Exercise is done against one's wishes and maintained only because

Host: The morning air was sharp and cold, the kind of cold that made breath visible — little ghosts escaping into the dawn. The park was nearly empty, save for the faint hum of city life awakening: a garbage truck in the distance, a single jogger crossing a bridge, the soft rhythm of shoes against wet pavement.

Jack sat on a bench, tying his worn running shoes with slow reluctance. His face was pale, his eyes heavy with the stubborn fatigue of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. Beside him, Jeeny was stretching — effortlessly, almost smugly, her breath steady, her movements graceful.

Steam rose from her paper cup of coffee, and she took a slow sip before saying, with that familiar spark of provocation:

Jeeny: “George Sheehan once said, ‘Exercise is done against one’s wishes and maintained only because the alternative is worse.’”

Jack: (grumbling) “Finally — an honest philosopher.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “You mean an accomplice.”

Jack: “I mean a realist. Everyone pretends they love this — running, sweating, punishing themselves before sunrise. But let’s be honest: we’re all just afraid of falling apart.”

Jeeny: “Afraid or aware? There’s a difference.”

Jack: (snorts) “Same thing. Fear’s just awareness that bites harder.”

Host: A gust of wind brushed through the trees, scattering leaves across the path. Jeeny’s hair fluttered against her face; she pushed it back, smiling faintly at Jack’s unwillingness.

Jeeny: “You think Sheehan was cynical, but I think he was brave. He knew exercise wasn’t joy — it was rebellion against decay.”

Jack: “Rebellion against reality, you mean. The body breaks down, no matter how many miles you run.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s not about outrunning death — it’s about respecting life enough to move.”

Jack: “You make masochism sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Pain can be poetic when it has purpose.”

Host: She stepped away from the bench, jogging in place, her silhouette cutting against the soft orange glow of dawn. Jack stared at her — half-admiring, half-annoyed — then finally stood, reluctantly pulling up his hood.

Jack: “You really believe in this stuff, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I believe in what happens after. The quiet. The clarity. The calm that only comes when your body forgives your mind for sitting too long.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk in sneakers.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like a man making excuses.”

Host: They started walking — slow, deliberate steps on the damp path. The park stretched around them, pale mist rising from the ground like breath from the earth itself.

Jack: “You know what I think? I think exercise is just guilt disguised as virtue. We punish ourselves for every comfort — every meal, every indulgence — until exhaustion feels like redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe for some. But for others, it’s the opposite. It’s gratitude. You move because you can. You run because there are people who never got the chance.”

Jack: “You really have a quote for everything, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No — I have perspective.”

Host: She picked up her pace, jogging ahead, her figure framed by the rising light. Jack sighed and followed — not because he wanted to, but because the silence she left behind was too sharp to sit with.

The path curved toward the river, the water still, reflecting a fractured sky.

Jack: (breathing heavily) “You ever think about what Sheehan meant by ‘the alternative is worse’?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The alternative is surrender. The slow death of inertia — not moving, not trying, not living.”

Jack: “Or maybe he meant vanity. The alternative is losing youth, losing face, losing shape.”

Jeeny: “You think people move to look young?”

Jack: “Isn’t that the modern religion? The gym as temple, sweat as sacrament.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing vanity with vitality. They’re not the same thing.”

Jack: “Tell that to the guy flexing in the mirror every morning.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “You mean you?”

Jack: (grins) “I don’t have mirrors that big.”

Host: Their laughter softened the air between them. The sun was breaking through the mist now, its light stretching across the path like a promise that came with conditions.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Sheehan really meant? That exercise isn’t about pleasure — it’s about discipline. The kind that humbles you into remembering you’re mortal.”

Jack: “Mortality doesn’t need reminders. It leaves them every morning in the mirror.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But some reminders you can face on your terms. A run, a push-up, a breath that burns — they make the inevitability of age a little less frightening.”

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think maybe we run to keep the ghosts from catching up?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe we run so we don’t become them.”

Host: The words hung between them — quiet, sharp, and true. The river gleamed with sunlight now, the mist dissolving like memory. Jack’s breathing slowed, and something in his face eased — the lines softening, the weight lifting slightly.

Jeeny slowed her pace until they were walking again.

Jeeny: “You hate it now, but later — when your mind clears — you’ll thank yourself.”

Jack: “You sound like my conscience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Just fitter.”

Host: They stopped near a railing overlooking the river. The city stretched ahead — glass and concrete, pulsing, alive. Jeeny leaned on the rail, her breath steady, her expression serene.

Jack watched her for a moment, then said, almost to himself:

Jack: “I guess Sheehan was right. Exercise is the one argument where losing feels better than winning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You fight your body, and somehow, it makes peace with you.”

Host: The sunlight caught the surface of the water, turning it to gold. A jogger passed by, nodding politely, their footsteps fading into the hum of morning.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny — do you actually like running?”

Jeeny: “Not really.”

Jack: (surprised) “Then why do you do it?”

Jeeny: “Because I like who I am after.”

Host: Her words were simple, but they landed like a revelation. Jack turned to look at her, the corners of his mouth curving into something rare — a genuine smile.

Jeeny met his gaze, and for a moment, the air between them was weightless.

Jack: “You always find philosophy in sweat.”

Jeeny: “Only because sweat’s the most honest thing we produce.”

Host: The morning had fully broken now. The light was everywhere — spilling through trees, glinting off water, washing the world in clarity. The fatigue in Jack’s eyes was still there, but behind it — something softer.

He exhaled deeply, then began jogging again, just a few steps ahead. Jeeny followed, laughing quietly to herself.

Host: The city was waking, but they had already begun.

And in that rhythm — the breath, the ache, the heartbeat of effort — lay the truth George Sheehan had captured:

That exercise is not love, but loyalty —
a reluctant devotion to the fragile miracle of being alive.

That the body, though stubborn and finite,
is the one temple that forgives our neglect
each time we choose to move again.

And that every reluctant stride forward —
against resistance, against excuses, against comfort —
is a small act of faith,
proving that while the alternative is indeed worse,
the will to keep moving
is what keeps us, beautifully,
human.