Run faster Jono!

If ever there was a rugged brown scorch-mark on the pristine white underpants of life it would be the necessity of exercise. I am not fundamentally opposed to the concept - in fact I used to be extremely fit: once I did the Army's RFL test of a run in 2.4km in 8 min and 48 seconds, bashed out 110 sit-ups and 43 press-ups. On another occasion I once did 275 consecutive sit-ups when I was 19 years old. I also took part in the Army's March Against Cancer by being part of a relay team that ran around the South Island in 1999, stopping off at  towns along the way playing touch rugby against locals every evening as well as running a succession of 2km relay legs between those towns. I was the long jump champion of Linton Military Camp (2001) where I also came second in the High Jump. I augment my portfolio of athletic brilliance by saying that I was Cheviot Area School Shot Putt, High Jump and Discus (record) champion 1996. I would have won more events but I had shin splints. I was fast, I was young, I once scored seven tries in a game of touch rugby, I ran with grace and elegance and I ran for the sheer joy of running. (I will supply a photo of me aged 18 with the most ridiculous abdominal muscles you've ever seen... I had just finishing doing 275 sit ups)
Now I am old.
I can run, but I don't want to.

I'll be with you in a minute chaps. I just need to
finish my breakfast, have a coffee and sit down
 until it's time for lunch. Then I need to think about
dinner. Bat on without me.

Exercise is something bloody doctors recommend and I must say that the idea of sitting down and contemplating the world and everything in it is much more tempting than putting on a set of brightly coloured clothes to plod around the streets of Christchurch with the ever present thought that the previous me would already be at the finish mocking me. Bastard. You see, now I am locked into matrimony with Attila the Wife she makes me run from time to time whether I like it or not... always not. I go through the motions revelling in the state of affairs that her run is about the same pace but slightly faster than my brisk walk. Consequently when we run together it takes only a modicum of effort to follow and my mind can drift away contemplating things like rum without any physical stress. When I am running by myself I subconsciously emulate my old self and I get into a self-induced hyperventilation within hundreds of metres. I run too fast and running equals pain, yet today I voluntarily ran for about five kilometres for the sake of running. I did it because I felt it was about time to don some shoes and do it for the sake of my health. And so off I went, head up, steady breathing, looking to the horizon. My old self would have vanished into the distance in front of me, but I kept looking at points in front of me promising myself it was the finishing line. I would get there and carry on to the next imaginary point. 5 1/2km later I was done, chuffed, panting and proud of myself, but I mistakenly admitted to Attila later that I had a beer when I finished and any pride in my achievement was instantly nullified by womanly logic. You drank more calories than you burned on your run with that one beer.


I want to report that I have killed her and I feel much better about things now that I have inhaled a block of Whittaker's White Chocolate and Macadamia  but this isn't true... Bitch. 
Being a white anglo-saxon male and a diabetic, I face a battery of doctors, who for the rest of my life will recommend that I cut back on the things dieticians don't like (see the requisite page) and that I pursue a rigorous course of exercise. I am not done with running for a long chalk and I suppose I had better swallow what is ahead of me. Just don't expect me to do it willingly. Run faster Jono! Fuck off.