I am fascinated by people who jog.
My regular route to work is punctuated by a variety of tracksuit-wearing examples of sweaty misery, all doggedly doing the I’ve-crapped-in-my-pants shuffle.
Why anyone would willingly indulge in what appears to be an extremely unpleasant undertaking is slightly mystifying. I know that cyclists like to shave their legs and wear spandex, but joggers are clearly unconcerned about appearance.
I’ve spoken to a number of people who grudgingly admit to being joggers and the consensus is that although nobody actually enjoys it at the time, you feel really virtuous afterwards. It’s essentially the carrying-a-rock-around- because-it’s-such-a-relief-to-put-it-down school of thought applied to a form of exercise.
I strongly suspect that if present-day joggers had lived in an earlier, more innocent time, they would have had a penchant for flagellation.