Last year, I had to give up running. It was, as my sports medicine doctor counseled, “time”.

Since I was a teen, it had been my primary form of exercise and stress relief. But for months, I had been ignoring small signs of encroaching decrepitude: the popping and grinding in my right knee and hip joints whenever I stood up, bent down or took the stairs. The medical term for this is crepitus, yet I kept stubbornly persuading myself that I was still a “young” fiftysomething.

I had imbibed the common positive ageing message: “50 is the new 30.” Yet as far as the cells that make up my knee and hip tendons and cartilage are concerned, 50 is still very much 50. So much for the popular idea that our overall “[biological age](https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/19/well/live/biological-age-tes…

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