On Running

There is a jogging trail at the end of the street my parent’s house is on (whether it’s still “my” house is an interesting question I don’t intend to address for a few years yet), and I often walk it and sometimes run it. Both are, as many people have observed over the years, excellent ways of refreshing the mind and interacting with nature, especially for people like me who spend too much time indoors reading.

What I’ve noticed recently is that these are the only two forms of “exercise” that I can really bring myself to do. Everything else strikes me as moderately distasteful, and if I bring myself to begin, say, doing push-ups, I quickly lose interest and stop.

I have a theory as to why this is. Most other forms of physical exercise are aesthetically displeasing because they are essentially aimless. When lifting weights, there is no incentive to continue, because there is nothing to achieve beyond some arbitrary numerical goal. When running, one must either get to the end of the trail, stop running and walk the rest of the way, or turn around. The latter two are clear declarations of failure, and so aesthetically unpleasant, while I find nothing particularly wrong with stopping lifting weights at 20 repetitions rather than 30. Significantly, I only enjoy running when it is “in nature” — running on a treadmill is no better than arbitrarily lifting weights a set number of times.

It seems, then, that I would find more productive physical activity, i.e. some sort of manual labor, more satisfying. Perhaps building a brick wall. That’s something I might be able to enjoy; it’s almost like building LEGOs at life size.

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