Exercising My Right to Be Sedentary
by Angie Brennan
There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of a two mile run in the chilly
pre-dawn hours of fall...or so they tell me; I certainly wouldn’t know.
I'm one of those many Americans plagued with that little understood
condition known as exerphobia: fear of exertion. Okay, okay—laziness.
Whatever.
Certainly an aversion to getting up early and plunging yourself into the
wonders of exhaustion, shin splits, and large territorial dogs is easy
enough to understand.
What’s hard to figure out is why those of us who are exertionally-
challenged often feel compelled to buy expensive exercise and sports
equipment. The stuff will be used approximately twice, but its presence
will only serve to intensify the exerphobia by adding a good healthy dose
of guilt.
Is this phenomenon similar to the person with a fear of flying who forces
himself on a plane in an attempt to gain mastery over his phobia by
confronting it directly?
Or is it more like the guy with a fear of heights who is inexorably drawn
to the edges of precipices and windows of very tall buildings, simply for
the sheer fascinating horror of it?
Yep, the latter—excuse me while I back away slowly from that treadmill.
Fortunately, my equipment graveyard isn’t too extensive. Other than a
stationary bike in the basement that now mostly serves as a clothes
hanger, I have a mountain bike deteriorating in the garage.
I bought the bike shortly after returning from a trip to Colorado. One
afternoon during that vacation, my husband and I went mountain
biking. I found out, much to my dismay, that mountain biking involved
riding a bike down an actual mountain.
When I wasn’t careening down a steep incline, clutching the brakes and
cursing the loose helmet hammering my skull, I was pedaling
strenuously--but ineffectively--uphill until I gave up and walked the bike
up to the next downhill death drop.
I bought a mountain bike after that—don’t ask me why. Maybe the
helmet slamming against my head temporarily disconnected the anti-
exercise gland in my brain. It’s not like I had good memories of the ride.
And at the time I lived in Houston. Yes, that Houston—the city with
the typography of a skating rink, only flatter. Maybe I was going to
recreate the excitement by going up and down steep driveways—I don’t
remember now.
These days the mountain bike dwells in lonely reverie next to the bag of
lawn fertilizer, recalling that glorious day when it actually left the
garage. As a matter of fact, the fertilizer has probably been out of the
garage more times than the bicycle.
But to you dedicated souls who faithfully brave the elements and sore
muscles to condition your body: I lift a toast. At least I will as soon as I
find a drive-through coffee shop, so I don’t have to get out of my car.
©2005
