A journey of a thousand miles begins with … oh, you know.

My journey started last week, with some short late-night walks through Nederland neighborhoods.

Those were my initial steps toward dropping a few pounds, trying to keep pace with my wife (Don’t tell her I told, but she’s two years older than me), who still looks swell while I look … swelling.

I could fib and tell you I’ve packed on pounds because of a thumb surgery that got me out of the gym and off the golf course. Had a bone removed, I did.

Truth is, my gym visits had declined precipitously after daughter No. 3’s wedding — my last! — which carried with it a determination to look presentable walking the bride down the aisle. The thumb trouble came later.

Last time I had such firm commitment to fitness came at college reunion No. 35, which was the first I’d attended. Gym preparation started a year before. I didn’t look great but no one laughed. I don’t set the bar high.

Step No. 2 came this week by transferring my gym membership with a national fitness company from Lafayette, Louisiana — I moved from there to here — to Groves. That took some commitment. I never dropped the membership, just dropped the number of gym visits. Something had to change.

Step No. 3 came Tuesday, with a 5 a.m. alarm (two snooze buttons) and a drive to the gym. I mean business, or did Tuesday.

I tested the thumb — I’m five months post surgery — on the weight equipment before I headed for the treadmill. Results were mixed as I alternated pushing and pulling weight equipment. I’ve got to dial it way back and remember my age.

At this age, though, I think the walking and someday running will be more beneficial than the weights, though the weights have a place. It’s also something with which I have more history.

I’ve completed a marathon — that was another millennium, of course — and a bundle of half-marathons, the last five years back. Over a period of two decades, I ran 1,000 miles a year 18 times.

At first, that was done with the determination to stay healthy enough to support my kids through college. I didn’t want to be one of those hard-toiling unfortunates whose head drops into my mashed potatoes one night at dinner, granting me a final resting place at mid-life.

Later, when we had four teenagers and only two bathrooms in the house, those long runs provided escape. But they warded off the excess weight, which was necessary for someone with high cholesterol and low willpower.

If you make more than one trip to the soft ice cream machine at Jason’s — “But I ate a salad!” I’ve said more than once — you know what I mean. Try as I might, I can’t outrun available chocolate.

So here’s another stab at “later life” fitness. It may not end with a reunion or a wedding or a road race, but it may end in a smaller waist size.

If my wife gains weight, though, I retract this column.

Ken Stickney is editor of the Port Arthur News.