Four years running and what a pain in the butt. It hurt when I sat down, hurt when I ran, hurt watching TV, or when I sat on the can. My first strategy was to teach the old body a lesson by punishing the affected part into submission. Same result as with previous ailments: it got worse.

Then I tried to ignore it - focusing on the better things in life - powdered sugar donuts and Mountain Dew. That didn't help, either. Six months into it, I surrendered to my last option - visit a qualified physician.

Five minutes of swiveling my leg like a video game controller, his diagnosis was "SI (sacroiliac) Joint Syndrome." Shoot, to my knowledge, I didn't even have one of those. So, I countered, "It seems like my hip." After a good chuckle he said, "Your hip is located here, the pain is here, and your SI is here. Plainly, it couldn't be the hip as the symptoms would be totally different." Stupid me. That's why he's the physician and I'm the partially naked goon on the examining table spouting off ridiculous theories.

Heck, I didn't even know there was an SI joint and am certain most of you don't have a clue either. Old age certainly helps one discover many - otherwise undetected - marvelous parts of the body. The SI joint connects the sacrum to the pelvis which connects the hip to the pocket and the pocket to the wallet - which stands for large medical bill.

Great! Now what? Over the next three years, I tried physical therapy, stretching, exercise, and drinking large quantities of warm beer (mostly dark lagers) but nothing seemed to work. Haunting me was my doctors absurd suggestion that, "If it still bothers you, get an injection."

A couple of weeks ago, the old SI joint reared its ugly head again. I was desperate - losing sleep - sleeping at work - skipping work - and losing my wife at small German delicatessens.. A needle in the old butt, how bad could it be? I schedule the execution.

Contemplating what's going to transpire, I show up at the hospital in a very good humor- joking with the admissions folks and clinging to a nice little nurse until my wife belted me with the morning paper. May the blood letting commence.

My new-found friend, Gigi the radiology technician, has me change into the standard-issue backless, "how do you tie this stupid thing" gown. She has me climb up on the x-ray table as the pointless robe falls off me. Undaunted, she's all business (was that a giggle I heard?) and jockeys me around until my modesty has vanished entirely.

I'm not afraid. I've endured pain before. Why, I was with my wife while my three sons were born. Each time the pain was so intense they made me sit down.

In walks the doc (as I'll fondly refer to him) and lets me know a little about the impending doom. Using the magical x-ray machine, he's going to stick a needle (similar in size to the one used for knitting) in my bottom until it hits the mysterious SI joint and inject some steroids (taken all the time by major sports players).

Now, I'm not the best at getting things stuck into me and the whole shot thing has me worried. I mention that I might blackout during the procedure. No response as I hear some laughing while things are being rattled behind me. In my current - prone - position, all I see are my white knuckles clutching the side of the x-ray table.

First, I was told to roll one way and then the other while the x-ray screen showed the skeletal delights of my pelvis region. It was the hunt for the SI joint being waged by the strange guy I just met who had his hand on my butt. "Oh, that looks good. Hold that position," says the doc. Yeah, sure thing. I'm in a contorted position waiting for the knitting needle.

Then, without much fanfare, the doc says, "Over the quadriceps and past the rectum, look out buttocks here it comes." Wham! Hey, that's not much more than a little prick and it gave my left bun a nice warm feeling (or maybe that was my doc's hand). The joke's on me as it was only the local anesthetic. Without warning, the knitting needle takes its plunge. Not so bad . . . wait! Someone just stuck a pine cone between my sacrum and pelvis! "You might notice a little discomfort," I'm told as my stomach muscles try to slither me off the table like a snake.

I tried to think of witty things to say but could only come up with "Hey, this isn't as bad as my wife's cooking." That fell on deaf ears as my team was really focused on the primary goal - much like dentists I've known - trying to push a metal object as far into my body as possible. At this point, my pulse rate has doubled and I'm sweating like a summa wrestler.

I'm a classic example of a needle phobiac. Especially if the needle stays in my system longer that a millisecond. That explains why, after the first five minutes of this adventure, my system is ready to shut down. I desperately look over at Gigi. She smiles and asks if I'm doing all right. Well, break out your glasses lady. I'm covered in sweat, white as the sheet I'm laying on, and the room is starting to look like a McDonald's play land.

The doc, still working around with the needle, lets me know that the needle has to go into the joint. "Ha, ha," say I, in kind of a whimper that is wrought with a mixture of death and pleading tones. I'm doing my best to breath with a regular rhythmic pattern but my endurance is slowly waning.

I'm the only one in the room who seems to be remotely impatient about finishing a procedure started two hours ago (really only 10 minutes, but I was becoming delirious). Not being able to see what was going on behind me was rather unnerving as well. It was probably better that way. The sight of the needle sticking out my bottom, the rubber hose attached to a keg of steroids, and the doc playing cards with Gigi would have been more than I could stand.

How I maintained consciousness during the whole affair is still a mystery to me and modern science. Then, all of a sudden, there was a noise like someone plucking a large metal spike from a ripe cantaloupe. "Ok, were done," says doc. All I heard was, "Who ordered the cheeseburger?"

Gigi asked me if I need a little time before getting up. Well, no duh! I had just seen my life pass before me and I wasn't even sure my circulatory system was pumping. I had a kind of surreal - floating on roasted marshmallows - feeling.

Escaping through the hospital front doors, I told my wife that it had to be more painful than child birth-adding that my pain threshold was up to the task and kind of implying she wasn't all that tougher than me. Sure, my drug induced stupor aided her in beating me to the car and it wasn't that long of a walk home from the hospital. Sixty miles goes fast when you have a numb butt and truckers take pity on a guy dragging his left leg.

As I look back on it, my first trip to the hospital really wasn't that traumatic. It's nice to know that medicine has evolved beyond the use of leaches. Next on the radar - a colonoscopy.