Plod, plod, plod. I jogged nonstop all the way around the block. Nearly one-quarter of a mile that first day. Yes, it was tough. On my lungs. On my knees. On my whole body. Lumber, lumber, lumber. The second day, I jogged, gasping, but nonstop, for half a mile. When I got home, I told the Husband that my jogging went from plod, plod, plod to lumber, lumber lumber . The Husband asked, "How is plodding different from lumbering?" The sound is different. It is. Pad, pad, pad. My gait sounded like Molly the Cat's when she scoots across the kitchen floor in search of something mischievous to do. I went three-quarters of a mile that third day. I remembered to breath in through my nose and not my mouth. I tried not to think of the twinge in my right knee. The fourth morning, I laid in bed thinking which route around the neighborhood would make one mile. And I thought about whether I ought to run at all. Maybe I ought to pay attention to the twinge that was now t