The biggest fib I tell on a regular basis is that I enjoy running. What I actually mean is that when I reach the homeward straight and sense that my front door is seconds away, I start to feel a genuine sense of elation. What I actually, fully, bodily relish is the sense of having just completed a run – the endocannabinoid rush combined with a feeling of overwhelming virtue and the certainty that I now deserve that glass of wine.
But the dull, sad thud of my feet on tarmac as I long for easeful death, alien abduction, a hostage situation, or any everyday intervention that will stop this living hell, feels overwhelming until I turn into my street.
So thank God for Princess Anne, who is the only member of the Royal family who can be relied upon to speak the pure, unvarnished truth – much like her famously forthright father. This week’s pithy observation was that a “fun run is a contradiction in terms”. With one well-aimed barb, she exploded the myth of a cheering park run, full of laughing children, energised adults and bouncy dogs.
Suddenly, we saw the pain and misery for what it was. The 76-year-old princess was visiting York to support Sir Kevin Sinfield, a rugby coach, as he attempts to run seven ultra-marathons in seven days to raise money for motor neurone disease charities (in memory of Rob Burrow, his friend and former teammate). To make her feelings crystal clear, Anne added: “I can run, but I don’t do it for fun.”
Her no-nonsense clarity made me wonder why I ever attempt to persuade others that I lace up my Nike Zooms for pleasure. Part of it is the hope that some poor sap will fall for the propaganda and join me on my weary circuit, halving the monotony via grim-but-distracting conversation.
But much of the impulse comes from the tyrannical role “wellness” plays in wider society. We are told it’s all good, clean-living, healthy fun to the point that you feel forced to capitulate. Everywhere you turn, there are fresh-faced women in Lululemon joggers and vests, looking like they’ve just finished reformer Pilates and are going to grab a matcha before jogging home for kicks.
Men are no better. If another 50-something man I know shakes off his dad bod and “debuts” a six-pack (generally the result of divorce, or a cardiac scare), I’ll scream. They all seem to think they’re auditioning for Go Hard or Go Home.
Just look at Wayne Rooney, who’s been “working really hard” to lose weight. Until recent months, the footballer looked like a friendly Scouse bouncer who imbibed pies and bumped large birds up the queue. Now, he looks thin, trim, sober and slightly pinched – as you’d be after doing press-ups all morning. Fat jabs (which Rooney denies using) have accelerated the trend. There’s a new legion of men and women who look svelte and smug in Lycra, but whose secret source of joy is not a treadmill, but Mounjaro.
Fitness is like a religious movement – the gleam of the zealot matters more than the hours they’ve put into the transformation. I must say I preferred things in the days that exercise was all about sweat, blood, tears, pain, torn cartilage and ruptured tendons. Doesn’t that continue to be the secret story?
I have quite a few friends who looked, briefly, like Greek deities before their knees or backs caved in. I never run for longer than 20 minutes because it’s boring and my body can wear out – from couch to ouch.
Isn’t it time to join forces with the Princess Royal and declare an amnesty? Can’t we all agree that exercise is much like sex between a long-married couple? You’re not at all sure you want to do it at first. It feels like a chore, and you’d rather watch Slow Horses.
But once you’ve got into your rhythm and are heading to that last peak, you remember the delights, the rewards and how amazing it eventually leaves you feeling. Just remember, there’s no need to boast afterwards.