Ted Sherrell muses on life in his own inimitable fashion .... JOGGERS tend, generally, to be solitary beings, although on occasions you will see a pair and now and again, even a pack will pass by. The plumage varies to the widest degree and is not remotely connected to gender. The fullest range of colour and shades imaginable can be found among them. The season makes a difference of course, as most in summer are quite lightly protected against the elements while in winter the depth of their insulation regarding the manifold challenges which West Devon and East Cornwall can inflict is naturally thicker. There is here though, a much wider range in terms of bodily protection. Some, perhaps of a hardier or at times possibly a more trendy nature, will don what to the casual observer's eye could be too little over their bodies to deter rain, or worse, hypothermia. Others, though – a majority – will appear to be well bundled up, usually with no great worry about fashion, and sometimes with insufficient regard to safety, in that they move around dark lanes and streets with little or nothing about them to shout out their vulnerable presence to passing motorists. To be fair, a goodly number do seem able to glow sufficiently in a car's headlights to make drivers aware of their presence. Assuredly they come in all sizes – the long, short, tall, fat, thin, puny and at times (though rarely) the very large indeed. The speed at which they move also varies enormously. There are those who give the impression of progressing at a reasonable pack, as they move with some grace with a decent flowing action, legs and arms in perfect co-ordination. Yet in reality they can at times be travelling little faster, if at all, than a brisk walker. There are others, arms and legs thrust out at all angles, heads rolling from side to side, their faces contorted like souls in torment, who cover ground at a quite respectable rate. Some likewise, who appear to be labouring probably are. Indeed, so many who trundle along our highways and byways appear, frankly, to be in distress, their breathing reduced to gasps, their complexion the hue of overripe plums. The first time one sees them in such a state, it is natural to feel concern over these seeming masochists, pounding along, looking to be in need of medical attention. Yet they rarely need it. So many are to be found week in, month out, pounding the same beat in their search for? — well, that would seem to be a fair, pertinent question. What do joggers seek? Is it fitness? If so, then it is no easy way to attain it, though cheaper and possessing far more independence than going to a gym. Is it about losing weight? Possibly, but it is infinitely harder on the body than going on a diet. The one element which does not come into the equation, or so observation would suggest, is pleasure. The good, steadiest, dedicated folk who so regularly and seemingly unflinchingly pound the pavements and the lanes just never appear to look happy. Determined, yes. Exhausted, usually, fulfilled possibly. But happy and contented? Never. Mind you, jogging would appear to slot neatly into the British psyche. It is said that as a nation we take our pleasures seriously. We natives of these islands generally do not feel comfortable with an easy life, with leisure that does not demand a touch of hardship or even pain somewhere along the line. When on holiday, many a Briton will do a score of lengths in the pool, or have a session in the gym, or go on a three-mile jog, or a long brisk walk, and then declare in somewhat ambitious tones, 'Well I've earned my breakfast'. Assuredly, a full English one as well after all this early morning expending of energy. What other nation on earth has citizens who feel they have to earn a meal, especially when on vacation? You can not trust the efficiency of a medicine if it doesn't taste horrible — that is a mindset for many of us. Thus it could be that joggers see benefit in their purgatorial runs because they can cause pain. Whatever, long may this hardy breed enliven our rainy streets and lanes.