Hiking. I've never liked it. I honestly don't understand the purpose. Hours of walking, usually on challenging terrain, in order to end up exactly where you started, bruised, tired and dirty.
My animosity towards physical exercise is deepset. Aged four, I was wrongly disqualified from the dressing up race at school. You see, I was ahead of the fashion curve when it came to gym wear. Whilst my peers wore black slip on plimsolls, I, was the proud owner of a pair of clean, white Green Flash trainers. The only set back here was that I couldn't do up my shoelaces. Sports day came around and I was entered, along with my classmates, into the Dressing Up Race. Starting in basic shorts and polo shirts, we had to run the length of our netball court, picking up the pieces of clothing that had been placed pointedly along our path. We had to grab them, put them on and the girl who got to the end of the course, fully clothed, won. They didn't only win the race, the kudos, the adulation of her classmates. She also won a ribbon, not just any ribbon, but a shiny green ribbon, the ribbon of winners. On this, particularly sunny day, I decided, that ribbon was mine, I stared the length of the course, limbering up, my chubby four year old legs ready for anything, and I realised, I had one obstacle to winning. Those damn shoelaces were going to hold me back. Strategically, I decided to skip the fiddly laces. I ran, determindly towards the shoes, slipped them on (just like the other girls did) and ran as fast as my stumpy legs would carry me. I looked around in delight, the sweet realisation that I had won, dawning on me. I'd never won a race before! Triumphantly, I walked up to collect my green ribbon. It was glinting, enticingly in the sun, and it was all mine. I had won, fair and square.
To my absolute dismay, I was informed that as i had not done up my shoelaces, I had been disqualified. I was FOUR.YEARS.OLD, who disqualifies a four year old?! It's ok they said, you can have a 'participation ribbon' and they handed me a small piece of pink material, the loser's ribbon. That was the last time I willingly took part in sports, competitive or otherwise. In netball class, I chose to play Goalkeeper, I figured that was the position with the least amount of running and ground to cover, without the pressure of having to score goals. As I grew older, my disdain grew to absolute contempt, and I point blank refused to get involved in PE lessons. I would hide in the foul smelling toilets, brazenly reading teen magazines with my fellow sporting reprobates.
There were, of course, times that I couldn't avoid exercise, one of which happened when I was 16 years old. I embarked on a month long tour around Israel, part of a group of around 15 teenagers. My first proper trip away from home. August in Israel is sweltering. The heat envelopes you and is almost suffocating. This is a disastrous climate for me. My hair immediately reacts badly, frizzing into tight ringlets in a halo around my head, a jew-fro, if you will. This, coupled with staying in dingy youth hostels did not sit well with me. I'll admit now, I spent most of the month moaning. The heat was too much, the food was rubbish, the beds were uncomfortable. Worst of all (for the two people leading this tour) was my absolute, point blank refusal to embark on any hikes. There were, around 7 or 8 hikes throughout the trip. Aimed at showing this group the wonder of nature, timed around sunrise or sunset, for the best views. I was simply not having it.
One day, my leader had enough. She told me that the hike was simply a 'short walk down hill', and I didn't have a choice. Begrudgingly, I donned my best, wedge Sketcher sandals, and went to meet the group of Israelis that we were spending the day with. Standing in front of me, in the forest where the hike was starting, was one of the most beautiful boys I've ever seen. He had tanned skin, blondey-brown hair and a smile which revealed perfect white teeth. It was love at first sight (on my part).
To my absolute delight, I was paired with him for the first part of our journey, a ride on a donkey. Gallantly, he offered me the seat on the donkey, he would walk alongside. Gracefully, I jumped astride my trust steed, and promptly slipped off the other side. This wasn't a great start, but I laughed it off in what I could only hope was a blasé way.
When we got to the start of the hike, I realised two things. Firstly, this was not going to be a 'short walk down hill' nor was my footwear in the slightest bit appropriate. I was faced with an obstacle course most appropriately found on the Crystal Maze. I half expected Richard O'Brien to pop out and tell me this was the 'Aztec zone'. My hiking partner went ahead, telling me to hold on to the rope, and not look down. Behind me, was a sheer drop. I stoically carried on, crying, cursing and threatening to sue whoever would listen. Surely, someone should have told me not to wear wedges whilst mountaineering? As we approached some rungs in the side of the mountain, that we were supposed to climb down, I absolutely froze. There was no way on G-D's earth I was going to climb down some psudeo ladder impaled in the cliff face. My partner coaxed me onto the first rung, lifting my inappropriately clad foot down to the second one, his hands covered in dust from the bottom of my shoes. He patiently did this until the bottom, with me, furiously screaming blue murder to anyone who would listen to me (at this point, no one). We were finally at our 'short walk down hill', two hours later, which appeared to be an almost vertical drop to the bottom.
I sat down, indignantly, and refused to move. Not even, Mr Gorgeous could change my mind. I would stay there, I told them, until they had found a helicopter to come and collect me. I would eat leaves and berries, I would build a hut, I was not walking down the bloody mountain. An hour of screaming, threats, and every persuasion tactic under the sun, and a solution was found. Not only A solution, but THE solution. Mr Gorgeous, was to walk, backwards, down the entire mountain, holding my hands. If I fell, he promised I would be caught.
Of course, the tour leaders were right, the walk down hill took all of 20 minutes, which is rightly classified as a short walk down hill. But, to me, they were 20 blissful minutes, holding Mr Gorgeous' hands tight (probably too tight) whilst my foam footwear buckled under the rocks. When we reached the bus, I half expected him to lift me, heroically up the stairs, to the sound of adoring applause.
Of course, he didn't, he patently never wanted to see my sweaty face again. He politely said goodbye and legged it, to the safety of his mates, who were standing around the side of the bus, sniggering at him. He looked browbeaten, bruised and worn out, poor sod.
Despite those heady 20 minutes, my theory was proven correct. Exercise sucked (especially with inappropriate footwear) and, hiking was for mugs. We did indeed end up exactly where we started, filthy dirty and covered in bruises, I was too infuriated to even appreciate the sunset on the way down the mountain. Personally, I blame the teachers at my primary school for this whole debacle (and the loss of the love of my 16 year old life). If they hadn't have disqualified me, who knows, I may have been an Olympic athlete, or, at the very least, not chosen such precarious shoes for my first, and last ever hike.
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