"I don't mind the sort of exercise that's a means to an end, such as cycling along to (the local pub) the Jack and Hammer; I just dislike the sort that appears to be an end in itself. I saw today, running along the Pennine way, a jogger. This one was in flaming red, neon red. Now, I ask you: three of the gloomiest minds in literature, bless them, set their accounts of despair, desolation, broken hearts, on these moors. Bleak as mines, barren, rocky. How dare someone in flaming red jog across them? She was probably carrying a piece of natural grain bread and a bottle of Perrier for weights." Melrose Plant, a man after my own heart. From The Old Silent, by Martha Grimes, the book I'm currently devouring.