New aches and pains surprise the heck out of me

I’ve been retired for a little more than six months and, as readers of my columns are aware, I was pretty excited about this phase of my life.

Maybe I was a bit too optimistic, thinking I would write, golf, play guitar, travel and whoop it up.

Well, dear reader, I have come to the conclusion that my body had been holding things together while I was working, tricking my joints and internal organs to just shut up and tough it out.

Then, when I stopped commanding this organic matter known as myself to haul all of its connected elements out of bed and get to work, they mutinied, as if being led by Fletcher Christian. Only Mr. Christian was not taking the gang to the tropics. No, we were all heading to knee, leg, foot and other sundry pains. While I never imagined myself as Capt. Bly, that first shock of a sprained leg taught me humility.

How did I dare to demand so much of my unpaid appendages?

So, bam, just like that, I could hardly walk, let alone jog or hike. This was in March, after I had already enjoyed trips to Mexico and Death Valley that my wife, Meg, had arranged to get me in shape for ongoing adventures and get my mind off any negative effects from retirement.

Oops! What I had taken for granted while working for some 47 years of my life suddenly turned on me. I had been assuming that I would be able to spend 24/7 gallivanting and gamboling through the rest of my life, no longer beholden to bosses and angry members of the public asking me to fix endless lists of their concerns.

All of a sudden I was anthropomorphizing my recalcitrant leg, saying, “Hey, buddy, what is going on? Why have you decided you don’t want to walk up or down stairs?”

Then, a dark cloud floated through my brain and an old-man question cracked lightning and boomed: “What if this never gets any better?”

I’d been lucky for nearly seven decades, suffering merely from a bunion, high blood pressure and male pattern baldness. Hardly an athlete, I had even imagined that avoiding contact sports early in life would promise me buttery health in my joints as an oldster. It was a weird trade-off, but I knew way too many people who considered themselves antelopes as youngsters only for them to face knee and hip replacements as they aged.

Not me, I promised myself. I even kept a vow never to smoke cigarettes, after watching my father smoke three packs a day, hardly ever getting any oxygen. I was right about that one.

Well, guess what? There are no guarantees in this trickery called life. As Robert Burns wrote, “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft a-gley.” You do the best you can and, sometimes, your efforts to stay healthy work. Other times it’s a crapshoot. Just don’t give up.

My leg did eventually improve with physical therapy and I was able to hike through Yosemite, grumbling enough so Meg was convinced I wasn’t having a good time. I liked the scenery, but I have to admit I trudged more than hiked.

From now on, I’m going to avoid promising myself the moon while enjoying the return of my stamina. My leg’s doing much better, but what’s going on with my left foot?

I’m just saying that it’s really important as you age to count your blessings, more than ever.

(I’m trying to learn Japanese for a planned trip next year. I’ll try not to complain about how HARD that is.)

Chris Hunter is a Pacifica resident and former aide to then-San Mateo County Supervisor Don Horsley.

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