Jogging and Johnny Depp
Recently I was invited by my energetic son to start jogging with him.
He has to run as part of his base training for the school MTB team. I don’t have to.
Jogging and running are reserved for emergencies only.
I never will understand people’s enthusiasm regarding jogging “for fun” or “for your health”.
Let’s face it – there are one hundred thousand activities that are more fun than jogging; at least a dozen of those are good for your health.
However, supportive mother that I am, I decided to join my beloved son, and possibly motivate him in his endeavours to get fit and ready for the new season.
Jogging does not come naturally to me.
I discovered that when I run, I am slightly pigeon-toed. I’m inclined to trip myself (I have not fallen [yet]) and often scrape my ankle with the clodhopping takkie on my other foot.
My feet don’t work together to make jogging any easier.
The fact that I have yards and not feet means that I wear ships and not shoes.
This causes problems. Occasionally.
My breathing doesn’t help either. No matter how rhythmical I try to take my breaths – jog, jog (breathe in through the nose), jog, jog (breathe out through the mouth) – I land up feeling like my breaths are amassing in my throat instead of making their way down to my lungs.
I gulp in the warm summer air and need it move down my windpipe in haste, to fill my breathless lungs, but the air doesn’t move fast enough, and within a mere hundred metres I am left gasping for breath. Thankfully, because all the air has congregated in my throat, I am unable to vomit.
Thankfully … ? Yeah, I guess so.
My heart? Oh my heart. It beats violently against my ribcage while I puff and pant. I’m sure if I looked down while I was jogging I’d see it beating through my Mr Price Sport running shirt. But, if I look down while I’m jogging, I will definitely trip and probably fall, so the jury is out as to whether my beating heart is visible on the outside or not.
We jog through the suburbs, my son and I. Manoeuvring pathways and hopping pavements; we make our way along the gently sloping streets. We have not attempted the hilly suburbs yet.
I stare at the ground in front of me. I look neither left nor right.
I cannot tell you about any nice houses or pretty gardens that we may pass.
My cardiovascular distress prevents me from enjoying the scenery.
I could run straight passed Johnny Depp and I wouldn’t even know it!
This is a good thing actually. When I meet Johnny Depp for the first time I do not want to be gasping for breath (not from jogging anyway), in my large takkies, Mr Price shirt, moo-cow water bottle, curly hair in a ponytail sticking out through the back of my cap, no makeup under the sunglasses, not to mention my sweaty bits.
I don’t look around while I jog.
I don’t really want to spot anyone I know, and I’d rather not have anyone I know spot me.
In the event of Johnny Depp visiting Krugersdorp one fine day, I would like to read about it on social media and arrive at the event in appropriate attire, with a splash or two of my Georgio Armani perfume “Si” (which means “yes Johnny” [actually, it just means “yes”, but you catch my drift]).
I have lost a few centimetres around my middle since I started jogging. I have not fallen (yet). But I still love cycling more than running. Running is for the birds. No wait, that’s the wrong metaphor.
Oh what a lovely idea! My next blog will be about the time I tried to fly.
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