Damien Galeone

To the grim delight of my neighbors, I started jogging a few months ago.

Let’s get this out in the open. I am one of the Fat People. There is no sugar-coating it with euphemisms like chubby, portly, husky or stocky. No need to delve into the world of PC terms. I do not challenge gravity. I am not big-boned and I am not horizontally-enhanced.

I am one of the Fat People.

The Couch to 5K is one of several hundred running programs available on the Internet. It’s a staged program of specifically timed sessions that increase in difficulty, thus increasing your stamina. In 9 weeks Fat Person should go from the couch to running 5K in 30 minutes. I was skeptical, mostly because the last time I had run was for a tram and I was in high heels (it was a strange night, don’t judge). Furthermore, I have learned through several disappointing incidents not to trust things found on the Internet – so-called ‘size’ enhancers or ‘lifelike’ house companions.

As one of the Fat People, I had to choose an appropriate jogging route. There were two choices. The first was a designated running path along the river, and a 5 minute walk from my flat. The problem is, well, places such as these often attract people. Fit People. The judgmental Fit People. And I was not among them. So, I chose the other locale; a cemetery 3 minutes up the hill from my flat. Cemeteries attract few people in the early morning and my morbid sense of civic duty deduced that when I keeled over from a heart attack, the EMTs could just drag me into the cemetery, steal my mp3 player and pour me in a grave. I had it all worked out.

Three mornings a week I jogged in my private exile around the cemetery. However, in the back of my mind I knew that when the running intervals got longer I would have to join the Fit People along the river. It soon became evident how I was going to accomplish this goal.

Music and Anger.

The first couple weeks I could only focus on my own misery and begging. But in the third week a rude driver cut me off as I crossed the street to the cemetery and the residual fury gave me a bolt of adrenalin that worked as a steam engine to my sedentary caboose. Before I had settled down, my run was finished.

I went home, drank coffee and decided to continue the experiment.

The next time I ran, I actively focused on a fictional heated conversation with a colleague whose voice I detest – it’s like an owl being kicked to death by a mule. The time after that, I had a grand conversation with my upstairs, salsa-dancing neighbor. I physically acted out the conversations, threatening and muttering, pointing fingers and emoting facial expressions. The only side effect was that everyone who saw me running thought I was a maniac. Fortunately, at 7 am at a cemetery, those people were dead or drunk or maniacs or dead-drunk maniacs, so I fit right in.

Music was a necessary companion to my anger. Not angry music; no Rage Against the Machine or Cannibal Corpse. I have dramatized a blow out with my boss to Lionel Ritchie. I have decimated a lazy student to Paul Simon. I would simply visualize the person I wanted to lay into, set my pace to glacier and feel my heart rate rise dangerously.

I suppose it’s all about distraction and adrenalin.

In week 6, I went down the hill to jog on the river path for the first time.

While stretching, I sought my own kind – the Fat People. But there were none, I figured they were still stuck running around their cemeteries. I put on my Yo Yo Ma rage-jogging mix, locked into an aggressive conversation with my building manager and took off.

I must begrudgingly admit that I didn’t need the rage that morning. Not because of my enhanced physical condition, but it seemed that my body carried me on a wave of shock and disbelief that jogging remained a part of my morning routine.

Also, the Fit People are prettier than my cemetery maniacs; they have teeth, visible abs and grooming habits. Rather than frighten them with my rabid antics, I tried to smile through the pain and feign casual belonging. I thought about puppies.

Since then, I have been the sole ambassador of the Fat People among the Fit People of the river.

As ambassador, I’m going to suggest having a hot dog vendor along the path.