Walking It Off

Recalling the hour after the fall, I first assumed I’d taken the direct route to Old San Juan—skipping the beach, sticking to the wide sidewalk. My destination was La Factoria (“Facto”), a bar I frequent partly because it caters to sweaty arrivals like mine: it has two open areas with sinks, towels, and toilets.* They’re likely meant for drunken revelers, not the over–60 parkour crowd, but they work. But checking my memory, I realized I’d done the opposite. Instead of the direct 4k route, I’d followed my original path toward the ocean: traversed the old aqua park, crossed the grassy area above the rocks where mainlanders propose marriage, then picked my way across the rocks to the sandy beach. I walked along the water’s edge until rejoining the sidewalk on the far side—adding half a kilometer. I’d walked 4.5 km injured.

Why? First, that had been my route before the fall. So, if I was just a soldier getting back on my feet, the route remained the route. Second, I trusted my body: if the injury was minor, continuing would keep my metabolism up and speed recovery. If major, the slow walk would help “flesh things out”—activating healthy tissue while mapping the damage. Minor damage might mean 85% capability in days, with lingering pain. Worse damage? Weeks or more to the threshold. A leg fracture? Yikes—and unfortunately still possible, despite my initial scan.

Some would say I should’ve seen a doctor. I do—for “bad” falls: if I can’t realign something, if fluids pool unnaturally, if weakness or brain fog sets in. But modern society often forgets a core truth: doctors assist recovery; our bodies do the healing. We mend bones, regrow skin, metabolize fuel, and convert minerals to rebuild tissue. After catastrophe, doctors are essential for realigning bones, binding breaks, or managing critical fluids and toxins. Medicine helps. But the real work—rebuilding every part of us—is what our bodies have done since before birth.

I made it to Facto, wiped grit from the bruises on my chest, and inspected my leg. At the bar, I found Sophia and ordered three glasses: water, fruit juice, and a custom coconut-fruit martini. I sipped, half-focused on my injury, half on the bartenders.

I noticed Sophia in silent communication with another server seated nearby—someone I knew, whose mother I’d chatted with on Mother’s Day. Something felt off, maybe tied to my avoiding this bar once days earlier when Sophia wasn’t on duty. A story, yes—but less urgent than my leg. After thirty minutes off my feet, freed from the work of standing and moving, commotion erupted beneath my pants. This felt less minor. I shifted on the stool to straighten my leg—a slow process. Catching the servers’ grumpy looks as I asked for my bill, I realized I’d been distant, not my usual energetic self. Had they thought me the one upset? Irrelevant next to my leg.

Outside, limping now, I made the kilometer walk to the Plaza where Ubers swarm and rates dip. Why walk more on a troubled leg? The military mindset kicked in: if you can walk, you walk. Back then, only extremes—foul odor or unnatural skin color—warranted stopping. Those meant toxins or necrosis, precursors to field amputation. I had none of that. Blood might take days to pool into dark bruises; tissue decay would take longer. A slow kilometer to the Uber would help loosen the leg enough to squeeze into a small car.

Over the next few days, I adjusted my schedule minimally. I walked to the office for the daily 8 am coordination meeting, covering my initial 3k round trip. After that, I took calls from the apartment, venturing out only for essential shopping or meals when bored of my cooking. It would take days to know if this was a quick bounce-back or a longer haul. Meanwhile, I pondered the change in circumstances.

Just the Sunday before, I’d been doing martial arts forms and walking shirtless on the beach, feeling great about everything. Now I felt and looked old. The difference was palpable in every moment. With the crystal-clear memory of what I had been, I could see with stark clarity what I’d become. Despite the pain and effort to recover in coming weeks, I wasn’t fundamentally different from before starting parkour. I was relatively healthy for an ‘over 60’ man. I looked fit; I could still walk unaided, if not pain-free. But for me, it felt like an instant transition: from the body and spirit of my twenty-five-year-old self to that of a typical grandfather. If the science were practical, I imagined such a shift might serve as criminal punishment. "Armed Robbery? Twenty years in jail or forty years added to your age… your choice. Good luck robbing anyone when your legs ache with every step and you need to piss every time you leave the house."

I took the initial days as a time to act my age, catching up on TV shows and movies. Instead of the 6k trek to Old San Juan, I watched a show on Apple TV one night and made the 2k walk to the local theater the next. A great thing about being old in Puerto Rico is $8 senior rates for even premium showings: large reclining seats, bar service, and air conditioning. Sure, I didn’t get any catcalls limping shirtless to the theater. But being old and slow doesn’t have to be all bad.

Tags: aging, parkour, military, puerto rico, chapter preview, recovery