I am not naturally disposed towards running. In an evolutionary sense I was NOT the guy who chased the elk to the point exhaustion and then stabbed it with the pointy stick. I was the guy who thought it would be a good idea to jump onto the back of the Woolly Mammoth from an elevated position with a flint tipped shiv and whose survival was (generally) only ensured by an overly dense bone structure, an above average coating of meat, a thick cranium (with which to head-butt those that vexed us) and about half a gallon more blood than was actually required.
My ancestors definitely did not select for mental acuity. In the first person shooter sense, I am the tank… Which to be completely honest I always thought was the least glamorous of the FPS roles… requiring only the capacity to endure (mostly bullets).
Still I suppose I should be happy that I served a purpose… although in modern climes its harder to offer up these traits as a desirable skillset.
In any event, when I reached the top of the hill near my house this morning (at a distance of exactly 2.5km from my point of origin) I decided that I actually hate running. It was a moment of liminality.
I don’t think I’m going to do it anymore. I’m old now. And old people shouldn’t be running up hills… its bad for them.
This post is just one of many collated under the auspicious (or perhaps suspicious) quasi-ideological and deeply idiosyncratic category of Fundamental Joey-ism(tm). All rights reserved. All wrongs and green, wobbly things sent back. Find more…