Jogging remains a big deal. Running around in skimpy clothing has been hard-wired into our systems since we were wearing animal skins and running, generally, away from anything larger than us. Today, of course, running is in the direction of wherever the most people can see you. For the less physically fit, a car or bus ride brings much the same satisfaction as running to and from places must bring. A nice taxi ride, of course, beats all.

Running is big business these days. The annual Bermuda events — the marathon, the half-marathon, the 10K, the 8K and all the other Ks — attract the interest of large crowds, as they see who can run fastest, demonstrating stamina, displaying endurance and otherwise showing off.

Running has dominated another, unrelated area of business: shoe-making. Long, long ago, men and women wore actual shoes. Today, of course, they were sneakers (or trainers, as the British call them) to show that, at a moment’s notice, they might run off in pursuit of fitness and sex. I assume sex is the point; it is the point of most human activity. If sex isn’t the point, then I have no idea why a person who could afford bus fare would dress up as if headed to the beach and then run off to Flatts and back at lunch time.

Bermuda business people are especially prone to this kind of activity. Many of the larger companies have athletic changing rooms and showers in their towers, to encourage their employees to go running around town. It’s brave, I grant that. I wouldn’t try walking on Bermuda’s roads these days, but I see joggers nipping up and down the traffic lanes. I assume that these people are suicidal, hoping that if a car doesn’t hit them, sudden palpitations will.

Running to Flatts and back would give me palpitations, although I must admit that I once attempted to join the running craze. It was in California. Everyone was into running. In California, it’s best to do what everyone else does; saves thinking. I bought the skimpiest pair of shorts ever seen on a human being, a vest and a pair of sneakers, and set off with great resolve from my friend’s house in Santa Monica. I planned to run to Venice and then, who knew, maybe Canada.

I reached the end of the street, but not without cost. I developed a medical condition known as being slightly puffed out, so I turned on my heel and ran back to the house. My plan was to build to marathon distance slowly. The next day, I would run twice as far, and the day after, twice as far again. Within a month, I’d be able to do 10 miles.

I never ran again, of course. An Englishman will walk, but never run. I kept the shorts. When people asked if I ran, I said that I had covered distance out in California, without giving away that the distance was 50 feet.
Stupid jogging.