Jeez, can I start 2005 by quoting one of this century’s deepest, most-profound pop philosophers?

In the immortal words of Britney Spears, “oops, I did it again!”

I’ve landed in sick bay, the walking wounded.

Been poked, prodded, acupunctured, x-rayed, even ultra-sounded, for the first time in my life. Had to wait a while for that test. Got my referral, made my call and was told there was a spot for me, four weeks down the road.

“That won’t do,” my AT said. AT – that’s short for athletic therapist. We’re so familiar these days, we’ve moved beyond a first name basis. “Try this place. Tell 'em I sent you, be polite and don’t make eye contact.”

So I made the required burnt offerings, memorized the secret knock and got in two days later. Shortcuts through the healthcare system.

Tests came back and confirmed my suspicions. Yup, I’m hurt and been feeling that way since the end of October, a couple of weeks after putting in my dandiest marathon performance yet.

Thing is, this time it’s not a running injury. It’s in my shoulder – got a bum right wing, so to speak.

Still haven’t got a clue what caused it. Didn’t fall on it. At least not that I remember. Could’ve slept on it wrong. Maybe turned funny in the shower while pretending I had hair to wash. Or maybe wrenched the damn thing twisting off all those beer caps in my post-Columbus euphoria.

Or maybe it’s just normal wear and tear, the stuff that plagues most of us a couple of months shy of crossing that 50 threshold.

Hoped to get some reassuring answers from a guy who can interpret the entrails that are these ultrasound reports. A guy you’d know not to call by his first name. Doc something-or-other. Was counting on a kindly, pipe-puffing, all-knowing, fatherly figure in a white lab coat kinda guy to sit me down, look me in the eyes and say:

“You see, it’s like this, Timmy. Lassie’s gone off to a far better place, where she can run through the fields all day long – and it’s always summer and the children are playing down by the river, which flows with chocolate …”

Instead, I got:

“You’ve got some arthritis in your shoulder. It’ll bug you every once in a while. For the rest of your life. It’s the price you pay for getting older.”

Damn. Slap my other cheek, too, while you’re at it. It’s bad enough that the big five-oh is bearing down on my corner of the plate like a Pedro Martinez high-hard one.

“Does it affect your running?”

Well, no not much, really. Actually, doc, my feet appear to have sprouted tiny wings. I’ve been running better than ever and – so far – staying healthy in my southern extremities. Been putting in some of my best training times. Picking up the tempo on the quick ones and hanging in for the longer ones.

There has been one, tiny problem, though. It’s got to do with runner etiquette. When you pass a runner on the opposite side of the street, it’s common courtesy to offer them a wave, to acknowledge someone else who’s foolish enough to believe that running in the dead of winter is a better choice than a warm bed and a second or third cup of coffee.

But 22 kilometres into the first 30K run since the middle of October, I couldn’t raise my arm much above my waist. A little flick of the wrist had to do. Added a nod to compensate, as I tried to suppress a grimace and a noise I last heard sometime ago coming out of my father’s mouth.

Yup, there are more of those these days.

Still, there is a bright side, right? Something about never being fitter or healthier – and still shy of my peak as a marathon runner.

Swifter – yes. Stronger – yes. Higher – well, we’re working on moderating that one.

I’m in no hurry to cross over to the other side of that 50 line. I’m approaching it like I do any race I’ve ever entered: a little leery of what fresh hell I’m getting myself into – and hoping I don’t have to pee too often.