Uphill in Granny Gear

The other day I was thrilled when I squeezed my own thigh! Gosh darn I was as surprised as a teenaged girl pinched from behind on an Italian bus.

Why? My thigh was as firm, as muscled, as toned as someone half my age.

OK, so I've developed one good habit and I'm going to brag: regular exercise. Relax because I'm not about to announce that I run marathons. But gradually I have developed a regimen that works for me.

For openers we live on a hill which, compared to the mountains of Colorado where I once lived, doesn't amount to much - maybe 250 feet in elevation. But it's hill enough to drive my heart and lungs into aerobic action. Come to think of it, the climb amounts to 300 stair steps.

Sometimes I pant so hard I sound like an old truck in "granny gear." Back in Colorado all the guys wanted a pickup with an extra-low first gear so they could climb steep hills. After listening to myself wheeze, grunt and mutter I see how it came to be named.

Something in my Puritan ancestry says: first you work, then you play. So sometimes I wish we lived at the bottom of the hill so I could do the hard part first. If I did I could grind my way uphill, then sashay down, satisfied I paid my dues. Eventually I came to realize that by walking downhill first, I got warmed up for the uphill ordeal. Even so, some mornings I still curse that hill. You'd think, after 18 years, I would have worn it down a bit. Or that I would wheeze less.

The Santa Barbara News Press refuses to deliver their morning paper to our somewhat out-of-the-way residence. They leave it about a half mile away near the mailbox - you guessed it - down that hill. So every morning, I need to fetch that paper so I can read about important things that are happening on this earth, such as what Doonesbury is up to.

Bringing the newspaper is laudable; exercise is admirable. But I probably wouldn't move out of the house if it weren't for the third part of my program - two very large brown eyes attached to a 100-pound black dog.

Lola starts watching me right after breakfast. As soon as I brush my teeth and get dressed our mutt, who looks like a cross between a greyhound and a saw horse, gets interested in my shoes. She rejoices when I grab my sneakers, but pouts at the sight of pantyhose. Nothing good ever happens when I put on pantyhose because it means I'm going to skip the morning walk.

But if it looks like I'm ready to go then I hesitate, perhaps distracted by a phone call, Lola goes, "Woof!" which in dog language means, "get a move on you lazy bitch." Lola is a much more reliable motivator than my conscience.

Usually Blue, the neighbor's old brown furry dog, joins us. The dogs think of the venture as a hunting, sniffing, snooping party. Their excitement is contagious. Suddenly I am the Alpha leader of our little pack. And off we go!

No matter now reluctant I was to go, I'm always glad I went; I realize how fortunate I am to live at the end of a rarely traveled road, where we see hawks, an occasional coyote, where each morning the light hits the oaks in a different pattern. Every morning we discover something different. If the weather isn't 100% wonderful we go anyhow.

Ignore ads for expensive gyms. All you need is a hill, a newspaper, and an impatient dog.

Wanna feel my thighs?

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