I had cleared the bedside table of its usual residents—dog-eared books and Vicks inhaler. Last night, I had a neatly folded pair of running shorts, a dri-fit shirt, new pair of socks, and my running shoes, to take the place. My phone would drill its way into the pillow and wake me up by 5 a.m. I belong to that kind of sleepers who can’t be roused by birds chirping, sunlight falling or dogs barking. I need a bit of panic, say, a divine apparition or a tropical depression. I was going to try it out, brave the dawn and trudge a good stretch of the SRP, up to wherever lungs and limbs could carry me.
I figured if I could lift my soul in this first attempt, enlightenment is a matter of a 5K run. I figured if I could get into the groove, set a new default setting on my body clock, in no time, I’d have a six-pack to show off on Facebook. I figured I could probably be a matinee idol before Noynoy is proclaimed or put a sudden halt to the career of this guy Derek Ramsey. I figured I could be spending my life endorsing boxer shorts and hiding from groupies in mini skirts.
I was thinking that with a longer life and sturdier muscle tone, I’d be perfect with a century to waste to finally read through a backlog of old books. I’d finally be able to leap beyond two chapters in “Moby Dick,” “Ulysses” or “War and Peace.” I’d have the healthy mind to fully absorb philosophical puzzles in any of those untouched tomes on my shelf.
Dream on. And I mean that literally, because way beyond 5 a.m., in my dream, I was still Jabba the Hut wolfing on Talisay lechon. When I opened my eyes, I was the fictional character in Franz Kafka’s “Metamorphosis”—the gigantic man-insect who couldn’t heave his bloated body off the bed with all the innumerable limbs working all at once. I gave it an hour, until the smell of adobo burst forth from the kitchen. It lifted me to heights unimaginable, like joy-riding in Shangri-la. Ah, paradiso!
Such is the redundancy of vice, its overwhelming weight on the lives of not a few of us. When president-apparent Noynoy Aquino said he is not considering giving up smoking, I thought that if the executive won’t be bent on conjuring up life-saving policies, the legislative can come up with laws requiring every citizen a five-kilometer jog each week.
That’s it. Let the citizens run, wring their necks into compliance. That will be way more efficient economically than spending your health budget on intensive care for citizens with the eating habits of a T-Rex. Noynoy, the economics graduate, probably understands that a citizenry’s oblivious appetite for pork and lack of exercise is directly proportional to a health budget.
The trick in this proposed law will be that if you don’t run the 5-kilometer-per-week requirement, you’ll go to jail, although in there, you’ll have a different level of physical fitness, courtesy of the late Michael Jackson. With my psychomotor incorrigibly haywire, I’d rather run the 5 kilometers than rouse Jacko’s soul into eternal unrest and earn YouTube fame. My genetic make-up left that part on grace in motion.
The morning, such as the one I just had, is one of those countless mornings of failing to keep a promise. Really, I’m just joking about the running law, although there could be a way to legislate for the health-being of citizens. Tonight, the Ungo running club, led by colleague Max Limpag, will make parallel travel through history in the city’s Kabilin tour. Since you can’t check on my six-pack yet on Facebook, you can seek details of the Ungo run there.
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