The Excercist

I’m not entirely sure what possessed me, presumably some sort of New Years enthusiasm, sleep deprivation or masochistic tendency, but this morning I awoke at 5am decided to go for a run. As usual, before mounting this kind of expedition I sat down for a a sober dose of breakfast and a steaming cup of what-the-hell-are-you-thinking. Unfortunately I still couldn’t shake the enthusiasm or justify not following it through.

Things may have panned out a little better had my energetic urge involved something a little less, well, energetic. Like walking... or strolling... or wandering aimlessly… or sleeping. The fatal flaw in this ‘running’ plan turned out not to be the running but my body’s complete refusal to perform the act without the intense desire to lie down very fast, switch off all non-essential neural function and possibly discard any extraneous stomach contents. This desire was not at all aided by the incessant requirement to respond to the disturbingly cheerful ‘morning’s hurled at me by what I sincerely believe to be victims of some kind of mass alien abduction intent on making people so saccharine and optimistic they are lulled into such a sense of security that they miss what ever blatantly obvious disaster is looming over the species…I’m not paranoid! They are just too happy for people who are outside at 6am walking in circles wearing matching parasilk outfits. They should be as miserable as the depressing future that conjures up in my mind.

I also encountered that certain species that is only found walking the paths of suburbia flagrantly violating the sacred social code we all live by... The half-naked octogenarian. These are presumably the same breed of Senilis Exhibitionist that are to be found loitering in parks wearing stained trench coats and suspicious grins but possibly still with some remnant of dignity… possibly. The essential item for these majestically hirsute creatures is the heart rate monitor. These are worn strapped around the chest and serve two purposes. Firstly, they hold a lot of the extra skin down. Secondly and most importantly, they inform the world at large that yes, they are actually still alive. It’s like a kind of beacon to the likeminded elderly, unattached and oddly energetic crowd and a powerful aphrodisiac to those blue-rinse athletes in pink wrist weights. They need to be stopped. Or clothed.

After exactly three minutes of this experience I was rasping by the side of the path pretending to do calf stretches (thank god for cereal and tampon ads or I wouldn’t even know what they are) and contemplating the exact velocity I would need to propel myself into the lake. Needless to say, whoever tells you that you will feel great! after exercise is a sadistic liar and certainly not your friend. Who would have though that 15m at a slow jog would cause your lungs to completely reject the rest of your body in a bid for freedom and your legs, hopped up on adrenaline, to forget they have bones and make close friends with gravity. The only distraction I could muster was working out exactly how to describe where I was in case I needed to phone for help - because there is no way I am leaving myself at the resuscitative mercy of some silver-haired philanthropist in loose running shorts.

Well, I found my thirty today. I also found my threshold for pain and a newfound disrespect for the elderly, early risers and humanity in general. When 5am comes around tomorrow hopefully I will have found my sanity.