Carol’s Column

Jogging's for the birds

THERE'S no doubt that jogging's the biggest thing to hit the Johannesburg scene since the hula hoop.

Everybody's doing it from seven to 73 and what's more, enjoying it. After all, what could be more satisfying than jogging briskly around the Zoo Lake at the crack of dawn?

Staying in bed.

I tried it this morning. Jogging I mean. At 5.45 am I jumped out of bed and shuddered at my madness. A splash of cold water on my face, and I clambered into my new flash-red running shorts with white stripes up the side, matching red vest with the cut-away arms and blue and yellow takkies.

Breathing deeply and flexing my knees, I shot out of the front door like a beardless Johnny Halberstadt and tripped over Liquorice-the-labrador asleep on the front mat.

No matter, these things are sent to try one. I thought of my late grandmother and got to my feet.

A grand old lady of 96, she had a favourite family saying: "We shall overcome."

She said it when her upper false teeth floated away on the crest of a wave in Muizenberg. She said it when a wardrobe fell on her in Springbok and she suffered a broken hip but landed up paying the hotel for damaging the door of the offending piece of furniture.

And she said it the night she drove off in her car not realising someone had stolen the wheels.

Family spirit dies hard, so undaunted and taking it easy during the early stages, Liquorice and I jogged merrily down the municipality-mutilated tree-lined avenue to the Zoo Lake where it was all happening.

Long, short, thin, fat — there were joggers by the dozen. In pairs, in groups, alone, with dogs — they huffed and puffed and panted past. It was a sight for sore eyes and feet. So I sat down to enjoy it for a short while.

They all looked so healthy, sweat pouring down flushed, glowing faces, joyous breaths coming from heaving chests and flat feet thwacking the turf as they jogged their way to a healthy day sans constipation.

There's no doubt, jogging keeps things on the go.

Along the edge of the lake I ran. Ducks quacked, geese geesed and my lungs almost ruptured in an attempt to inhale and exhale.

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It's a friendly sport jogging, everyone grunt-greets you as they pass and if you're bored, you can always chat to yourself.

A group of high-powered, keep-fit fanatics from a local gym overtook me, bellies bobbing in the early morning breeze.

From observation, I realised my breathing was incorrect, joggers-in-the-know, puff and blow as they run. It's rather like permanently blowing bubbles. I was almost beginning to enjoy myself when disaster struck in the shapeless form of a soft, recently-performed dog dropping on the path.

It caught the edge of my sparkling new takkies and I skidded three bodylengths before I fell. An immaculately groomed maltese poodle trotted past and winked an eye. His owner puffed past resplendent in the latest all-in-one towelling tracksuit. "You're really in it, ho, ho, ho," he roared.

However, other than a well-bruised ego and rear end, the damage was slight if one could ignore the less than fragrant odour that accompanied my takkies.

It was shortly after this that a stitch grabbed my innards and I knew my last hour had come. A brief respite for half an hour, and then I was on my way, homeward bound.

By now, I'd nearly completed a full circuit of the lake. It's quite a distance, a little over half a kilometre, I've been told by a reliable source.

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The homestretch was incident-free other than when Liquorice was attacked and forced to flee by a dachshund and I was run down by our friendly neighbour on his 10-speed bicycle.

I felt a real sense of achievement as I staggered upstairs and crawled on to my soft, warm, comfortable bed.

"What's that terrible noise?" said the man in my life, opening an eye.

"Nothing, I'm just trying to breathe," I gasped as I shut my eyes and vowed never again.

Yes, there's something about jogging. It really gets you.

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