Thursday, September 12th, 2013
I don’t get hiking. I mean, I know what it is, but I don’t really “get it” in terms of enjoyment. I could see doing it if I were kidnapped from my home by a serial killer and was ensconsced in an underground concubine prison in the Appalachians or something. I’ve got to escape somehow and a gentle stroll won’t cut it. (Ok, maybe that was the plot of a James Patterson novel.) But for fun? Ehhhh…
Running? Running, I get. I don’t do it, but I certainly get it. You’re outside, you find a rhythm, you’ve got the wind in your face, your jams in your ears, your thoughts… I see the appeal. I’m just about over all you trendy running mofos, but I see the appeal. Insert sarcasm and winky face here.
I appreciate that hiking is also outside. I’m sure it’s beautiful and majestic with the deer and the owls and the gnomes or whatever’s out there. And maybe you’ve got your thoughts and your jams and all that, too, but climbing a dirty, all-terrain stairmaster for hours only to stop and eat nuts and m&m’s out of a baggie stored in a fannypack and drink funky stream water out of a yak’s udder or whatever… not my personal idea of a good time. Ok, not a yak’s udder, but that’s where my mind goes when I hear “hiking”.
I’ve got lots of friends who truly love it and I’m happy for them. But clearly, I’m more of a “chaise by the pool with a martini” kind of outdoorsy — m&m’s optional.