THE LONE JOGGER OF LaMANCHA.

Photo of the Carretera de la Patata connecting Cabanillas del Campo with Alovera: This jogger's timeshare in Dante's inferno.

I recently made the decision to begin jogging and—having survived the first two tortuous weeks—it’s now part of my daily routine. But being a jogger in Spain is a lonely life.

Contrary to the US (a nation in which 99.98% of the population practices some form of aerobic exercise—yet, curiously, drive their cars two blocks to buy a loaf of bread), jogging hasn’t gained a foothold in mainstream Spanish culture.

Sure, you’re apt to find some joggers amidst the yuppified hordes in Madrid’s Retiro Park—but things are much different in the pueblos. I can assure you, for example, that the only other joggers to be found here in Sanchoville aren’t those who wear Lycra® shorts and Nike® trainers—but rather, those who wear woolen coats and swaying, milk-engorged udders.

Given this cultural bias, I often feel self-conscious when jogging through Sanchoville. Granted, nobody has ever taunted me. Such ill-mannered behavior simply doesn’t happen in pueblos. But I can, nonetheless, feel the confused or incredulous stares upon me as I wheeze my way past the town square.

Old men gathered on benches in front of the Casa de Jubilados look at me with faces that say, “I’m too old to do that now. But even if I were his age…I still wouldn’t do it.”

Construction workers exiting Bar Alcázar seem to be thinking, “I spend my days hauling buckets of cement up scaffolding because I’m paid to do it. Is someone paying this lunatic?”

Then there are the teenagers. They completely ignore me—which, in retrospect, probably means that they view me as a father figure. But even if these fresh-faced, soft-bellied kids wanted pass judgment on my jogging activities, they’d have no right to do so. How could they? The muscles in their own legs haven’t been used since the day they received their first Vespa® at age four.

Having established that jogging isn’t a popular pastime in Spain, the question that dogged me was…why? Why aren’t there more joggers here?

My initial hypothesis was simple—Spaniards don’t jog because it’s difficult to do while smoking a cigarette. Lighting a fresh one could cost you an eyebrow. But I was forced to retract this theory after recalling the dozens of Spaniards that I’ve seen smoking cigarettes WHILE driving motorcycles AND wearing helmets.

I then decided to consult my friend Fernando—a Madrileño whose analytical dial hasn’t seen the “off” position since ABBA won Eurovision. His explanation—on behalf of himself and his country—was enlightening: “Except for the Greeks, I’m aware of no decent civilization that has praised more physical exercise than is strictly necessary. What in hell led a man who was not being chased to stand up and run purposelessly?! You MUST admit that this goes against any animal instinct.”

Then again…Fernando explained this theory to me via his car phone while driving home with a loaf of bread.