Last Sunday, I again started off on I can tell will become my ritual.  A walk.  A longer and longer walk each week.  With each walk I try new bits of things . . . gel wedges between my toes.  A different combination of socks, though I’m sticking pretty closely to my 1000 Mile Fusion Sock model.  Ace arch supports.  A pedometer.  Oh, yes, the pedometer.  Neil and I have three pedometers between us, purchased long ago for a walking trip in Italy in 1998, but can I find any of them?  Of course not.

So I visited my friendly Walgreen’s and purchased a new one, set it for my weight and stride, and clipped it to my waistband last weekend.  Cell phone, iPod, day pack equipped with a Kashi bar, two small bottles of water, and a pack of kleenex.  Donned my brimmed hat for the sun, and began.  When I reached the end of the sidewalk that leads to the trail and turned to go through the tunnel under the busy street, I thought I’d check the pedometer, just to see how far it is from my front door to the actual trail.  The pedometer was gone.  I’d been on my feet for less than 15 minutes, walking on a straight neighborhood sidewalk, and the pedometer had disappeared.

After I had clocked an hour on the trail, I retraced my steps on the sidewalk, looking carefully for my lost (and brand new) step-counter.  Nothing.  Back home again, I made sure I hadn’t dropped the pedometer in the garage somewhere before I began the walk.  Nothing.  After breakfast, my Golden Retriever, Luna, and I took a short trip down the same sidewalk and my eyes swept back and forth over the path I had taken.  Absolutely nothing that looked like my pedometer.  How could it have disappeared so quickly?  The only answer I had was that someone had found it and picked it up.  Nice.

Not to be deterred, I purchased an identical one this week and set it up just like the lost one.  Today the same ritual began.  Gel toe separators, a pad on a sore spot near my left big toe, different arch supports, my trusty socks and boots.  And the pedometer firmly tied to the belt at my waist, doubly secured by a clip to my pocket.

Nearly four miles later I had made the round trip, paying attention to any part of my body that was trying to send me a message.  Most of the messages were smiley ones, and just a few parts of me complained, but they recovered quickly.  I can do this.  And I have 16 months to get really good at it!

Next time . . . the “final answer” for my backpack selection . . .