I hate running. I hate any form of exercise that doesn't have some other point to it, like going for a hike through beautiful landscape or riding a horse. I've been on loads of sports teams and the competitive aspect of them bored me to tears. I used to run or cycle to Greenwich, and I'd often end up rewarding myself with a nice sticky bun and coffee in the wonderful bakery there.
I love food so much that I know I need to exercise. I also love my work, and it's more than a full-time job, it's about four jobs. So the obvious solution for me is to do a form of exercise that I can do quickly and efficiently. I tried the local pool, but a visit, with all the faffing about, would take between two and three hours, leave me stinking of chlorine, and I could write a whole other blog post (or novel) about the weird and embarrassing things that happened there.
So running it is, fully clothed; I can throw open my front door, do it, come home, wash, and get to work. I once even kind of, well, not enjoyed it, but got to the place where I could run ten miles and feel okay. That was in rural Lancashire, and I could see lambs being born, pretty old cottages, big sky. I'd run to the Cumbria border, smack the road sign satisfyingly with my hand, then run back. Now I run in London. It's horrible. And this is why:
Every friggin' day. Sometimes I get one comment, sometimes five or six. Often mocking marriage proposals. Guys constantly feel the need to describe all the various bits of my body to me, as though I don't know how I look. Sometimes they say what they'd like to do to those various bits, particularly to and up my backside (which is ample, and what of it?). Half the time they're complimentary, half of the time it sounds like they're questioning my very right to be running in public since I don't look like a fit runner. All of the comments are annoying.
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