Recently I found myself forced into undergoing frequent bouts of excessive exercise. No need to go into details, there is sponsorship involved, and Salem-style group enthusiasm, a substantial amount of which fizzled out long before the compulsory purchase of suitable footwear.
My training has included such joys as getting lost in an industrial building site which rudely intrudes on a poorly signposted Scenic Walk, and waving a chirpy hello to men with baseball caps and bottles of White Lightning, who loll dreamily against the public art swearing at each other and spitting. It's been quite a treat; often I scamper down some flower-studded underpass and feel like I'm in the opening scenes of Taggart.
I am uncomfortable with the smugness of exercise for its own sake, and long for the day when scientists announce that self-satisfaction is carcinogenic; but I have enjoyed the sense of purpose, the clearing of my head and the rush of endorphins which I have experienced. I also like having actual muscles in my legs, though any other health benefits are probably undone by the doughnuts I feel obliged to treat myself to every time I unlace my ugly shoes.
However, an unforeseen consequence has been that after more than 15 miles, my brain stops. I can't think, reason, or concentrate. Presently awaiting peer review in my own head, the thesis that exercise makes you stupid is upheld by every experience of life I've had, from school, through university, and all the way down to Saturday evening television. The clever ones are not the sporty ones, and the sporty ones are not clever.
But aside from this excellent insight into human nature, I am now left in a quandary. In less than two weeks I will have earned my sponsorship money and I will never have to leave the couch on a rainy day again. I will have to make a choice. Do I want to be thick as a brick, but with great legs, or have razor sharp wit and a bit of chub? I believe that's what's known as the age-old feminist dilemma, and was startled by the uncouth immediacy with which a friend suggested I opt for the former.
On balance, I think I will keep up the exercise, but using stealth methods. I will wear clothes which can be worn on a bus without shame, and push myself only as far as a rosy glow, rather than to haggard, dripping extremes. Because it's all very well to be fit, but it does seem terribly vulgar to show off about it.
· Morven Crumlish is a short-story writer.
