I am in a love-hate relationship with a hill. We are only recently acquainted and I dread the things it could do to me. But first, some background. I moved to a new apartment block that sat at the bottom of a steep driveway. A hill so unreasonable, my taxi man Morris, in his trusted Corolla, with a cranky gear box, had one look at it and asked whether there were any stones to anchor on, in case he did not pick up momentum. It is a hill that is begging to be conquered. I know it will kill me before I can get fit enough to brag about my accomplishments. If I could overcome the psychological barrier of sprinting up 100m without any suicidal thoughts, the benefits would be real.
Getting fit comes at a price that I am less willing to fork out. It helps that the peer pressure is muted. My mates are not losing any sleep over their expanding midriffs. Having a terminal disease counts as a status symbol these days. It can only mean one is highly stressed which is proof of making more money than one can keep track of. Then there is the ever-ready excuse of ageing. I am not a spring chicken anymore and my health insurance is for emergencies. There is never any time for exercise that could actually be beneficial to my health. Any spare time outside of work and sleep is reserved for clogging arteries and punishing my liver over endless banter sessions with potential business associates. They are all wages of sin that a hill run every other morning would put in check.