Oh, outdoors exercise. We haven't been civil with each other since you ruined my self-esteem sometime during a PE lesson in 1993. I think it was netball.
You can't say I haven't tried. There have been those months where I've actually strapped on my backpack and run for miles, but it always ends in disaster. Do you remember that time I didn't fasten the top on my bottle correctly, and you leaked an entire litre of water down my arse, just outside Kirkstall Morrisons? That wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for you, outdoors exercise. You're out to get me.
All this talk of peace and communing with nature. All those lunatics that say you don't even need an iPod when you're outside, because it's so liberating. It's not liberating when you live on top of a massive hill in Armley. It's actually quite limiting. Unless you enjoy the feeling of not being able to breathe as you sprint up an infinite vertical incline.
Outdoors exercise, I don't see why we should be friends. You're so useless at telling me how far I've gone, and how long it's taken me. You don't offer me a handy shelf to put my glasses on when my nose gets slippy and they want to fall off. You're cold and wet and windy and icy. You have cars and push-chairs and scary men walking along the canal with cans of cider. Most of all, you're not making the most of my expensive gym membership.
But it is four weeks until the VERY outdoors 10k. So we are going to have to be friends, just for a little while.
Don't bite me, okay?