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This line from the animated feature, “Madagascar”, is one I relate to.
Yes, I live in a tropical paradise of pristine beaches, dramatic granite outcroppings and dense forests dripping with cinnamon and passion flowers, but ask me to do much more that wallow or bask or notice how darned pretty it all is and I’m quickly opting out.
Many of my friends are walkers and take full advantage of the miles of nature trails and vigorous hiking paths that go up, down and around this island. Gay, Sue and Mo head off most Sundays in one direction or another, depending on weather, and although they’re often sporting bruises and scrapes at the end of their treks, they claim to have had a dandy time.
For years they would regularly invited me to join. They’ve finally given up.
No thank you.
Even in my days of super-fitness, hitting my prime as a runner in my early 40s, it was the act, not the atmosphere I enjoyed. Trees, cliffs, rivers and such just got in my way and messed with my pace when I’d run outside without benefit of track or running path. Where these weren’t available, sidewalks would do, and I have fond memories of beating the pavement in cities around the world.
In my recent trip to Singapore, I waxed lyrical about my early morning poundings down Orchard Road back in the 1990s … the streets always empty at 5:30am, the shops closed, the malls like ghost towns, the warm, humid air not yet choked with car breath, the lights timed perfectly.
I have vivid recollections of the streets of Manhattan, Raleigh, Barcelona, Basel, Kuala Lumpur, Kuching, Jakarta, Denpasar, Adelaide, Sydney, Auckland, glowing pinkish in the dawn, window displays flying by me, parks appearing – then disappearing as I sprinted on to the next block, a new view, another neighborhood.
Continued
