Conolly / On the road to find out

WHEN I first began running six weeks ago, clad in enough lycra to shield the earth from a rogue meteor shower, fellow residents of the ‘hood were anxious and confused.

Who was she? Would she ever make it home? The phantom, wheezing and spluttering running woman of south Canberra had arrived.

Luckily, time marches on and, although the New York Marathon remains an elusive Facebook page to be glibly chortled at, I can now run two kilometres. That’s 2000 metres. In a row. Without ambulatory assistance.

For a person whose lower limbs apparently came without an instruction manual, I submit myself to 20 minutes of lactic-acid torture which, apparently, is not enough.

My mother, whose own personal fitness leaves me wondering what went wrong in the genetic distribution of lithe, muscular capabilities, informed me that, in the wonderful ‘80s, 20 minutes was the accepted norm for daily exercise and made my blood boil with intergenerational unfairness.

As everyone is well aware, we are now a nation of Very Large People and the antidote to this cellular disaster is no less than 30 minutes of exercise. A day. Not just on New Year’s Day.

With the best intentions, 20 minutes has inconveniently become 30 minutes. The term jog has become virtually redundant. If you are not going for “a run” then, please, just stay put on the couch. Your half-hearted enthusiasm is just not welcome around here.  We don’t go swimming but instead go for “a swim”. A subtle change which denotes a much more serious activity is underway as opposed to a wholesome aerobic splash in a large puddle of infectious water.

And please don’t get me started on what we can and can’t eat. I’m so confused that last night I fed the pet bunny a chicken, leek and sauvignon blanc tart with a side serve of gently coddled vegetables while the children went to bed slightly hysterical after a dinner of shredded kale and a thimble of pureed goji berries.

So it was, with relief, that I recently discovered the latest exercise fad is “moderation”. After years of self-flagellation and hyper analysis people have decided that, after all, they can’t really be bothered.

So, can I have my 10 minutes back please? Twenty minutes is all I can manage. And if anyone knows the nutritional content of paper please help me out. I did have quite a lot for breakfast and my stomach feels a little uncomfortable.

Pip Conolly is a former public servant and Canberra mum of two, aged three and five.

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