We’re talking creaky, cranky, disobedient knees. They’ve been screaming since the Clinton administration. I’m not being metaphorical here: I had knee reconstruction back in 1999, when Limp Bizkit still had cultural power and I thought denim cargo shorts were a good idea. Since then, I’ve known—intellectually at least—that I’ve got osteoarthritis brewing in there. “Degenerative joint disease,” the clinicals call it. I call it “shut-up-and-sit-down syndrome.” Because that’s what it felt like they were always telling me to do.
And for the most part? I listened.
Over the years, I got bigger. Not in a Schwarzenegger way, but in the “more of me to love” kind of way. I became increasingly... sedentary. (Look at me, using the polite word.) I moved less, sat more, comfort-ate like it was a competitive sport, and by the time I noticed how bad things had gotten—well, let’s just say I was no longer doing stairs for fun.
Advil came back into the picture. Just one, maybe two in the morning. Nothing heroic. But when you're clocking in daily with ibuprofen, you know something’s not right. Especially when it starts tangling with my other issues like Afib. (Yes, we’re collecting diagnoses like Pokémon over here.)
A Quick Primer on Osteoarthritis (OA)
Let’s take a quick pit stop and talk arthritis. Because if you’re over 40 and your knees sound like a bag of microwave popcorn, this matters.
Osteoarthritis (OA) is the most common form of arthritis. It happens when the cartilage that cushions your joints wears down over time. No cushion = bone-on-bone = pain. It’s usually the knees, hips, hands, and spine that cry foul first.
OA is degenerative, chronic, and yes—age-related, but it’s also deeply influenced by weight, activity level, injury history, and (sorry to say) genes. It’s not reversible, but it is manageable. And that’s the whole point of what I’m sharing today. Because when you learn to manage it well, life gets... remarkably more livable.
Enter: The Bike, The Ritual, The Revelation
That’s when I remembered the bike.
No, not the rugged, wind-in-my-hair kind of bike. I’m talking about my dusty old Kaiser M3 spin bike tucked in the corner like a forgotten ex who still knows all your secrets. That sturdy piece of gym kit I once loved and then ghosted. And you know what? I decided to apologize to it with my butt.
Let’s be clear: I’m not joining a spin class. There’s no aggressive instructor barking orders at me through an imaginary headset. This isn’t SoulCycle. It’s SlowCycle. I even bought a gel seat cover—because listen, my days of tolerating ass pain for the sake of fitness optics are over.
What I do is simple: I climb on in the morning, still groggy, sometimes before I’ve even put on proper pants. I press play on something gently distracting—Clarkson’s Farm is the current favorite, because there’s something deeply healing about watching Jeremy Clarkson fumble around in the Cotswolds while you’re low-key pretending to exercise.
And then I just... pedal. Slowly. Casually. No tension, no resistance. Just twenty minutes of soft, smooth revolutions. The goal isn’t cardio. The goal is heat. Warmth. Lubrication. Getting the joints to wake up without screaming.
And here’s the kicker: it works.
By the time I step off, it’s like someone snuck into my knees with a tiny oil can and gave them a good once-over. The stiffness melts. The ache dulls. The morning hobble transforms into something approximating a confident stride. I don’t feel like an aging steampunk robot anymore—I feel... human. Not superhero human, but “go get the mail without wincing” human. Which, for me, is the kind of miracle they don’t bottle.
Functional Movement as Medicine: This Isn’t Exercise, It’s Ritual
I’m not trying to train. I’m not hitting VO2 max. This isn’t even “fitness.” This is functional movement—the kind of movement you do so you can move. The kind that wakes up your fascia, gets synovial fluid going, activates those neglected stabilizers, and coaxes your limbs into cooperation.
Think of it as brushing your teeth—but for your joints. Every day, no fuss, no endorphin high required.
Modern physical therapy would absolutely cosign this. “Motion is lotion,” they say. “Use it or lose it.” And here’s the truth: joint pain gets worse the less you move. The longer you let your knees seize up, the harder they fight back when you ask them to cooperate.
So don’t ask them to perform. Just ask them to warm up.
The Stack: Water, Fasting, and a Dash of Salt
There’s more to this morning ritual than just the bike. I’ve also been practicing intermittent fasting—I usually don’t eat after 2 or 3 PM. That means by the time I hop on the bike, I’ve been in a fasted state for 12–18 hours. That’s already doing nice things for my inflammation.
Then there’s hydration—water with a pinch of LMNT or similar electrolyte mix—which helps counteract the stiffness and supports joint lubrication and blood flow. Combine that with whatever morning meds I’m on, and yeah—sometimes an Advil if I really need it—and suddenly we’ve got a stack.
Not a biohacker stack. A “let me feel like myself” stack. A get-out-of-bed-and-function stack.
And it works. Like, noticeably works. My whole system runs smoother when I start this way. Knees included.
The Slow Gospel: Why This Fits My Whole Philosophy
I’ve written about this ethos before: the gospel of slow. I’m the mod of /r/slowjogging, for heaven’s sake. My entire fitness philosophy could be summed up in one phrase: “slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.”
That’s something I think came out of JSOC or the Navy SEALs (if I’m wrong, correct me—preferably gently). But the point is: when you move with intention, when you build flow instead of force, the results compound.
This is slow jogging, slow walking, slow rowing, slow biking. This is the art of warming up—not revving up. Of staying mobile—not chasing performance.
It’s sustainable, it’s kind, and it’s effective. And it helps you get to the rest of your day without dragging your legs behind you like haunted marionettes.
Use It or Lose It: The Harsh Truth (Wrapped in a Hug)
We don’t like to admit this, but here it is: the body will discard what you don’t use. Muscle mass, range of motion, cartilage health, proprioception, balance—none of it sticks around just because you’re a nice person. You have to show up for your body if you want it to show up for you.
But that doesn’t mean you need to run marathons. It means you need to do something. Repeatedly. Kindly. Daily, if you can.
My spin bike ritual is my something. It’s my way of saying: “Hey, I still want to be in this meat suit for a while. Let’s make it a little less miserable.”
Final Word: This Isn’t About Discipline—It’s About Permission
So here’s my gentle, unasked-for advice: get on your damn bike.
That one in the corner. Yeah, the one with laundry draped over it like a guilt shroud. Take it back. Don’t punish yourself with it. Don’t expect to sweat or spike your heart rate. Just wake your knees up with it. Ride like you’re meandering through a Dutch village on a sleepy Sunday morning. Sip water. Watch Clarkson. Reboot your limbs.
Because this isn’t about performance. It’s about permission.
Permission to feel better, not by doing more, but by doing just enough. And consistently.
I forget this lesson constantly. Like, constantly. I fall off the habit. My knees start barking again. And then I remember. And I return. And I feel better. And then I write long blog posts like this one to try and remind myself to not forget again.
So maybe this isn’t for you. Maybe it’s just for future me, reading this after a long hiatus from the bike, wondering why everything hurts again.
To that guy, I say: saddle up, cowboy.
The barn doors are creaky, but the horse still trots.