Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Sunday morning joggers - reasons to be fearful

I’m beginning to feel guilty about young joggers – those in their twenties. Pounding pavements is going to store up all sorts of damage to knees and ankles a few decades down the line.
And for what reason? If your backside looks like two dogs fighting in a sack or your thighs are the size of doner kebab spits, wrapping them in Lycra isn’t going to help. If you want to look thinner, eat less.
You wouldn’t have caught your grandparents out jogging on a Sunday morning when they were your age. They would be struggling into consciousness after their Saturday night excess.
Your grandmother would probably be wondering how she could find her clothes without waking the snoring lump beside her, whose name she can’t remember, and whose bed she wouldn’t be sharing if the Tube ran a hour later.
Your grandfather would have had a fitful night clinging to a toilet bowl swearing he would never mix Scotch and Coke again even if it was the Beatles favourite drink.
Yet both survived their ‘wasted’ youth without the aid of jogging, met each other, sired your parents from whose loins you sprang.
You won’t be told any of this by older generations. It’s to our advantage that you stay healthy as long as possible. You’re going to have to work until you drop to pay for our pensions and healthcare.
Let’s assume though all the exercise does add a few extra years to your life – what are you going to do with them? You spent all your spare time developing your abs, you forgot to nurture your brain. You invested so much time sweating along roads listening to your iPod, you can’t string a sentence together let alone arrive at an original thought.
So boys and girls if it’s Sunday morning and aerobic exercise is on the agenda and you can’t be with the one you love, as Stephen Stills says, love the one your with.
“You ain’t going to need any more advice.”

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