Being a Universal Joggist

There are few human activities in the known universe more taxing than attempting to be a joggist.

It is rather like intergalactic travel, but with considerably more sweating and, regrettably, far fewer time warps. According to The Universal Joggist’s Compendium, Vol. 42, jogging is the only form of exercise officially classified as “mildly traumatic” by the Galactic Council of Aesthetics.

Now, this jogging business has been around for many years, or at least since the invention of shoes with more cushioning than a Betelgeusian marshmallow. People don strange outfits, often made from fabrics of questionable origin and colours not found in nature, and footwear that would make you bounce even in low-gravity scenarios—like, say, the moon, or the average Tuesday in Skegness.

And what does it do to the body? Strange things, mostly. Hallucinations involving floating planets, ducks with three tails and bad attitudes, and the persistent feeling that your knees have been replaced with small bags of gravel. Some joggists report seeing the face of Zarquon in their sweat patches, but this has yet to be peer-reviewed.

The early joggists were people who’d spread around the middle of their torsos a little more than was considered fashionable by the Galactic Council. So, they set out for an energetic walk. Then, thanks to a cosmic shove (possibly from a passing Martian with a clipboard), they found themselves moving in a way that can only be described as an energetic shuffle, or, in some dialects, “jogging.”

But, as these things do, it caught on. Soon, entire populations were dressing as if they’d been trapped in the early 1990s, with footwear that made them look healthy, vital, and slightly radioactive. You’d see joggists in parks, along city streets, and occasionally in the queue for milk, jogging on the spot to keep their step count ticking over, as if pursued by invisible, highly judgmental fitness trackers.

Some of the poor devils keeled over with heart problems. But this only encouraged the scientists, who, adjusting their lab coats and fiddling with a device that measured heart rates and, for reasons lost to history, also made excellent toast, declared, “It’s working! More people are discovering they’ve got heart problems!” This, apparently, was progress.

And for those joggists who survive? They are living proof that the Joggist Operations Group (J.O.G.) were right when they advised that a two-mile jog was marginally better than a quantum mind warp in front of the television, though only just.

So, readers, I come to you as a fully signed-up member of the joggist society. I ache most days (apart from Tuesdays, for reasons that remain unexplained by science), and I do count my steps like a pigeon on the moon landing.

Because in the end, the aches and sweat are worth it, if it means I can stay standing for a few days longer. And if your trainers complain? Ask them how they think your knees feel. Or, better yet, consult The Universal Joggist’s Compendium, which recommends a nice lie down and a cup of tea.