a.m. this Monday, the 13th. Looking forward to seeing you ...
Megan

Did I mention “exercise” is also on my least-favorite-words list?

But I do like to walk -- which is one reason I loved living in Manhattan in the ’70s. I could walk everywhere. Lately, I’d been thinking I ought to start walking again. I’d grown sedentary after a year of sitting in hospital and physician waiting rooms and at the pediatric oncology clinic. Too much time thinking about test results, possible outcomes and the improbable demise of our little family translated into an anxious outlook.

A little voice nudged: “This would be good for you.” But at 6 in the morning??

I answered the e-mail, telling Megan I'd join the group … and then started to stress. The night of the 12th I lay awake, at once wanting to bag the idea and worried I’d oversleep my 5:40 alarm. (Uh, one other thing: My ideal day starts at 10 a.m.) When I got up, it was really, really dark. I bundled up and stepped outside. It was really, really cold. I thought, “I must be insane.”

Alas, I was too chicken to chicken out. I figured all these motivated moms would be gathering at Megan’s house and I’d look like a wuss if I didn’t show up.

I arrived a couple minutes before 6 a.m. No one was there. Not a soul. I stood in Megan’s quiet driveway and listened to the birds tuning up for the day. With a spritz and a whoosh, the sprinklers embedded in the lawn across the street turned on in white plumes of spray. The predawn world was peaceful and fresh. I liked it.

Megan emerged from her garage; I introduced myself. We waited a few minutes, but no one else came. We started to walk. We found we had so much to talk about, we walked until 7:15.

By the time I got home, though, I had a searing pain in my right groin. I collapsed on the living sofa and stayed there all day.

It hurt to move, but my husband, Gene -- who walks during his lunch hour -- encouraged me to stick with it. "You'll walk out the pain," he said. He kept saying how proud he was of me, for doing something so beneficial -- and so utterly out of character.

Two days later, when Megan and I were scheduled to walk again, my leg was fine. I haven’t had a problem since. We’re walking 3 ½ to 4 miles, three days a week, trying to perfect our 15-minute mile. It’s still just the two of us. I’m kind of proud that I’m keeping up with someone nearly 20 years my junior. By the third morning, I’d traded my ratty jeans and bulky jacket for a pair of sleek exercise pants and a cute hoodie. I’d also traded any dread of the new regime for a happy anticipation.

Megan talked me into participating in a 5K that she organized for her son’s preschool this past Saturday morning. Gene and I both walked; it was our first 5K. We trailed the runners but were ahead of almost all the parents with strollers. We finished the walk in a respectable 43 minutes.

I’m sure people assumed we were one of the preschoolers’ grandparents. It didn’t matter. The day was bright, the air was warm, and it felt so good. Even better, illness and despair were the furthest things from my mind.