I have a few crazy people living with me. People who do things like announce to the general populace of my home: “Hey! We are at the height of fall colors. And we have some really tall rocky things close by that are covered with trees! Things that reach thousands of feet into the air. Things called mountains from which the views of the valley are spectacular, if you can get up there. And I’ll bet the quakies and scrub oak and sumac are scarlet and russet and burnt orange right about now. Hmmm. Who wants to trot up there with me and find out?”

And then you know what? Some whack job invariably says, “Yes! I’ll go with you.” And they do. Go. Up the mountain. On foot. After I drop them off at the base of the thing. They run (RUN) up the face of it-which takes like 2 hours-and did I mention that they RUN? Then they trot around the top in what’s called “The Saddle” and take a bazillion colorful nature pictures (see below) for another hour and a half so those of us who are not clinically insane and value our achilles tendons and hamstrings too much to go on such a foolhardy treck will become jealous.

And then these showoffs awesome peeps run down a narrow twisty turny waterfall-and-rock-laden trail in a skinny canyon, dodging wildlife and stooping through natural tree tunnels, jumping across rivulets and streams that cross their paths, and generally wooping it up big time in nature. Which lasts another solid 2 hours-because they’re, you know, bonding with their inner granola-child and stuff. 

And finally after a batrillion years they come home covered in dust and mud, with leaves and needles in their hair, cheeks wind burned, muscles screaming, and generally smiling their guts out in a totally nauseating way.

Psh.

Who’d want to do that? I’d rather stay here and read my InStyle magazine. And eat chocolate covered anything.

This is NOT sour grapes from the chick who hasn’t run further than her treadmill since she ran the St. George Marathon (and did not die) about a decade ago. Or more. Why would she dabble in grapes of sourness? She’s fine.

Nature schmature.

Fitness schmitness

Pictures schmictures.

Hmmm.

Training. Training.

Janiel Miller is a wife/mom/writer/friend/singer/chauffeur/chef/connoisseur-of-movies/eater-of-chocolate/partaker-of-hormones/actress-when-I-can-find-time/learner-from-life who lives in American Fork. You can follow Janiel via Twitter, Facebook or her personal blog, janielmiller.com.