Sometimes the most important miles are the slow ones.

The day after my first run back felt mostly okay.

A few old familiar aches and pains showed up. My feet were a little angry. My legs were doing that stiff half-shuffle runners know well. Nothing dramatic — just my body reminding me it had been a while.

Garmin informed me that I would require 58 hours of recovery.

For a run that barely cleared a mile and a half.

In fairness, it might not be wrong.

Today’s “training” looked a little different. Instead of a run, we went for a long evening walk — my wife, my daughter, our dog, and our cat.

We never trained the cat to come along. At some point he simply decided he was part of the pack and started joining our walks.

We think he thinks he’s a dog.

The sun was already dropping behind the city when we headed out.

My daughter alternated between running ahead with the dog and insisting on holding the leash herself, which slowed things down in the best possible way. I shuffled along behind them, still a little stiff from yesterday’s run.

We wandered through the neighborhood as the light faded, and it was nearly dark by the time we made it home.

Sometimes rebuilding fitness doesn’t look like a workout.

Sometimes it looks like walking slowly while your kid holds the leash and your dog pulls both of you down the sidewalk.

Garmin still says I’m recovering. My legs agree.

That’s fine.

Turns out rebuilding a life — and a body — happens one mile, one walk, one evening at a time.

And at some point soon, apparently, one Goodwill trip to replace all the running clothes that don’t fit anymore.

Sometimes the most important miles are the slow ones.

The day after my first run back felt mostly okay.

A few old familiar aches and pains showed up. My feet were a little angry. My legs were doing that stiff half-shuffle runners know well. Nothing dramatic — just my body reminding me it had been a while.

Garmin informed me that I would require 58 hours of recovery.

For a run that barely cleared a mile and a half.

In fairness, it might not be wrong.

Today’s “training” looked a little different. Instead of a run, we went for a long evening walk — my wife, my daughter, our dog, and our cat.

We never trained the cat to come along. At some point he simply decided he was part of the pack and started joining our walks.

We think he thinks he’s a dog.

The sun was already dropping behind the city when we headed out.

My daughter alternated between running ahead with the dog and insisting on holding the leash herself, which slowed things down in the best possible way. I shuffled along behind them, still a little stiff from yesterday’s run.

We wandered through the neighborhood as the light faded, and it was nearly dark by the time we made it home.

Sometimes rebuilding fitness doesn’t look like a workout.

Sometimes it looks like walking slowly while your kid holds the leash and your dog pulls both of you down the sidewalk.

Garmin still says I’m recovering. My legs agree.

That’s fine.

Turns out rebuilding a life — and a body — happens one mile, one walk, one evening at a time.

And at some point soon, apparently, one Goodwill trip to replace all the running clothes that don’t fit anymore.