My daughter has begun asking me if, next spring, I would be up for putting myself through some medieval torture again, in case I had forgotten what the word inquisition meant.

What she has been alluding to is would I be interested one more time in doing The Great Saunter, the 33-mile, one-day walk around the edge of the island of Manhattan, an event obviously invented by the Podiatrist Association of America.

It is grueling, numbing, blistering — and that’s just listening to my daughter talk about it.

Nevertheless, this past May, after months of training — or, more accurately, months of talking about training — my daughter and I did actually do the saunter. Along with around 1,200 other people who had lost all common sense, we set out early one morning, laden with heavy backpacks and the names of next of kin and continued walking until our toes fell off.

Six hundred or so of those who started ended up as raving lunatics or Republican presidential candidates; it was difficult to tell the difference. Several hundred, including the two of us, actually finished, arriving where we had started, late the same evening. It took us 12 hours and 15 minutes of walking and about four months for recovery.

While this was a very nice accomplishment for my daughter, who has much younger feet, for me it was the pinnacle of my athletic career, just edging out the time I got hit in the head with a hardball while inadvertently walking behind third base while a game was going on.

We finished with wonderful memories — particularly of stopping — and an abundance of aches. My daughter is now figuring that the memories have outlasted the aches.

I’m not sure, and am truly torn about whether to do this again.

On the one hand, there’s the possibility that I’m actually insane to even consider this again. On the other hand, there’s the certainty that I’m actually insane to even consider this.

What’s the point in, theoretically, climbing Mount Everest again if you’ve already climbed it for the first time and discovered that there’s no snack bar at the top?

Then again, knowing that I’ve accomplished such a major feat as completing the saunter does make me wonder if my feet will hold that against me.

What if I try it again and instead of reaching the finish line I end up at a Republican presidential debate? Then again, if I were to do it for the second time, make it all the way to the finish line for the second time in a row, I could complain about how much my feet hurt for at least another six months.

If I want to challenge myself physically again, aren’t there equally daunting new possibilities out there? Couldn’t I sign up for another colonoscopy?

Yet to do it again would prove that the first time was no fluke — or that I’m a gifted fluker.

I may have to look up the precise meaning of inquisition.

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