![]() Among them, the runners - the aristocrats of this kingdom - stand out. At the time of the day that I usually walk, I’m surrounded by people working out. After a few steps, the consciousness starts to float, free, contemplating the silent world. Perhaps it is because I walk in sound isolation, listening to podcasts that analyze Dvořák’s American Quartet, but my walks often have an astral feeling to them. And yet, despite all this, I refuse to fool those friends who celebrate the change: my life is better, yes, but it’s also shitty. I am more comfortable, not to mention that now that I’m off the painkillers and can bend over to pick things up without asking for help. I have lost weight, recovered some mobility and no longer suffer those terrible pains. I am not going to deny it: I am another person. ![]() I put on my sneakers, get my earphones and happily go out into the street to follow my route through parks, groves and streams. Today, walking is a pleasure, almost a necessity, a habit that I miss a lot on the days when I can’t do it. But I trusted the literature that ensured that if I applied myself and held on, I would not take long to notice some improvements. ![]() ![]() The pain of the first days of activity was excruciating. Still, breaking out of the sedentary lifestyle was not easy. My rheumatologist persuaded me, with literature and tons of advice, that moderate exercise will make my life better: if I keep at it, I can make the degenerative disease that has already fused several of my vertebrae progress very slowly, or even stop. ![]()
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